He took his time.

‘Concrete imagery. Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass. Anton Chekhov.’

‘Painting a picture. Showing, not telling. This is the most basic and the most indispensable writing tool. And the only thing you will be taught how to do over the next three months.’

I suppose some of us had incredulity spout out of our eyes, at which he barked a laugh and said, ‘It will take the best of you that long just to understand what it means.’

It’s not that Hatch was the most distinguished professor in the English Department, but he was the most respected. Feared, even. One of the course requirements was picking a date on a sign-up sheet to read our poems aloud to the congregation. Four people during every class. The others then critiqued the poem, going around the polite, engaged circle, trying to be constructive. Hatch weighed in at the end, and ripped most people to shreds. The students in question wrote down their commentaries, not looking up, all frantic fingers and flaming cheeks. Once or twice, at the end of class, he asked for a printed copy of one of the poems that were read out. There was surprise, elation and to the umbrage of others—the grand prize.

Hatch had tooled his way to the Pulitzer shortlist a decade ago with his fifth published book of poetry. He had earned that nomination. Learned the craft, honed it. He was a master of the craft and, because of that, we all thought we could learn a lot from him. So we kept our mouths shut, let his tongue run riot and tried not to piss him off.

We reserved this reverence for Hatch, and not for Professor Gershwin, who had yet to hit thirty but was already on track to tenure because his first novel came out to a blaze of glorious reviews, made the Pulitzer shortlist and then won it. Nobody really enjoys being taught by someone who was born with the unfair advantage of prodigious talent. That feels like leftovers, like crumbs and condescension.

Nicole and I signed up to read our poems on the same day. Solidarity, support, all that.

We placed our printed sheets in front of us and got ready for the first reader to start. Nicole was uncharacteristically nervous. I could feel the helpless vibrations of her shaking hand, and as I moved mine over to hold it, I saw a note scribbled in her margin: Everyth ing I hope to never be.

Our two fellow reciters for the day were Rosie Jones and Andrew Tucker. Rosie was one of those completely inoffensive, utterly nondescript people that are necessary in every story to provide some breathing space. Andrew Tucker looked like an asshole—a good face bearing a smug expression, a perfect body over-highlighted in a thin white T-shirt, and sweatpants slung low on his (undeniably well-formed) posterior.