To MFA or...uh, Not (A Brief, Rushed, and Not At All Authoratitve or Even Informative Take on Graduate Writing Programs)

A writer who’s just graduated from a writing program is supposed to write about it, right?

I can remember when, three years ago, as a young, impressionable undergrad who thought (wrongly) that he could write a good story or two, I began to research MFA programs. Why an MFA, you ask? Doesn’t it make more sense to get something useful, perhaps a JD, an MBA, any other M[pick a letter]? Something with a future? Those are great questions. After all, as my parents have pointed out several times – I did get into law school. I guess there were two primary reasons for the MFA. (1) Writing fiction was (and is) the only thing besides playing music that I ever truly enjoyed putting a huge amount of effort into, and I had this grand scheme to write a horrific Easton Ellis-esque novel, a collection of short stories, and a volume of poetry, and to be wallowing in royalties from their respective sales by age 24. And (2), I wanted to attain the more realistic goal of avoiding getting a “real job” (one where I have to get up before 11 am and shave more than once a week) for as long as possible. Happily, (2) has worked out pretty nicely, and I have written the aforementioned novel, although my fame, riches, and 70 Natalie Portman virgin body doubles have yet to materialize.

I’ll try to avoid making this about the pros and cons of my own program (Columbia) and instead focus on the pros and cons of the “MFA experience” in general, though inevitably most of what I’ll be drawing from will be based on my time at one institution, one that may be infinitely different than most places, like, say University of New Hampshire.I don't know. I only applied to programs where you didn't need to take the GRE.

I didn’t enter a graduate a writing program to “find myself” or “perfect my craft” or make new friends who weren’t my cat, or any of the other stupid cliché reasons I’d read on artsy-fartsy blogs I perused while researching programs. I wanted to publish something big, get paid, bang Natalie Portman, and live the dream (also a cliché, I guess). I suppose that’s completely counterintuitive to the very idea of an MFA program, and although (obviously) my goals haven’t been accomplished, I can honestly say that I would be NOWHERE (relatively) near as close to achieving them as I am now. Plain and simple: Getting an MFA taught me everything I now know about writing. Granted, it’s not like that for everyone. Some lucky bastards are born with a freakish amount of literary genius. But for those of us not named Philip Roth or Bret Easton Ellis, an MFA is vital, if only because of what I call the Immersion Factor.

As an undergrad journalism major, I hadn’t read as much as the English majors but because of my program’s requirement of three seminars a semester, I was soon reading the equivalent of three-and-a-half books a week, and, more importantly, learning how to read as a writer. I cannot stress enough the importance of reading on the writer’s learning curve. If you don’t read – YOU WILL FAIL (or just suck at writing forever). What would Lady Gaga sound like if she decided never to listen to Madonna? After all, the greatest artists are the greatest plagiarists and one of the best bi-products of learning how to read is learning how to steal – and steal successfully. The only other comparable non-academic option would be to lock yourself in your room for a year and do nothing besides read (and write once in a while). The obvious drawbacks to this lifestyle are that vampires aren't as popular as they were last year, and that once in a while, you need to supplement your life with (surprise) life experience, as well as a few people who you can bounce your work off of. Which brings me to my next point.

Another unique aspect of the MFA experience is the sheer amount of criticism one receives, and the luxury of being able to learn how to deal with, and benefit from that criticism. Workshops are horrifying. Having to submit your work (aka your soul – or the sinister void that used to be a soul) a handful of times a semester and have it thoroughly dissected and desecrated by people who probably aren’t your closest friends is sort of like being chained, face up, at the bottom of an outhouse while the entire Oakland Raiders starting lineup takes turns relieving themselves on you after an all-night free buffet at Waffle House. Not fun. But like any academic experience, you (hopefully) learn something once in a while. And after a couple discouraging weeks spent thinking you’re the shittiest person ever to put your fingers to a keyboard, you realize that the critiques – though occasionally harsh – are meant to be CONSTRUCTIVE, that your professors and (some of your) classmates actually want you to get better, and that “good job” or “this is perfect” are probably the worst comments you can get on a submission. Sure, there may be an asshole in your workshop who’s pissed you’ve been hooking up with the only non-lesbian/non-fat-chick-who-isn’t-married in your class and will tear up your submission purely out of spite. But again, that’s the beauty of college. You will learn to separate the helpful from the worthless, the inept from the well-thought-out. You will also learn about the most valuable mental tool a writer can possess – the ability to edit your own work. This may not sound like much, but believe me, cutting large chunks of something you’ve been working on creating for years can be harder than aborting a fetus. One of my workshop professors singlehandedly taught me everything I know about line-editing and paragraph structure, and I will forever be grateful to her.

I guess the third and final (positive) aspect of the MFA experience could be called Networking, or, equally as uncreative, The People You’ll Meet and What To Do With Them. A good MFA program is a great place to meet distinguished writers (i.e. faculty members). The level of interest they show in you as a budding wordsmith will vary, and depend on how much you nag them, but chances are you will form at least a moderately strong bond with at least one or two of them. These connections are vital, more so in writing than in most other fields. Any strides I’ve made in the literary community (or sphere, or whatever) have been a direct result of getting advice from / getting introductions from my professors. Nowhere besides an MFA program will you be able to make friends with such a high concentration of established writers. Or maybe not, but you will meet a lot. In terms of getting an agent and getting published (both of which should be important to you or why the hell would you bother getting an MFA?) I will say that the New York City programs do offer a bunch of easy ways to get yourself on the radar, considering how much of the publishing industry is situated within a couple square miles of Manhattan. However, if you get into a great, but more geographically remote program (Iowa, Johns Hopkins, Houston, UMASS-Amherst), GO THERE. The Internet has made location obsolete; the only important factor on whether or not you get published is the strength of your manuscript. You either got it or you don’t (unless you’re a fashionable, overachieving celeb who for some reason decides that millions of movie dollars aren’t enough of an accomplishment. Then you can write garbage).

Your classmates are another matter. Typically, and especially in a larger writing program, you’ll find a vast spectrum of humanity – all ages, shapes, colors, sexual orientations, political views (mmm maybe not). Don’t feel pressured to make friends with everybody. You should try to be outgoing, especially in a larger program. Most writers aren’t the most socially adept creatures, but some are really fascinating, caring people, believe it or not. It is important, also, to invest in a couple close writing colleagues with whom you feel comfortable swapping your work. Remember what I said about having a couple pairs of eyes that aren’t yours. They will see things that you don’t. Just make sure they’re eyes you trust.

--- Now I need to stop ---- and be brutally honest, in a way that will most likely alienate four out of the six people who probably read this blog. WARNING: The vast majority of young “writers” (especially in NYC) are HIPSTERS. These are not the badass Kerouac and Ginsberg-esque beatniks of the fifties, or the Warhol Factory luminaries of the seventies, or even the cool, “different”, and edgy kids today who one might consider hip. No, these are the worst breed of hipster, the antithesis of cool. The hipsters who shop at Salvation Army but whose hedge-fund-managing parents pay their entire rent and tuition in the hopes that their wayward, possibly bi-curious 30-year-old daughter will finally make something out of herself and stop creeping out the rest of the family. These are the almost comically pretentious, negative-Nancy hipsters who think that because they’ve spent the last ten years sitting in a dark basement listening to depressing indie music and cutting themselves because ‘Wah! Wah! No one understands me!’ that their crummy lives are worth writing about. Get a (real) life. I’m sorry, but if I wanted to wear ball-strangling jeans and stupid-rimmed glasses, and not take showers or be optimistic about anything, I’d do the world a favor and never leave the wretched outer-borough hovel Daddy bought me for my last birthday.

A little bombastic, yes, and spiteful; let me clarify. There are lots of great, interesting, and hilarious hipsters in every writing program, and I’d like to think that there’s at least some good or redeeming qualities in even the scruffiest wookie. But still, generally speaking, most hipsters should be treated the same as mosquitoes.  Unfortunately, it is these very hipsters who run the publishing industry. I even had one professor go so far as to tell me that I should remove my jobs as a bouncer and a water polo coach from my résumé because they would make me look like a “stupid jock”. Wow. I’m sorry I’m not an effeminate pussy. I’m sorry that I like watching (and playing) sports possibly more than any other activity besides sex (and writing, sometimes), that I prefer the company of I-bankers and accountants because they actually pay their own rent, that I enjoy hunting critters and gutting fish, that I’m a registered Republican. All of which brings me to my last major point – BE YOURSELF! Don’t allow going to an MFA program to change who you are, because as corny as it sounds, the truer you are to yourself, the better your writing will be. If you become fake, your work will look that way. You won’t fool anybody. And if any punk steps to you, you can tell him/her/he-she to go screw a Katy Perry blow-up doll, or whatever hipsters are doing these days.

Some other writing program drawbacks include the two or three years of tuition, which can range from the affordable to the frighteningly absurd (i.e. Columbia University), and the fact that many employers will laugh in your face when you include an MFA in your list of credentials. But if you’re serious about becoming a great writer and don’t have the natural talent of, say, a David Foster Wallace, then I really believe that getting an MFA is by far the best, if not the only option. And actually, David Foster Wallace got an MFA, too. Then he killed himself.