This is me at my defense in February, earning that masters degree like a boss.
Understandably, one of the most important things harped on in creative writing graduate programs is the thesis—writing it, workshopping it, perfecting it (sort of), preparing it for publication or, more likely, the flurry of rejection letters it will receive. But in order to graduate, you’ve got to defend it, and lot less time is spent talking about how that happens. In Scienceland, it seems so straightforward. You did some research. Now you’re going to present your results and make a (hopefully) convincing argument for why your interpretation of those results is correct and makes some sort of mildly meaningful contribution to the world at large. Or at least your field. Or, more realistically, the four or five other academics who study this particular thing in your particular field.
But the creative defense seems more mysterious. Or at least it did to me. The explanations I received amounted basically to this: “You’re gonna go in a room with your committee and probably a small audience, and you’re just gonna talk about your thesis.” Do what?
Let’s tackle this in a more specific way so that you can avoid the anxiety-induced insomnia, mild panic attacks, and stress poops that I experienced prior to my defense.
First, always remember that your thesis director probably won’t let you schedule the defense if he/she does not think that you are prepared to defend or that the committee is not prepared to pass you. So, relax.
Second, it’s difficult to prepare for the defense in any definitive way—I mean, it’s not like you have to put together a Powerpoint—but you do want to assemble a small arsenal of ideas so that you don’t look like an idiot. That would be a terrible way to impress your committee and to intimidate the first-years (which is a pleasant by-product of your defense). Consider your artistic influences. Certainly literary influences come into play here, and you’ll want to be able to talk about why certain authors speak to you and how your work responds to theirs. But think about other influences—like, in your life—that impact your writing. For example, place and setting are important to me as a fiction writer, likely because I was raised in the South, where most people are preoccupied with issues of region, and because I studied geology. Land and landscape are kind of a big deal to me, and that comes out in my writing.
You’ll also want to consider your aesthetic. Aesthetic is one of those fancy artsy/academic words that no one really knows the meaning of. (Welcome to grad school!) The best way to approach your meditation on aesthetic is to ask yourself some questions (easily tweakable to fit your particular genre). What do you think fiction should do? What responsibilities do you think you have as a writer and to whom? How do you characterize the relationship between writer and reader? What writing rules do you find meaningful and why? Which writers do you agree with when they talk about the craft and art of fiction? Why do you agree with them? Which writers do you think are full of shit? Why? And, most importantly, how do you respond to all these things in your own writing? There. You’ve just defined your aesthetic. You’re welcome.
Then you’ll want to prepare a handful of questions for your committee. Think about things that bug you in your manuscript, specific changes you might make as you move forward with revisions, and excerpts you want to hear the committee’s opinions about. Some of these topics might come up in the natural progression of the defense, but when it’s over, your committee is going to ask if you have any questions for them. Just like in a job interview, you will look like more of a rock star if you’ve got a couple you can pull out of your pocket.
Now that you’re prepared, relaxed, and well rested, let’s talk about what a typical defense looks like.
You’re going to be in a room, maybe around a table, maybe in a circle of desks. A conversation is about to happen, so the room should be set up accordingly. Your committee will be there, and there will be a small audience made up of other faculty members in your program, your fellow students, and perhaps your friends and family (if you’ve invited them). Defenses are open to the public. We’re sharing our newfound academic knowledge with the world, right? This sounds nerve-wracking, but it’s actually kind of awesome. You will likely be surrounded by friends and loved ones, people who care for you, who probably already think you’re a talented writer, and who want to witness your success. Being trapped in a room with only my thesis committee—talented, published writers who know so much more about writing and theory and everything in life than I do—sounds way more frightening. So cultivate an audience and be thankful that it’s there. Consider making it fun for your audience, too. If allowed, bring snacks. Make it a theme party in honor of your manuscript. Since my novel is southern fiction set in South Carolina, I brought homemade sweet tea, boiled peanuts (the official snack food of South Carolina—yes, this is a thing), peach salsa, and black-eyed pea relish. I even had décor—a sweetgrass basket and a South Carolina state flag. (Yes, I know, my sorority affiliation is showing. We do love to throw a good themed party.) Some faculty members prefer defenses to be toned-down (translation: boring, stuffy) affairs so that we appear just as academically viable as the STEM folks, so you’ll want to check with your thesis director before you start decking the halls and planning a menu.
Snacks keep your audience entertained while you and your committee chat. Also helpful for buttering up any potentially difficult committee members.
All creative defenses at UCF begin with the author reading a five- to ten-minute excerpt from the thesis. I’m going to assume that this is the case with most MFA programs. So make sure you pick out something to read that showcases your brilliant talent and that fits within the allotted time. Going over time, whether at your defense or at a public reading, is stupid, annoying, and unprofessional. You don’t want to be any of those things when you’re trying to convince faculty members to give you that degree.
Then the committee’s going to lob questions at you for the better part of an hour. They’ll likely start out pretty easy (that is, if your thesis director is kind). “Why did you choose to read that passage?” is a good opening question. Be ready for others, many others. If you’ve written a collection, what is your favorite story (or essay) and why? What is your least favorite? This question is often rendered as, which story (or essay) still needs the most work or is the most incomplete? Who is your most complete character? Which character is the most incomplete? You may be asked to explain certain choices related to any number of craft issues. Respond honestly. If an idea came to you in a dream and you felt it worked in your story, say so. If you tried something one way, but your workshop classmates didn’t like it and you then revised it, explain that process. This may also give you a chance to talk about your aesthetic and/or influences and how they led you to make certain creative choices. (That is, if you don’t get asked that question specifically.) Your committee may also ask you what your plans are for the manuscript going forward. Here, I think it helps to be specific. What sounds better? “I’ll probably take some time to revise it, and when I feel it’s ready, I’ll send it out to agents.” Or, as I mentioned in my own defense, “I’m struggling to capture a believable emotional relationship between my characters Donna and Melissa. Based on the feedback I received in workshop, their interactions and the way they feel about each other as mother and daughter don’t quite ring true. I think the best way to capture the sense of mistrust and resentment between them may be to make them sisters instead.” That idea met with a resounding NO from my committee. The up-shot of all that is I showed them that I was thinking very critically about my own work and devising possible solutions to improve it, and I got instant feedback on an idea.
What will likely happen with all these questions is that it will start to feel less like Q&A and more like a conversation. Your committee members may go off on tangents, they may discuss amongst themselves, and then that discussion may lead to new questions. If that happens, jump into the conversation where it feels natural and you have something to add. You don’t have to wait until someone asks you a question.
When all this is done, the committee will open the floor to questions from the audience. You may get one or two, but most of the defenses I’ve witnessed had none. By now, it’s been an hour and everyone is antsy to get out of there and start the happy hour celebration.
You, along with the audience, will then be asked to leave the room. This is when the committee privately discusses whether or not you passed. But as I’ve already mentioned, they wouldn’t let you defend if they didn’t already think you were going to pass, so I have no idea what the committee members actually talk about during this time. Movies? The latest department gossip? Recipes for roasted Brussels sprouts? Then they’ll invite you back in (alone) to tell you the good news: you just earned yourself a masters degree. You get the exciting job of going back out to where your audience is waiting to announce that you passed and that you’ll be heading to the local Mexican joint for as many margaritas as your body can tolerate. You’ve earned it, you thesis-writing writer!
Just don’t forget to do all the necessary university paperwork so you can actually receive the degree you’ve just earned.