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An MFA in creative writing requires a serious commitment of time, money, and creative energy while robbing you of years you could be out building a more lucrative career doing something else, psychological health, sleep, a healthy lifestyle, and, quite possibly, your sanity. So you should probably be pretty damn sure you want one before you jump into the academy. And you should be pretty damn sure of your motivations for doing so.
To be clear, this is not a blog post about how MFAs are an evil Ponzi scheme or how MFAs lead to boring writing. The internet is already flush with those articles, and while they make some valid points, I obviously support getting an MFA—I got one. In fact, if you haven’t already, you should perhaps check out my previous blog post, wherein I list five reasons to get an MFA.
This blog post is not necessarily about what’s wrong with MFA programs, but what I perceive to be the wrong motivation for pursuing this degree. This is, of course, all based on my own (somewhat) educated opinion, and there are those in my own program who would disagree wholeheartedly with some of the reasons listed below. But this is my blog, so there.
In fact, I came up with so many reasons not to get an MFA that I have to split it up into two posts. Here are the first five reasons to run run run like the wind away from an MFA program.
1. You’re coming straight out of undergrad.
Okay, so you’re 22, and you just finished an English degree. You’re certain that there are jobs out there for English majors. You bristle at those who ask, “What are you gonna do with an English degree? Why didn’t you major in business?”
Finding jobs—in anything, not just those that will put to good use your abilities to explicate the poetry of early British modernists—is hard. And working is hard. And the grown-up world is scary. School—well, that’s something you know, something you’re good at. It’s safe. And of course you love writing and reading. You’re an English major.
Hey, grad school sounds like a good idea! It’s certainly a viable way to avoid the scary world of adulthood, full-time jobs (or lingering unemployment, as the case may be), and the unknown. Grad school will also put to use your talents for spotting Shakespeare references in random places.
This is a total no-brainer!
I’m not convinced that oh-shit-I’m-graduating-and-I-don’t-know-what-I-want-to-do-with-my-life is the best reason to go to grad school. I tried that once after finishing my geology degree. I spent one year in a PhD program in earth science, and I was unutterably miserable. Yeah, I didn’t know at that point what I wanted to do with my life, but I quickly learned that being a research scientist wasn’t it. In the course of learning that, I moved cross-country and racked up significant student loan and credit card debt. Oops.
Later, as an MFA student, I observed my straight-outta-undergrad compatriots, and they seemed similarly lost, as though they were merely trying on the writer identity to see how it fit. Their writing was similarly lost, aimless. They had read a lot of great stuff. They were mostly English majors after all. But several of them lacked a personal writing style or even a clear idea of what style they thought they might want to cultivate. They had their favorite influences, but they were everyone’s favorites, i.e. they hadn’t read widely enough to have cultivated their own literary tastes. They had completed a lot of required reading as part of their English degrees, but not enough of their own choosing. Like, hey, I unapologetically LOVE James Michener novels. You will likely never find him on an undergrad syllabus. I don’t care. His historical fiction is well researched and interesting, engaging and moving (albeit sometimes overly sentimental).
Not only did they lack a literary identity, they often lacked a good sense of their personal identity. Which makes sense. In your early 20s, there’s still a lot of figuring yourself out that’s going on. Writing is certainly a good way to do that figuring out, but perhaps that’s the writing that needs to happen before entering an MFA program. Not knowing what else to do with yourself is not a good reason to get an MFA.
This does not necessarily apply to all students coming directly from their undergraduate careers, but it is characteristic of a lot of behavior I observed in my program. I think it’s best to figure out who you want to be, both as a person and a writer, before entering an MFA program. I think it’s best to figure out why you need so badly to be a writer, i.e. why does the world need to read what you have to say? I think figuring this out a bit (because do any of us ever really figure this out completely?) will help you decide what you want to accomplish while in the program. And by “accomplish,” I don’t mean some nebulous ideas about growing and learning. I mean you need to have a good idea of what you want your thesis project to be. And I just don’t think that a 22-year-old coming straight out of college has had enough time to consider all this.
And don’t get me started on the terrible, self-absorbed, boring nonfiction I’ve read by privileged 22-year-olds who were raised in upper-middle class families who think their lives are just so hard. Kid, go live a little. Then come write some essays. (Unless, of course, you have a legit crazy/sad/harrowing/NEW story worth telling.)
2. You already think you’re the smartest, most talented, underrated undiscovered writer in the room.
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If you were already that good, you wouldn’t need an MFA. You’d likely already have a lucrative publishing contract with one of the major houses.
And quit bragging about your Pushcart nomination. Everyone has them. (Okay, well, I don’t have a Pushcart nom, but a lot lot lot lot lot of writers do, so it’s hardly special any more. Call me when you actually win. Oh, you haven’t done that? Then sit down and STFU.)
If you want someone to read your work and go on and on about how good it is, then send it to your mother. If your pride and your emotions are not prepared to have your work raked over the coals, then don’t bring that shit to workshop. Because I ain’t ya mama. And your feelings? I ain’t afraid to hurt them.
In short, these assholes (and they are assholes) are the worst people to have in workshop. If you’re not going to take any of my feedback seriously, because you think you’re too good or too smart and I am an uncultured baffoon, then why am I wasting my time? Why am I reading your 30-page story and writing a two-to-four-page critique when I could—oh, I don’t know—work on my own writing? Or read a book by someone who can actually write well.
Not only do they not take feedback seriously (or throw little tantrums in workshop), they don’t give good feedback. Anyone who is good is a threat. They must be defeated.
So save the pretentiousness for after you win a Pulitzer. (And, really, even after that, pretension is annoying, so just don’t.) Approach your work with humility. You are in an MFA program to learn and improve, not to prove how good you already are.
If, instead, you assume that everything you write is garbage and that you don’t deserve to live, let alone be a writer, well then an MFA program is definitely for you.
3. You think an MFA is a magic ticket to literary stardom.
Haaaaaahahahahahahahaha! Good luck with that, cowboy. Do you know how many writers there are out there running around with diplomas and unpublished manuscripts? They are legion.
4. You think an MFA is a magic ticket to a high paying tenure-track university teaching job.
Yes, the MFA is the terminal degree in the academic field of creative writing. Yes, an MFA and a published book technically qualify you for a tenure-track position in a creative writing program. But remember that legion of MFAs running around? Add all those folks who now have PhDs in creative writing, who have five to seven years of university teaching experience, who don’t even need a published book to qualify for the same employment. And subtract from the equation the small(ish) number of schools who have creative writing programs. Subtract again the miniscule number of positions available in those programs. Divide by the fact that colleges and universities are slashing funding for the humanities and that retiring tenured professors are being replaced by armies of low-paid part-time faculty.
You will take your measly adjunct position at the community college, and you will like it.
5. You think an MFA is a magic ticket to any sort of income ever.
You get a masters degree in accounting. You become an accountant. You go to law school. You become a lawyer.
You get an MFA degree in creative writing. What exactly does that make you? A writer? A starving artist? A really well educated homeless person?
The MFA does not necessarily lead you to any specific gainful employment. Sure, you’ll be qualified for some day jobs that you would not have been able to get otherwise (technical writer, content manager, community college adjunct), but maybe you don’t want to do any of those things. And maybe you never get a book deal. Maybe you have improved as a writer. Maybe you have cultivated a deep passion for your art. But unless you win the lottery or marry well, you will likely never be rich. Even Ron Rash, one of my favorite authors, writer of four books of poetry, five collections of short fiction, five novels, and one children’s book (not to mention that one novel whose motion picture rights got picked up), has a day job. He probably does pretty well for himself, but he obviously doesn’t make enough money from his writing to live off that. How do I know? Because there ain’t a writer alive who wouldn’t leave his day job in a second if he could afford to. Because writers just want time to write. And think. And daydream. And wander (both physically and metaphorically). Day jobs steal our writing time and our energy. But day jobs pay the bills (sometimes barely).
If you care enough about your art, you do it anyway. But if you’re not okay with the possibility of being poor forever, go do something else, like peddle pharmaceuticals or perform brain surgery.
Do you think I’m completely full of it? Leave a comment telling me why I’m wrong. (And then I’ll comment back that you’re a stupid stupidhead, but, hey, discourse!)