Thoughts on the MFA Program from a Grad School Dropout
Outside of my few close friends and family, I don’t talk much to anyone about dropping out of the MFA Program. I think part of that is because I’m afraid some people will think I didn’t have “what it takes” to stick it out, or they will think that I’m just bad-mouthing the Program. On the contrary, I left the Program after much contemplation and, honestly, praying. It was not an easy or flighty choice. It was one I made to better myself as a writer.
It probably wasn’t until my final year in undergrad that I decided I would apply to the MFA Program. It took me close to ten years to get my undergrad degree because I took a few years off from school to save money. Then when I got close to the end, I swore up and down I would never go back for more school. One day, that just changed. I applied and was accepted to a Program. Receiving that acceptance email was probably one of the greatest moments of my life.
I had a hard time fitting in with most of the other students in my first year, but I put that aside to push onward into what I thought would be a good thing for me. By the end of that first year, I realized the Program wasn’t helping me. That isn’t to say I was “too good” for the Program in any way—it was simply that this particular Program wasn’t meeting my particular needs.
I don’t know a lot about other MFA Programs, about their curriculum, their cost, their whatever. I applied to this Program because it was local, because I graduated from the same university, and because I had become familiar with the faculty and more involved with the department events and conferences toward the end of my undergrad years. I truly thought it would be good for me, but I discovered quickly that not all MFA Programs are one-size-fits-all.
When I was seriously considering leaving, I confided in the one teacher I respected and trusted most. She had always been my favorite professor because of her unbiased nature, so rather than trying to convince me to stay or leave, she simply asked me, “What is it you want to do with your writing?”
And I kind of laughed and responded, “I don’t know.”
I always had this idea that doors would open when I got my MFA, like I would suddenly be seen as a true and serious writer in the eyes of the industry, and a bidding war would ensue to hire me here or there. Editors and agents would be clobbering for my novels.
How ridiculous!
Based on my extensive research, my scourging of the internet for mutual lamentations from other MFA dropouts, and the opinion of various literary agents and editors, the necessity of the MFA only seems realistic in regard to specific writing professions—namely, teaching.
I once read a really great blog post that went something like this:
Why do you want to get an MFA?
Do you want to teach? Then yes, you need an MFA, even though the job market is competitive.
Do you want to work in editing and publishing? Go intern for a publisher.
Do you want to join a workshop group? You can do that at your local library.
Do you just want to improve your writing? An MFA can help with that but it isn’t necessary. Read books and write more. Practice improves your writing.
Do you want to work with a specific professor? Then, yes, an MFA Program can put you in touch with that person.
Do you want to write books? You don’t need an MFA for that.
That’s all some loose paraphrasing, of course, but it is true to the sentiment behind the post. An MFA doesn’t determine a writer’s value or talent. Only the writer’s tenacity, humility, drive, and willingness to learn and improve determines his or her talent.
So after my teacher asked me that question, I started seriously thinking about it. What did I want to do with my writing? What do I want to do with my writing?
Well, I have no interest in teaching. I considered taking a teaching associateship position—in which I would teach freshman composition, and maybe later introductory fiction writing, if granted the opportunity—but I never really had a true interest in teaching. I really only considered it for the sake of gaining experience. So there’s one to scratch off the list.
I don’t want to work in editing or publishing. I interned for a year at the Program’s literary magazine, and while I didn’t dislike it, I didn’t really like it either. Sorting through the slush pile just isn’t my thing. Scratch number two off the list.
I think I would like to write for video games, but I probably already need experience in the gaming industry (as in game programming and design) to get into something like that, since writing in video games comes secondary to actual gameplay. Ugh.
And then finally—finally—after a few months of constantly considering my teacher’s question, I realized what I really want to do: I just want to write!
Since I could put pen to paper, all I wanted to do was tell stories. As you may remember from my past post, I aspired to becoming a published author at a ripe young age. I wanted to be a novelist. That was the dream I had from the very beginning. It simply got lost somewhere along the way when teenage Christina read an arbitrary statistic declaring that only ten percent of authors actually make a living off of writing books (which is true, but it shouldn't have turned me away from doing what I enjoyed).
When I realized that this was the answer to my teacher’s question, I finally figured out why this particular MFA Program was not right for me. See, all MFA Programs are not created equal. Some MFA Programs focus specifically on the YA genre, for example. Some offer full funding. Some focus on play-writing and screenwriting. The MFA Program in which I was enrolled was, in my experience, geared especially toward its literary magazine and its poetry department.
That's not to say that any other aspect of the Program was neglected, just that these two areas especially represented the heart of the Program. So in the long-run, an MFA Program focused heavily on its literary magazine and poetry department wouldn't really work out for someone like me, a writer intending to create cohesive pieces of fiction in the form of a novel.
The thesis requirement for fiction candidates in my Program is one book-length manuscript of either short stories or one cohesive piece. It is my understanding that it is nearly impossible to publish short story collections written by debut authors, so I opted for a cohesive piece. I also felt that a short story collection was the easy way out (for me) because a cohesive piece is so much more challenging to write. Besides all that, short stories and novels are completely different beasts, and the craft and construction of these pieces can't necessarily be taught the same way.
Throughout my internet searches for consolation while I considered dropping out, I rediscovered the blog of literary agent Nathan Bransford, who I had followed a long time ago, especially when I was self-publishing The Dragonlord’s Heir. When I rediscovered his blog, I stumbled across a wonderful post titled “If I Were Running an MFA Program” and I gobbled it up. Yes, the post is ten years old, but I think it is quite timeless.
Having worked as a literary agent, Nathan knows the ins and outs of the book publishing industry. He first asks himself what the goal of this hypothetical program would be. He ultimately comes to the conclusion that his program should “teach students how to advance their writing careers, as in, write works for which they might have a gameful possibility of future writerly employment in the current (and likely future) market, as in, novels and full-length narrative nonfiction,” rather than encourage the short story, an “art form unto itself…which the reading public does not generally pay attention to unless they’re taking a creative writing class and/or trying to place something with The New Yorker.”
Nathan then stresses the point of marketing and self-promotion, something that many of us writers cringe at but understand the importance of. He also nods to the often notoriously terrible query letter written by MFA graduates, an ongoing problem thanks to the Programs’ neglect to teach the importance of the query letter.
Nathan admits that his program “sounds a bit mercenary" because he “would judge the success of the program by how many authors found publication after they graduated.” But he still acknowledges the importance of the Programs that focus on the short story or poem, and he admits that these Programs that are established to facilitate an appreciation for the craft of writing have their own places in the writing world.
I loved this post because everything about it is so true. Like someone wrote in the comments to Nathan's post, the query letter is not discussed nearly as much as it should be in the MFA Program. In fact, in my one year in the Program, I didn’t hear even a whisper about query letters. When I brought it up to a fellow student, she confessed she didn’t even know what a query letter was until I mentioned it.
I couldn’t believe this! How can a Program possibly help its students if it isn't preparing them for the business end of the book publishing industry, or any aspect of the book publishing industry for that matter? Short stories and poems are great, but where do actual books come into play in the MFA Program? Where does writing books come into play? When do we hear about agents, editors, publishers, the Big Five, ARCs, advances, royalties, subsidiary rights, and option clauses? Aren't books more marketable than short stories and poetry? Sure, each has its own place in the writing industry, but what are people reading most?
That's right. Books.
As Nathan himself states, "anyone who has embarked on the path to publication knows [that] writing a book is the easy part." So where do we go after we write our theses and finish up our three years in the Program? What comes next? Are we guided into publication, or are we left to figure out the rest on our own?
It's no problem if we're supposed to figure things out on our own. I'm a hands-on learner, and after all, most of what I already learned about the book publishing industry I learned through research on my own, and through attending writing conferences on my own. But I think that the MFA Program should do more than give writers the space to write and teach them how to imitate other authors. The writer can do all that on his or her own. You can walk into a Barnes & Noble and find twenty-dollar books that teach you how to do this. Save yourself the thousands of dollars in tuition!
What the writer needs to learn is business and marketing, especially in a DIY age such as the one in which we live. Self-publishing is moving out of the stigmatized spotlight and is now facilitating writers who hold their own against traditionally published writers. Whether or not you believe in or agree with self-publishing, this is a fact. The traditional author and self-published author are doing almost equal amounts of work, as I've mentioned before. Why isn't the MFA Program talking more about this?
Besides all that, the most common argument I see against the MFA is money. Anti-MFA’ers believe that unless you can receive full funding, it’s just not worth it to go into debt for an arts degree. Not receiving financial aid for my second year was the final straw in my decision to leave. I couldn’t justify the thousands of dollars I would spend when I already felt like things were very wrong for me. Unlike a law degree or medical school, MFA's are not guaranteed a return on investment. The arts are too fickle for that kind of surety.
You may be reading this and wondering what clout, what gall, I have to critique the MFA Program when I myself dropped out, have only a few small publications to my name, and have only two followers on my blog. My intent in writing this post isn’t to talk smack about my Program, or even about the MFA in general. It is simply to explain the extensive reasoning behind my decision to leave. My parents thought I was making a terrible decision, but they didn’t understand any of the things I wrote above. All they saw was me abandoning a Master’s degree.
I think the MFA Program has to work for the writer. The writer has to take care of him- or herself, whether that is sticking out the Program or leaving it. I felt very constricted in my writing while in the Program. I felt like I had to write for the Program rather than for myself. When I realized this, I knew it was toxic and I had to escape it. I wasn't doing what I wanted, and I didn't feel I was gaining anything meaningful. I learned more in reading Nathan's archived posts than I did in one year in the MFA Program.
Will I ever go back and finish my MFA elsewhere? Who knows? It seems highly unlikely unless I fall into a lump sum of money and can afford to blow forty thousand dollars without batting an eye. I'm sure there is an MFA Program out there that would suit my needs as a writer, but unless I find all that money somewhere, I will continue to DIY my own MFA by reading books that suit my writing style and taste, attending writing conferences, and networking with other writers. I was writing long, long before I even knew what an MFA was, so leaving the Program doesn't change a thing.
Sometimes I look back on my time in the Program and panic, wondering why I left at all. But it’s not regret that makes me feel this way—it’s the lack of structure. That was one thing I loved about the Program. I loved having a map for the next three years detailing how I would evolve from a nobody into a somebody with credential behind her name. There was a sense of security and certainty behind the degree, and even if it was false, it was comforting. Doing this on my own is so much scarier, but I know it’s better for me and my writing.
In the end, it's all about taking care of yourself.
It probably wasn’t until my final year in undergrad that I decided I would apply to the MFA Program. It took me close to ten years to get my undergrad degree because I took a few years off from school to save money. Then when I got close to the end, I swore up and down I would never go back for more school. One day, that just changed. I applied and was accepted to a Program. Receiving that acceptance email was probably one of the greatest moments of my life.
I had a hard time fitting in with most of the other students in my first year, but I put that aside to push onward into what I thought would be a good thing for me. By the end of that first year, I realized the Program wasn’t helping me. That isn’t to say I was “too good” for the Program in any way—it was simply that this particular Program wasn’t meeting my particular needs.
I don’t know a lot about other MFA Programs, about their curriculum, their cost, their whatever. I applied to this Program because it was local, because I graduated from the same university, and because I had become familiar with the faculty and more involved with the department events and conferences toward the end of my undergrad years. I truly thought it would be good for me, but I discovered quickly that not all MFA Programs are one-size-fits-all.
When I was seriously considering leaving, I confided in the one teacher I respected and trusted most. She had always been my favorite professor because of her unbiased nature, so rather than trying to convince me to stay or leave, she simply asked me, “What is it you want to do with your writing?”
And I kind of laughed and responded, “I don’t know.”
I always had this idea that doors would open when I got my MFA, like I would suddenly be seen as a true and serious writer in the eyes of the industry, and a bidding war would ensue to hire me here or there. Editors and agents would be clobbering for my novels.
How ridiculous!
Based on my extensive research, my scourging of the internet for mutual lamentations from other MFA dropouts, and the opinion of various literary agents and editors, the necessity of the MFA only seems realistic in regard to specific writing professions—namely, teaching.
I once read a really great blog post that went something like this:
Why do you want to get an MFA?
Do you want to teach? Then yes, you need an MFA, even though the job market is competitive.
Do you want to work in editing and publishing? Go intern for a publisher.
Do you want to join a workshop group? You can do that at your local library.
Do you just want to improve your writing? An MFA can help with that but it isn’t necessary. Read books and write more. Practice improves your writing.
Do you want to work with a specific professor? Then, yes, an MFA Program can put you in touch with that person.
Do you want to write books? You don’t need an MFA for that.
That’s all some loose paraphrasing, of course, but it is true to the sentiment behind the post. An MFA doesn’t determine a writer’s value or talent. Only the writer’s tenacity, humility, drive, and willingness to learn and improve determines his or her talent.
So after my teacher asked me that question, I started seriously thinking about it. What did I want to do with my writing? What do I want to do with my writing?
Well, I have no interest in teaching. I considered taking a teaching associateship position—in which I would teach freshman composition, and maybe later introductory fiction writing, if granted the opportunity—but I never really had a true interest in teaching. I really only considered it for the sake of gaining experience. So there’s one to scratch off the list.
I don’t want to work in editing or publishing. I interned for a year at the Program’s literary magazine, and while I didn’t dislike it, I didn’t really like it either. Sorting through the slush pile just isn’t my thing. Scratch number two off the list.
I think I would like to write for video games, but I probably already need experience in the gaming industry (as in game programming and design) to get into something like that, since writing in video games comes secondary to actual gameplay. Ugh.
And then finally—finally—after a few months of constantly considering my teacher’s question, I realized what I really want to do: I just want to write!
Since I could put pen to paper, all I wanted to do was tell stories. As you may remember from my past post, I aspired to becoming a published author at a ripe young age. I wanted to be a novelist. That was the dream I had from the very beginning. It simply got lost somewhere along the way when teenage Christina read an arbitrary statistic declaring that only ten percent of authors actually make a living off of writing books (which is true, but it shouldn't have turned me away from doing what I enjoyed).
When I realized that this was the answer to my teacher’s question, I finally figured out why this particular MFA Program was not right for me. See, all MFA Programs are not created equal. Some MFA Programs focus specifically on the YA genre, for example. Some offer full funding. Some focus on play-writing and screenwriting. The MFA Program in which I was enrolled was, in my experience, geared especially toward its literary magazine and its poetry department.
That's not to say that any other aspect of the Program was neglected, just that these two areas especially represented the heart of the Program. So in the long-run, an MFA Program focused heavily on its literary magazine and poetry department wouldn't really work out for someone like me, a writer intending to create cohesive pieces of fiction in the form of a novel.
The thesis requirement for fiction candidates in my Program is one book-length manuscript of either short stories or one cohesive piece. It is my understanding that it is nearly impossible to publish short story collections written by debut authors, so I opted for a cohesive piece. I also felt that a short story collection was the easy way out (for me) because a cohesive piece is so much more challenging to write. Besides all that, short stories and novels are completely different beasts, and the craft and construction of these pieces can't necessarily be taught the same way.
Throughout my internet searches for consolation while I considered dropping out, I rediscovered the blog of literary agent Nathan Bransford, who I had followed a long time ago, especially when I was self-publishing The Dragonlord’s Heir. When I rediscovered his blog, I stumbled across a wonderful post titled “If I Were Running an MFA Program” and I gobbled it up. Yes, the post is ten years old, but I think it is quite timeless.
Having worked as a literary agent, Nathan knows the ins and outs of the book publishing industry. He first asks himself what the goal of this hypothetical program would be. He ultimately comes to the conclusion that his program should “teach students how to advance their writing careers, as in, write works for which they might have a gameful possibility of future writerly employment in the current (and likely future) market, as in, novels and full-length narrative nonfiction,” rather than encourage the short story, an “art form unto itself…which the reading public does not generally pay attention to unless they’re taking a creative writing class and/or trying to place something with The New Yorker.”
Nathan then stresses the point of marketing and self-promotion, something that many of us writers cringe at but understand the importance of. He also nods to the often notoriously terrible query letter written by MFA graduates, an ongoing problem thanks to the Programs’ neglect to teach the importance of the query letter.
Nathan admits that his program “sounds a bit mercenary" because he “would judge the success of the program by how many authors found publication after they graduated.” But he still acknowledges the importance of the Programs that focus on the short story or poem, and he admits that these Programs that are established to facilitate an appreciation for the craft of writing have their own places in the writing world.
I loved this post because everything about it is so true. Like someone wrote in the comments to Nathan's post, the query letter is not discussed nearly as much as it should be in the MFA Program. In fact, in my one year in the Program, I didn’t hear even a whisper about query letters. When I brought it up to a fellow student, she confessed she didn’t even know what a query letter was until I mentioned it.
I couldn’t believe this! How can a Program possibly help its students if it isn't preparing them for the business end of the book publishing industry, or any aspect of the book publishing industry for that matter? Short stories and poems are great, but where do actual books come into play in the MFA Program? Where does writing books come into play? When do we hear about agents, editors, publishers, the Big Five, ARCs, advances, royalties, subsidiary rights, and option clauses? Aren't books more marketable than short stories and poetry? Sure, each has its own place in the writing industry, but what are people reading most?
That's right. Books.
As Nathan himself states, "anyone who has embarked on the path to publication knows [that] writing a book is the easy part." So where do we go after we write our theses and finish up our three years in the Program? What comes next? Are we guided into publication, or are we left to figure out the rest on our own?
It's no problem if we're supposed to figure things out on our own. I'm a hands-on learner, and after all, most of what I already learned about the book publishing industry I learned through research on my own, and through attending writing conferences on my own. But I think that the MFA Program should do more than give writers the space to write and teach them how to imitate other authors. The writer can do all that on his or her own. You can walk into a Barnes & Noble and find twenty-dollar books that teach you how to do this. Save yourself the thousands of dollars in tuition!
What the writer needs to learn is business and marketing, especially in a DIY age such as the one in which we live. Self-publishing is moving out of the stigmatized spotlight and is now facilitating writers who hold their own against traditionally published writers. Whether or not you believe in or agree with self-publishing, this is a fact. The traditional author and self-published author are doing almost equal amounts of work, as I've mentioned before. Why isn't the MFA Program talking more about this?
Besides all that, the most common argument I see against the MFA is money. Anti-MFA’ers believe that unless you can receive full funding, it’s just not worth it to go into debt for an arts degree. Not receiving financial aid for my second year was the final straw in my decision to leave. I couldn’t justify the thousands of dollars I would spend when I already felt like things were very wrong for me. Unlike a law degree or medical school, MFA's are not guaranteed a return on investment. The arts are too fickle for that kind of surety.
You may be reading this and wondering what clout, what gall, I have to critique the MFA Program when I myself dropped out, have only a few small publications to my name, and have only two followers on my blog. My intent in writing this post isn’t to talk smack about my Program, or even about the MFA in general. It is simply to explain the extensive reasoning behind my decision to leave. My parents thought I was making a terrible decision, but they didn’t understand any of the things I wrote above. All they saw was me abandoning a Master’s degree.
I think the MFA Program has to work for the writer. The writer has to take care of him- or herself, whether that is sticking out the Program or leaving it. I felt very constricted in my writing while in the Program. I felt like I had to write for the Program rather than for myself. When I realized this, I knew it was toxic and I had to escape it. I wasn't doing what I wanted, and I didn't feel I was gaining anything meaningful. I learned more in reading Nathan's archived posts than I did in one year in the MFA Program.
Will I ever go back and finish my MFA elsewhere? Who knows? It seems highly unlikely unless I fall into a lump sum of money and can afford to blow forty thousand dollars without batting an eye. I'm sure there is an MFA Program out there that would suit my needs as a writer, but unless I find all that money somewhere, I will continue to DIY my own MFA by reading books that suit my writing style and taste, attending writing conferences, and networking with other writers. I was writing long, long before I even knew what an MFA was, so leaving the Program doesn't change a thing.
Sometimes I look back on my time in the Program and panic, wondering why I left at all. But it’s not regret that makes me feel this way—it’s the lack of structure. That was one thing I loved about the Program. I loved having a map for the next three years detailing how I would evolve from a nobody into a somebody with credential behind her name. There was a sense of security and certainty behind the degree, and even if it was false, it was comforting. Doing this on my own is so much scarier, but I know it’s better for me and my writing.
In the end, it's all about taking care of yourself.
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