As an Outsider to the Fiction Circuit, I Have Advantages Others Don’t

Don’t sleep on the underdog

I used to think I’d never make it as a literary writer because I didn’t have a literature background or an MFA.

I studied economics and then an MBA. My first job was in business development, as were my second and my third. I didn’t know anyone who’d wrote fiction, much less had done/was doing an MFA. “Art is for losers,” was the consensus in my circle.

On the other hand, most of the published writers in big magazines have MFAs. Same for most of the writers getting book deals at major publishing houses. And an MFA seemed to be the unwritten prerequisite for most writing awards, residences and fellowships.

So why didn’t I just do an MFA, you ask? Well, for one, have you seen the average acceptance rates? But also, you need recommenders to write letters testifying that you can write. Which, owing to my extremely non-literary background, I lack.

What comes first — the MFA or the cheerleaders?

Cue throwing self into pillows and mourning the dream that would never be.

This was 2020.

Cut to 2023.

I’ve had some setbacks since last summer, so I’ve been on a break between May last year and February this year. But overall, in the almost-three years since I first thought about writing fiction, I’ve:

• Had 13 short story acceptances in magazines, 4 of which are among the top-ranked in the United States
• Attended two major US writing conferences
• Been nominated once for a Pushcart and twice for a Best of the Net Award
• Was a Best of the Net fiction finalist in 2023

It’s not a jaw-dropping resume by any means, but the fact is that I am a writer — a proper, true-blue literary writer — despite having no MFA or other qualifications.

I like to tease out the bright side of the situations I’m in, and it turns out there’s a lot to be said for this kind of “unschooled” writing. That might sound like sour grapes, I get it. And yes, getting into a top-tier MFA programme is an accomplishment I do not have and may never have.

But having an outsider perspective allows me to see what’s happening in the literary community without any personal stake in it, and based on what I’ve seen in the last three years, an MFA honestly isn’t the only way — or even the best way — to achieving greatness in your craft. I’ll lay out some concrete reasons here, with the disclaimer that these aren’t universal truths by any means — although I sense that several of my fellow non-MFA writers will relate.

I’m not tied down by “community”

There’s this disturbing obligation in the literary circle to write over-enthusiastic reviews for each other’s stuff. I’ve seen a bunch of new releases online with the same handful of people basically swapping compliments by turn, maybe substituting “Chekovian” with “Tolstoyian”.

I mean, mutual support is nice and all, but when it inflates poor writing, you end up with a bit of an echo chamber situation. Sure, maybe all those college classmates happen to be decent writers, but Tolstoyian? Really? All of them?

As an outsider, none of those writers know me or give a crap about me personally. Which means that if they do write reviews for my work, it’s much likelier that it’s because they actually like my writing than because we do shots together every weekend.

And by the same token, I’m not obliged to write gushing reviews of books I can’t abide.

I can live with that.

I have an honest opinion of my own abilities

Educational institutes of any kind give you false ideas about yourself based on your performance.

At my high school, the highest-scoring students were somehow viewed as the most promising. Cut to the present, many of the folks who scored less are flourishing as much or even more than those who scored higher. Same goes for my undergraduate and B-school classmates.

In the MFA context, it’s workshops instead of grades. But the concept is the same. MFA workshop comments are absolutely no indicator of anyone’s ability to actually write, good or bad. Had I been in an MFA cohort I’d have inevitably entered the real world with skewed perceptions about myself, which I would first have had to spend a good while overcoming before I could get down to writing real fiction.

I suffered from that for years after school. I was one of the top scorers, everyone told me I was brilliant, I started thinking I was brilliant, then turned 18 and entered the real world and quickly realised that memorising textbooks were of zero help when it came to succeeding in life, and suffered an identity crisis I took seven years to recover from.

I’m so relieved I don’t have to do that again.

I see past the jargon

There are obviously concepts that matter in literary fiction, like POV, narrative arc, rising action and so on.

The problem arises when people throw those words around as substitutes for actual feedback.

“The use of third-person POV here is interesting.” “I love how the narrative arc incorporates elements of fabulism.”

I mean, that’s okay and all, but what do you think of the story itself?

Too much theory, in my not-so-humble opinion, clouds the ability to see the story for what it actually is. And what the story actually is only requires you to ask two questions:

• What’s happening?
• Why is it happening this way?

Any great story of any length and from any time period is great because it has great answers to these questions. Not because it checks the boxes on “isms”.

I can have the money and flexibility that I want

An MFA degree is a two-year commitment at the minimum.

You can’t have a full-time job along with it — that defeats the purpose of the degree. Most do come with paid TA positions, but the kind of money they pay is, well, abysmal. (I may be biased because I live in the Bay Area, but most annual stipends at MFAs are what I spend in a quarter.) And truth be told, an MFA doesn’t exactly open doors to the C-suite.

When you’re writing alongside your regular job, you may have less time for your craft and less immersion in the world of literature, but at least you’ll be able to maintain your standard of living — and explore career options that boost your income.

I’m a freelance writer, which means income is always uncertain. I’m also setting up as a freelance writer in a new country — double uncertainty. I need all the time I can get to build my business and experiment with side hustles so I have financial freedom in an extremely expensive state. Oh, and bonus — I can travel whenever and wherever I want. *flex*

I can write and rewrite the way I want

Workshops can be excellent things. I’ve attended two writing conferences and have gotten some extremely helpful feedback on my work.

But the truth is, every writing cohort has its agendas, and there’s a disturbing tendency in MFA/workshop groups to promote ways that one “should” write. And I’m talking styles and voices that are regarded as superior to others.

Not to say I can’t take negative feedback — I love honest critiques, and pointing out how my work is flawed and how I can correct it is one of the best gifts a reader can give me.

But when it gets to a point where I’m told that as a BIPOC woman, there’s a certain way I “ought” to write about race — ugh.

As a lone wolf, I get to make choices about which books and authors I can learn the most from and which structural and stylistic improvements I need to make to refine my craft. No prescriptive bullshit, no inappropriate comments, no bother.

I’m great at the business side

Here’s what they don’t tell you about literary writing — in many ways, it’s like any other business.

Once you graduate from the MFA program, there are no more cosy cohorts telling you how great you are. It’s the same brutal competition it was all along — where you navigate writer’s block, self-loathing, editorial whims and the conundrum of how to market yourself, to fight for the few good opportunities that exist.

College just doesn’t prepare you for that.

By contrast, as a freelance writer,

• I’m great at outreach and filtering good leads (such as which magazines are actually worth submitting to)
• I’m great at rejection, and more importantly the silence
• I know how to diversify
• I know how to juggle multiple projects at the same time

Chances are, your profession (full-time or self-employed) has taught you similar skills. And those are more vital to your long-term writing success than you can possibly imagine.

Harsh truth — an MFA is no guarantee of success

Yes, that includes the top-ranked MFAs.

I regularly check up on the alumni of MFA programs. Very, very few of them are actually famous. As in famous beyond their hometown and a mention on a Buzzfeed “Top 40 Writers To Check Out This Summer”.

On the other hand, no one cares where Jonathan Franzen or Elif Batuman or Margaret Atwood or Joyce Carol Oates went to college. No one says “oh, Joyce is great because she went to Syracuse”. No — she’s great because she had talent, honed the crap out of it and continues doing so today.

Your chances of getting a Pulitzer nomination are about the same as any other writer’s, ie minuscule. So if you’re doing the MFA for the acclaim, well, you might want to spare yourself the time. (And the effort. And the tens of thousands of dollars worth of lost income opportunities.)

Only you can decide whether an MFA is the right thing for you. It certainly has advantages in terms of more time to write than when you’re working a job — and if you’re lucky, you’ll get a supportive faculty and classmates who will help you grow into the kind of writer you want to be.

But if you can’t get into an MFA programme, owing to constraints like family, finances or simply the lack of the “right” background, don’t let that stop you from putting every ounce of effort into your craft.

An MFA won’t make it easier for you to get published in magazines, win awards or win book deals. To get those things, what you need is the gift — and the honing of it to perfection. And if you’re on your path to that perfection — if you’re showing up through high and low and doing everything you can to put honest, unforgettable stories out into the world — you’re already way ahead of many MFA grads who have the skill but lack the staying power.

Remember — the MFA was never the goal. Writing great fiction is.