The open book: what writers don’t tell writers about writing (part 4)

Writing programs. MFAs*. Workshops. Classes. Paid mentoring. If you want to write, or already, hopefully do, there are a million ways to spend your time and money on instruction.

But should you do it?

A binary answer is…imprecise. I say: yes, but. I also say: no, and.

You’ll see what I mean, I hope, by the end.

Here’s my background: I took quite a few writing classes as an undergrad, then went, directly, into an MFA program for creative writing (at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago). After that, I took — and taught (at the college and community level) — the occasional class, here and there, and then, a decade after getting my MFA, I attended Clarion West. Since then, I’ve (taught more classes and) taken a few more workshops and classes — these at the “professional” writer level* — and went to specialized programs like the Launch Pad Astronomy Workshop. So. My background is less in- depth than it is breadth (I could say that about so many things in my life, oy), but I’ve gotten a wide view of what’s out there, and experience of what each has done (or not) for me, in my career. More pointedly, I’ve met an army of other writers who’ve attended other programs and workshops, and, well, we’ve compared notes, and, from that, some truisms emerge.

Publication history will always count more than academic credentials or prestigious alumni status. Always. Always. Quality of work and how much you’ve published will always buoy you to top of list for more writing related gigs than a mint pedigree.

You don’t need anything but an awesome piece of writing that you’ve placed somewhere where somebody can read it.

Here’s the thing, though. To publish well and write good shit, well, that takes practice. For real. Ignoring the statistical anomalies of folks who just sit down one day, out of the blue, and write polished, interesting, readable stuff — inspired, springing forth fully formed from the head of Zeus — the rest of us, even the naturally inclined and talented, need to learn and experiment, and get out the first million words of garbage no one wants to read. That takes time.

Now, again, there are other statistical anomalies who can find the discipline and drive to do this, all on their own. They somehow manage to carve out the space to create and maintain the structure that writing classes and programs provide, minus the classes and programs.

Most of us are not members of either group of statistical anomalies.

This is totally fine. Because classes and programs exist.

This is what they do.

And, in their way, all they do. Any of them. Day class, 2 year program. Whatever.

They provide structure. They require you to budget time. They force your attention. If they’re taught well, they challenge you to read things you’d not ordinarily read and push you to write things you’d not ordinarily write. Most of them require you to read classmates’ word and organize your thoughts to discern what works and what doesn’t**.

They make you accountable.

Really. That’s the main thing.

Now, some of them offer other perks. Maybe you’ll have classes with a “famous” writer. Maybe you get to network. In many grad programs, you can pick up teaching experience. Specialized workshops (like Launchpad, in my case) can be inspiring and wildly educational, as well as useful for good old fashioned knowledge to base work in.

And once in a while, a teacher has a really great, insightful tidbit to share, something you’d eventually figure out with practice, but their advice saves you time and levels you up (I have had a few of such tidbits bestowed, for which I am eternally grateful. But to be honest, these gifts are rare and few, and I’ve had more classes sans gold nugget than with one).

All of them offer dangers. I’ve seen, time and time and time again, the temptation of camaraderie. Writers are solitary creatures. Get a few of them in one place, and we’re so happy to have someone else to talk to about voice and POV and semicolons (without their eyes going glassy) that we want to hang out, bond, drink wine and talk about “what we want our work to dooooooooooo.”

It’s incredibly easy to have that joy supersede the structure and time and attention, and writers wind up pissing away the time. (side story: I’m incredibly awkward, and in this, my strength. No one in my MFA program particularly thought I’d amount to much, but I was the first one in the class with a book contract after graduation. While they were all hanging out, I’d be home, drowning my misery at not fitting in by…writing).

You have to beware of the fantasies around programs. A famous writing teacher will probably not immediately recognize your abject genius and introduce you to their agent or editor. I mean, this does happen, but saying “probably not” even feels like I’m overstating. Everyone knows, or seems to know, some writer this happened to. But it’s a 1 in a million origin story.

You probably won’t get a contract or publication based on your credentials. Prestige programs (ye gods, how I want to put that in quotes, but can’t…because it is real) can be a sorting mechanism — as in adding “Iowa Writers Workshop’’ or (humblebrag) “Clarion West” to a cover letter maaaaay get your piece looked at longer or closer, or warrant a personalized rejection instead of a form, or some other modicum of (unproven) respectability. But no one comes out of any program, no matter how famous or venerated, with a book contract based solely on the existence of a certificate or diploma. Good work finds a home, as long as you keep sending it out and luck is on your side (more on that in a sec).

And, while programs are great for time and structure, they’re notoriously horrible at career preparation (hence these essays). You most likely won’t come out of a class or a program with a solid sense of how to do the business of writing, how to find an agent, what a contract should look like, how to research markets, how to query, how to keep going after you’re done with the class or program, wtf to do next, or how to stay resilient.

Or, that luck — having your piece land on the right person’s desk on the right day — plays more of a role than we’d like to admit. Maybe a nice pedigree raises your odds a few percentage points.

I learned most of this stuff on my own, somehow (often asking point blank questions or by making a faux pas or downright fool of myself). Even the classes that promise to teach you these things rarely teach you these things.

Sure, some of this is entirely conditional. What’s worked in one instance may not work in another. Markets change. Tastes change. Blah blah blahhhh blah blah.

But, if you’ve read any of the earlier pieces in this series, I firmly believe it’s cowardice. We don’t like to share failures. We want to curate our images, brands. We don’t want to “empower” the competition, or some screwed up notion like that. We think the stink of failure will permeate our work. Jinx it.

I don’t know.

But I do know that you won’t get this info, not really, from most writing programs.

To circle back, in the beginning, I said a “yes, but…” and a “no, and…” to whether programs are worth the time and expense.

Yes, they are — but only if you understand what you’re getting. Time. Structure. Possible perks, great temptations, a lottery ticket that once in a very long while pays off, maybe. Take it as an investment, even if you haven’t spent money on it — but an actual, serious investment of the next X days, weeks, years, whatever, writing.

No, they aren’t, and it’s a hard road to walk without a tour guide, though some definitely can. It takes a massive effort to find the time and space all on your own, but that’s all you’re guaranteed to get if you do a program. Don’t go into hock to attend, because the rewards are in the time and space, not the paper or diploma; but if you want to go, keep pushing to find a way to get it paid for or one that offers you a deal.

None offer the official secret initiation into the Cabal…at least that I’ve found.

Yet.

* Notice I didn’t include MA programs, though there are many of those, too. Unless you want to be an academic and are sure you want a doctorate — or the MA program gives you a full ride, along with a stipend — you really shouldn’t bother with the MA. MFA and MA programs cover the same stuff, take the same amount of time…but with the MFA, you have a “terminal” degree at the end, and that, frankly, makes it waaaaaaay easier for you to get jobs (like the crappy ass adjunct teaching gigs so many writers do to get by). Not saying you can’t get a job with the MA. It’s just reality that MFAs are looked at differently than MAs. No, it’s not fair.

** After years of attending and teaching workshops, I’ve come to the conclusion that most feedback on your own work is unhelpful. The more granular the feedback, the less helpful it is. Workshops are, instead, better at teaching us how to analyze work — see writing as a maker sees it — and get stronger at identifying how writing works. That’s the valuable skill that then pushes your work forward, IMHO — not what so-and-so said works, etc.