What I Learned in My MFA Writing Program

I'll be the first to tell you that I went through a respected MFA writing program at one of the best graduate art schools in the country. I'm proud of my fancy degree and the talent that got me there in the first place. On dates, I wear my education like some people wear cocktail dresses. But when people ask if I enjoyed my time there, I hesitate. While I became a much better writer, the experience of going through an MFA writing program was not what I expected. Here's what I really learned in graduate school.

1. MFA writing programs teach a strong sense of entitlement.

"Congratulations! You've been accepted to an elite program that rejected just about everyone else. Sit back, enjoy the ride, and wait for the fame and fortune to find you."

That's a bit of an exaggeration, but getting into an MFA writing program of any stature makes you feel on top of the world, and the faculty are the first to put it in your head that the laurels you rest upon will carry you through anything.

People in MFA writing programs get used to grant money, they get used to being offered public reading slots at bookstores and bars, and they get used to feeling like they're a part of something huge just for showing up. I admit, I thought the free money, the readings, and the accolades would continue after graduation.

As it turns out, you have to work hard every day at being a writer. Who knew? Without institutional support, it gets much harder to crank out publishable stories and poems on a regular basis. Life gets in the way, especially that pesky thing called work. The free money disappears, and many state-funded grant opportunities have also vanished in the recession. And until you get that first book published, the next crop of "up-and-comers" will be doing all those hip readings your class used to do.

An MFA writing program will not prepare you for what happens after you graduate and have to work six times as hard for the attention your writing used to get. No one hands you anything after your degree.

2. MFA writing programs teach how to write for a group.

The workshop format of most MFA writing programs means that students are actively engaged in each other's work. For some writers, this is a beneficial process, while others look upon the workshop as an ordeal to survive.

Even in an MFA writing program like mine in which genre-hopping and experimenting were encouraged, the workshop is a big freaking deal. At every stage in the writing process, someone is looking over your shoulder and questioning your choices. This makes students more deliberate and thoughtful writers. This also makes students self-conscious to the point where they learn how to write to please.

Even in the best-run workshops, a certain kind of group mentality can take over a critique. Students learn pretty quickly what will go over well, and what they'll take heat for. So they adapt.

Does this mean that individual voices are being squashed by whatever writing conventions are popular in that moment? Probably. Does that mean that most students will become better writers? Again, probably.

The effectiveness workshop method is highly debated, and the purpose of this article isn't to condone or condemn. But the writers who want to do well in this system will both participate in these mob critiques and adapt their writing to the tastes of their peers. Let's hope the future William Faulkners and Kathy Ackers (and anyone whose work would get crushed in this setting) skip this step of becoming a writer.

3. MFA writing programs teach that marrying rich is the best thing you can do for your writing career.

It started when I sat in on a class for a visit, before I'd even replied to my acceptance letter. A man who graduated from my MFA writing program came back to talk about life after school. Wage labor had been killing his ability to write because it sucked up all his time and energy. Publishing fiction (particularly short fiction, which was his specialty) pays crap, if at all. He got his wife to do all the working so he could stay home and write. He's happy now and publishing a lot, though he rarely earns a dime for himself. While the professor nodded sagely in the background, this young writer recommended that we all try to get ourselves into that sort of situation.

This attitude would spring up over and over again. Two professors instructed us flat-out to marry doctors and lawyers so we could stay home and do our "real work." When someone would announce a relationship milestone like an engagement or a cohabitation, the question from the professor was always, "What does he/she do?" If the answer was a good one, there was a collective sigh of relief.

We were also told that teaching right out of grad school (which is really the only thing an MFA writing program qualifies you to do, other than write) would be bad for our writing because of all the time and effort that goes into teaching other people how to write. You could tell they felt sadly noble at putting aside their own work to toil over us writing newbies.

So far, no dice on marrying rich or even remotely well-off for me. I'm still writing grad school exposés and web copy to pay the rent. And I'm lucky if I can get any of my own, not-for-profit words in edgewise, let alone the 3,000 it takes to write a whole story.

The sad truth is that eventually the trust fund dries up, the grant money disappears, and the upper-middle class wage slave never appears with a wedding ring and a free condo on a silver platter. Many of us have no choice but to work for our keep. Though we all consider writing our "real work," wage labor often has to take priority. What I learned in my MFA writing program was to feel sorry for myself and slightly guilty about making an honest day's pay, when I used to take pride in knowing that I could do whatever I needed to do to get by.

4. MFA writing programs teach that your peers are also your competition.

Remember those teaching jobs that we're supposed to shun by marrying rich? Well, for those of us Cinderellas still waiting for Prince Charming and his income, those are the jobs that we all want. Any other job we're qualified for, we could've gotten before grad school. (Yes, the MFA in writing is practically worthless in the job market.)

When we took seminars about how to get grants, residencies, and teaching jobs, we learned pretty quickly how stiff our competition was. Want to be a Steger Fellow? So do 2,000 other people, including the person sitting directly to your left. Want to go to Breadloaf? Yep, you and everyone else in MFA writing programs across the country, including the people in the room.

What about when the one tenure-track teaching job comes up in your vicinity? Well, not only are you competing against your classmates for it the minute you graduate, but all of the other program graduates for the last several years and maybe some of your own professors who are only adjuncts also want that job and will fight you for it.

Good MFA writing programs teach you how to find and apply for these opportunities, but they also make you very aware that all your new buddies are also going to be your biggest competition. You'll all be in the same place career-wise when you get out, so expect a lot of weirdness when some people start to publish while they're still in school. Everyone's trying to be friendly on the surface, but MFA writing programs also teach you that you need to work tirelessly to get a leg up before the program spits you out into the real world to fend for yourself.