MFA Alternatives (In The Word Cellar)

This installment of In The Word Cellar is a bit late, either by a few days or a whole month, depending on how you're counting. I started it in December and then lost it when Squarespace hiccupped and deleted it. I put it on hold until last week, and I'd intended to have it up on Wednesday, but I was sucked down the vortex of project planning as I whirled and twirled like a dervish to get my new courses and workshops ready. (Last week's column was all about overcoming my sticking points between brainstorming and implementation. I'm happy to have forged ahead through the sticky parts.) And now, onward to this week's column! 

So you've read about my road to MFA-ville, pondered why someone might pursue a graduate degree in writing, looked at how to research and choose a program, and learned all about the low-residency model. Maybe you've started your own list of prospective schools or put the MFA experience on your bucket list.

On the other hand, maybe you've decided hell-no-I-don't-want-to-go-to-grad-school! Or maybe it's just not a feasible option for you right now. Well then, this post is for you.

As I've said all along, I don't believe that you must get a degree to become a better writer or to be published. I knew that I could have found everything I wanted (a writing community, feedback on my writing, craft lessons, and connection to the writing world) inside an MFA program or outside of it. I chose one possible path, but there are many others.

Here are my suggestions for alternatives to getting an MFA in writing. (These also serve as reminders for myself, post-MFA, of what I can do to keep growing and learning and writing.)

Read. Read a lot. Read literature. Read in your genre and far outside of it. Read for pleasure. Read for osmosis.

Reading good literature—the kind we'd like to write—infuses us with a knowledge that goes beyond what we may learn from textbooks or lectures: good literature settles deep within us so, when we write, we can summon what we've received from our predecessors—to emulate, to build. ~ Renee Ronika Kluug, "On Writing: Why Reading Matters," guest post on Rogue Writer

Read books about the craft of writing and about the writing life. (Randy Susan Meyers' post "My Homemade MFA" on Beyond the Margins has a nice collection of quotes of writing advice.)

Learn to read like a writer. This is one of the most important skills I've acquired. How do you read like a writer? Ask yourself why you like a piece of writing. What do you admire in it or dislike? What do you want to do in your own work? Try to see how an author does what she does. I know this sounds techical and like I'm telling you to kill the joy and magic of the written word, but it's not like that. Study other writers as the artists and the technicians that they are. Identify authors' strengths, and turn to them when you need help with something in particular. Let your bookshelf be your writing apothecary. Are you struggling with structure, voice, or incorporating humor into your work? Read the authors who do these things well. Learn from them through osmosis and through conscious study.

Get critical and respond like a writer. One way you can learn to read like a writer is to write critical responses to or papers on a piece of writing. (Yes, write papers for yourself.) I explain what critical means here in this post; here's an excerpt from it: 

First off, it's not nearly as dry, boring, or terrible as it sounds. Part of the MFA program is learning to read as a writer; to dive into another author's work and begin to figure out how she made the magic happen on the page. This is learning to look at creative work with a critical eye. Not critical in the sense of being harsh or belittling. Rather, this is about applying critical thinking skills to the craft of writing.

[Keep reading here (scroll down to the subheading called "The critical work."]

Read critical and craft essays in publications such as The Writer's Chronicle and Hunger Mountain's The Writing Life.

Write. I know this should go without saying, but I'm saying it because I need to hear it. Write. A lot. Keep writing. And do it again the next day.

If you write a bad story, the way to make it better is to write three more. Then look at the first one. You will have grown in understanding, in honesty. You will know what to do to it. And to yourself. ~Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit

Mind the gap. There's always a gap between who we are and who we're becoming, between our current skill level and what is possible. Jen Lee talks about the gap in The Emerging Icon Series. Ira Glass (from "This American Life") talks about the gap between your ability and your taste. Don't let the gap stop you from creating. Be aware of it and keep forging ahead.

Set goals, deadlines, and dreams. If you, like me, are not to be trusted to hold yourself accountable, call in back-up. Support and accountability are priceless in all of life, and your writing life is no exception. Do you need external deadlines to make sure you get shit done? Do you need people to ask you what you're working on? Do you need project and submission deadlines to make sure you actually write? I do. I wish it weren't that way, but it is. Forget the shame and guilt of how you think a writer is supposed to operate, and do what works for you. If it works for you, then it's working. If you're writing, then there's no need for guilt or shame about not writing.

Share your work. Support and accountability, baby. Share your drafts with writers and readers that you trust. It's a good exercise in courage, and it's a good way to learn about your blind spots. And that leads me to the next point...

Workshopping is a verb. Share your work with trusted writer-peers and get their input on what's working well and what isn't working as well in your writing. Words are wonderful and slippery things. They will mean different things to different people. You don't have to change things based on another person's vision or opinion, but if nobody in the group understands that your main character is a ghost, and you wanted readers to understand that your main character is a ghost, well, it's time to rethink how you present Ghosty. (I've written more about dealing with feedback here.) (If you're looking for a small group to workshop with, I'm facilitating one here.)

Give good feedback. This is still about sharing your work and workshopping with other writers -- and about reading/responding like a writer. Practicing giving useful, respectful feedback on your peers' work will deepen your own understanding of your craft. It will make you a better writer.

Submit. Send your work out into the world. Publish it on a blog. Submit to magazines, newspapers, literary journals.

Literary journals! Read them, subscribe to them, and send your work to them. Volunteer with them. If you don't know much about lit journals (I didn't just a few years ago), check out NewPages.com to get the lay of the land. (Are you interested in learning more about lit journals? Should I write a separate post about them?)

Find a mentor. Living or dead, real or imaginary.

Attend conferences and readings.

Take writing classes (online or in person).

Go on a writing retreat.

Travel. Seek adventures. Do stuff. Write about it.

I'm getting a little punchy here at the end of this list, but it's all advice that I myself need to hear. 

What about you? What MFA alternatives can you share with us? Please chime in below.

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{In The Word Cellar normally runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.}

Overcoming Your Natural Sticking Points (In The Word Cellar)

This week for "In The Word Cellar" I'm taking a short break from the MFA mini-series. I'll be back next Wednesday with a post about MFA alternatives.

I am neck deep in project-planning over here, swimming around in the alternately murky and luminescent waters of creation. To be honest, I feel like I've been treading water for a few months now, trying to find a current to carry me through 2012. This phase of the process -- the sorting, organizing, and choosing phase -- is where I struggle the most. I have lots of ideas! So many potential directions! So many exclamation points! It's exhausting. I tend to be able to see so many sides to a potential project that I get mired and lost in the details. I can't find a way forward because I'm so worried about choosing the "just right" path.

This is the first time I've tried to map out a year's worth of projects at one time. Over the past few years I've been doing bits and pieces as they came to me, which was a big step forward on my creative path. First, just having one or two ideas that I loved felt like a win. Then, figuring out how to execute one at a time was a milestone. And then I started to juggle a few things together, which made me proud. And now I have a full roster of ideas for the next 12 months, plus the seedlings of other goodies just starting to grow into themselves for the future.

But I'm still struggling during the same phase each time, this purgatorial time in-between idea generation and the beginning of true production. I swim in circles, tiring myself out before I begin the core creative process that requires big bursts of energy. Tonight, as I lamented this recurring "stuckness," I realized that I should be celebrating instead. At least I recognize that this is the hard part for me. And knowing is half the battle, isn't it?

Plus, I realized that each time I find myself stuck here it's actually a new place, no matter how much it looks like the old places of being stuck. It's a new place because of the progression I mention above: planning one project, then a few, and then a year's worth at one time. So tonight I'm celebrating this growth instead of bemoaning the frustration.

As I thought about all of this I remembered a post that I wrote for Magpie Girl back in October 2009 called "Overcoming Your Natural Sticking Points." I re-read it tonight and thought, "Wow, this is really insightful. What good advice!" And then I had a big chuckle because I realized that I was finding kinship and direction with my own words. (That's actually quite lovely, when I think about it.)

In that post I explore our natural tendency to be good at specific phases of the creative process, and I offer a few concrete tips on how to move through the "stuckness." You can hop on over to Rachelle's site to read the original article here, or just keep reading, as I've reposted it below.

Oh, and good things are coming, including downloadable ebooklets, Alchemy writing courses (including a new one!), personal coaching packages, and a brand new intensive, small group workshop. More on those in the days to come....

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Overcoming Your Natural Sticking Points

I can't figure out how to start this blog post, which is absolutely perfect. Perfect because I'm trying to write about overcoming your natural sticking point in a project. And mine just happens to be this exact point: the point between brainstorming/mapping out the idea and refining/finalizing the project. I get stuck at the beginning of production and creation.

I used to wonder why "everyone else" has such great ideas and gets so much done. My husband, ever my cheerleader, pointed out that I do have a lot of potentially great ideas, all floating around in my head or stashed away in notebooks. He regularly reminds me that I do manage to get stuff done, even big things like starting a freelance writing and editing business; researching/applying to/enrolling in graduate school; and navigating the treacherous waters of real estate and mortgages to buy our first house.

So what's the problem, I wondered. Why do I sometimes get so stuck that I jump ship and leave my ideas to languish on the deck?

Then a friend shared the concept of the Wheel of Work with me and the pieces fell into place. The wheel tracks the eight phases of a project and can help us to see where we thrive and where we need support. (Note: I don't know the original source of the Wheel of Work. If you do, please tell us in the comments.)

The Wheel of Work

The four sections along the top half of the wheel (Advise, Innovate, Promote, and Develop) are conceptual skills. The four along the bottom half (Organize, Produce, Inspect, Maintain) are skills of execution. 

 I'm naturally skilled in the conceptual half, particularly Advising, Innovating, and Developing. This means I'm good at brainstorming and connecting ideas, thinking about things in new and unexpected ways, researching, and collecting resources. But when it’s time to Organize and Produce, I seize up. All those possible directions and a desire to "do it right" can stymie my attempts at creating. I dream things up, but then I have trouble Organizing my thoughts and moving into Production.

If you look at the wheel, you'll see that Organize and Produce are opposite of Advise and Innovate. This is usually the case: The pieces of the wheel furthest away from our natural strengths are the pieces we find to be most difficult. 

If you get stuck at the point of creation, here are four tips on getting from idea generation to post-production.

1. Collect your project ideas in one place. I struggle with this and tend to have scraps of paper and journal pages littered with ideas. But I do my best to put them all in one notebook that's segmented for different idea types, like essay and article ideas, resources to consult, and possible collaborative projects. This way, I know where everything is and can keep track of my brain jumble.

2. Consider the path of least resistance. Natural-born innovators often end up with long lists of potential projects and no sense of direction. When you have too many projects to choose from, or even too many possible directions within a single project idea, you can end up quitting before you start because you feel overwhelmed. If you can’t figure out what project to focus on, prioritize your list of ideas. The criteria you use for prioritizing is up to you. Maybe you want to pick the project that you think has the most money-making potential. Maybe one project seems ripe for the picking because your audience is hungry for it. 

When in doubt, I say go for the one that most appeals to you. We tend to think that anything "good" has to be "hard," but I say do what works and feels good. Don't think of it as the easy way out. Rather, think of it was the easy way through. The same thing applies to choosing a direction within one particular project. For example, I just kept on writing this post, going in the direction that seemed easiest as I went along. As I got further down the path, I could more clearly see what needed to come next and where I needed to go back and revamp things.

3. Stop assuming and get the facts. One of the ways that we sabotage ourselves is by making assumptions. We assume that we can’t afford a graphic designer, so why bother to start writing that ebook? We assume we won’t find a vacant room at the bed and breakfast we love, so why bother to plan that getaway? We assume we’ll run out of ideas halfway through the article, so why bother to create an outline? Stop it with the what-ifs! Don't let a lack of information dictate your progress. Worrying about what may-or-may-not-be just keeps you stuck. Get the facts you need to figure out the next steps. And remember that not every step of a project is contingent upon another step. Figure out what you can do concurrently, like writing the ebook content while waiting to hear back from designers. If you stay committed to the project, you’ll find a way to make it work.

4. Enlist help. Chances are you have friends and colleagues who are naturally skilled in other parts of the Wheel of Work. When you’re stuck on how to begin or what to do next, ask for input from someone you trust. Even someone with the same sticking points as you may be able to help. For example, although I struggle to see my way forward at the beginning of my projects, I do it with ease and confidence when working with my clients. We tend to create drama and fear around our natural sticking points when it comes to our own projects because we’re emotionally attached to them. An outsider doesn’t have the same baggage and can point the way forward.

This is how I get past my natural sticking points. What are your sticking points along the Wheel of Work and how do you overcome them?

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{In The Word Cellar normally runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.}

How The Low-Res MFA Works (In The Word Cellar)

This is Part 4 of an "In The Word Cellar" mini-series about MFA in writing programs. You can read the other posts at the links listed below:

• Part 1: The Road to MFA-ville gives you a short introduction to the mini-series.
• Part 2: Why Get an MFA in Writing? chronicles my decision to apply to graduate school and explores what I was looking for in a program.
• Part 3: Researching & Choosing an MFA Program is a long, meaty post that details how I chose which programs to apply to. It also includes helpful resources and suggestions for anyone considering or applying to an MFA program.

In that last post, I offered an overview of how low-residency programs work and why I liked being in one. First, I'll reprint what I wrote about that, and then I'll get into more details about the logistics of low-res programs, including how the feedback process works and what "critical" work really means in the context of a creative writing program.

How low-res programs work...

Low-res programs usually take four semesters to complete. A semester is six months, so you're basically working on the degree for two years straight. Twice a year you spend about 10 days on campus. (This is the residency part.) During residencies you'll attend lectures, workshops, and readings with faculty members and other students. I found that residencies were like an alternate reality: total immersion in the world of writing. The "real world" of home and work fade away and seem quite distant very quickly. Frankly, it's pretty fantastic to be immersed in the world of writing and the company of other writers.

The rest of the semester is spent off-campus. So it's just you and your writing wherever you live. Each program may be a bit different, but most work like this: Once a month you send packets of writing to your faculty advisor, who will then respond with detailed feedback and recommendations.

A low-res program culminates in the completion of a creative thesis, just as in traditional programs. This is essentially a collection of creative writing you've done over the course of the program. Mine had to be at least 75 pages. It included a collection of essays that belong together plus one "random" essay that wasn't part of the same set. Your creative thesis could be part (or all) of a memoir, a novel, a collection of short stories, or a poetry collection. (The page count for poets is always much shorter, it seems.) My other graduation requirements included writing a critical thesis and writing and delivering a 45-minute lecture.

...and why I think they're great.

It's often said that the low-res model more closely mirrors a writer's life than does a traditional program, and I think that's true. Most of the time, being a writer means sitting down alone and writing. Then you might share your work and get feedback from an editor or your peers, and maybe get together with some fellow writers at a retreat or conference a few times a year. And then it's back to the page. This is how I spent my two years in a low-residency program, which seems to be good training for my post-grad writing life. I'm still working on writing consistently, but I'm so much better at it than I was before grad school. The experience of having monthly deadlines has helped me to become more consistent in my writing. It's also reinforced my need for external deadlines, which I now feed by making commitments with friends to swap work or deciding to send my work to lit journals.

And now for some new material. Please keep in mind that I'm writing from the perspective of my experience with Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA). There will be a lot of similarities with other low-res programs, but not all programs work exactly the same way. (If you've gone through a different low-res program, I invite you to leave a comment telling us how your experience was the same or different.)

The advisors
Each semester, a student works with one faculty member as an advisor. Students usually work with a different advisor each semester (for a total of four advisors), but occasionally students will petition the program and ask to work with the same advisor two semesters in a row (usually the last two semesters).

At VCFA, students get a say in who they work with, but it's not guaranteed that they'll work with any particular faculty member. You get more say as you progress through the semesters. As a first semester student you circle a certain number of names of faculty members, with no system for ranking your preference. For example, if there are eight faculty members who teach in your genre, you may be asked to circle six of them that you'd be willing to work with. Starting in your second semester you get to list faculty members by preference. Students in later semesters have more clout in this process, and by your final semester you usually get your first choice. I always ended up working with one of my top two choices for the semester.

The packets (and feedback)
As I mentioned above, each month I sent a packet of work to my advisor. Some advisors request that these be sent via regular mail, while others accept material via email. Either way, my packets consisted of a combination of creative and critical work. (More on what "critical" means below.)

A standard packet consists of 30 pages of writing (often a combination of new and revised material), plus a "cover letter." The term cover letter confuses a lot of people, and sounds like something you'd send with a resume. Not so. This letter to your advisor is an opportunity to ask them questions and to update them on how you're doing creatively. Think of it as a monthly check-in,  a written version of what you'd talk about if you met with your advisor during office hours. In return, your advisor will write you a letter, answering your questions, addressing your concerns, and offering writing and reading suggestions.

In addition to this letter, your advisor will provide detailed feedback on the work you submitted. Each advisor has his or her own way of doing this. Some will leave detailed line notes on your work. Others include the bulk of their comments in their main letter or in mini-letters at the end of each piece of writing. Some work electronically (using Word's "track changes" feature to leave comments and line edits on the electronic documents), some work on hard copies, and some may do a combination of both. I know of one faculty member who gives students feedback via audio recording, which sounds strange, but his students usually love it.

You can get a sense, in advance, of how faculty members work and what they like to focus on (which genres or subgenres; do they focus on "big picture" issues such as theme and structure or more detailed items such as language usage, grammar, and word choice). You learn this by reading their teaching statements, getting to know them through their lectures, talking to other students, and by talking directly with the faculty members during group "speed-dating" sessions.

A note about feedback
Just as every faculty member has a different process for giving feedback, each will have a unique perspective and opinion on your writing. This means that you sometimes receive conflicting advice. At first this can be frustrating and confusing, but in the end, I believe it's a gift and an invitation to find your own artistic vision. I've written a separate post on this called Dealing with Feedback.

The "critical" work
Let's talk about what critical work means in the context of a creative writing program.

First off, it's not nearly as dry, boring, or terrible as it sounds. Part of the MFA program is learning to read as a writer; to dive into another author's work and begin to figure out how she made the magic happen on the page. This is learning to look at creative work with a critical eye. Not critical in the sense of being harsh or belittling. Rather, this is about applying critical thinking skills to the craft of writing.

During my first two semesters, my critical work consisted of essays in which I examined how a particular writer or writers used a specific writing device or achieved a particular effect. I looked at a lot of different things in these pieces, including the following: how David Sedaris uses humor to convey deeper truths; how Annie Dillard uses poetic and rhetorical devices to create meaning and mood; and how various authors use details to create lyric intimacy. I also wrote a review of a published memoir, noting what worked and what didn't work in it.

These essays served as the training ground and warm-up for my third and fourth semesters, when I had to complete larger critical projects. In my third semester I wrote a critical thesis entitled "Spinning a Web of Wonder: Capturing and Conveying Awe on the Page," an in-depth examination of how several authors do this, and suggestions on general principles the rest of us can apply to achieve the same effect. For my final semester I had to write (and then present) a lecture. Mine was called "The Secret Life of Language" (description here).

Doing this kind of "critical" reading and writing is a huge part of why my writing improved so much during the program. It was completely different from the literature papers I wrote as an undergrad. It opened my creative eyes to the art and craft of writing. This way of seeing didn't come automatically; it felt awkward at first. But now that I have the hang of it, it's an indispensable skill.

Thankfully, it hasn't taken the joy out of reading at all. Many people -- including me -- tend to worry that this might happen when they start to read and think about writing in this new way. But for me, and the people I know, it's simply enhanced our experience of books. I can pretty much turn the critical faculty on and off as I need to.

Plus, I haven't lost access to the inspiration side of writing. When I write a first draft (and maybe the second and third drafts, too), I'm not usually thinking critically about it. I'm still tapped into the creative, intuitive side of things. But when I come up against a passage that's not working, I can apply this other way of thinking to it and see how I can solve the problem.

Of course, it's not really so bifurcated as this, either. As I learn more about the craft techniques of writing, they become part of my creative psyche, so a lot of the work begins to happen subconsciously as my creative mind applies the critical principles I've learned. It's actually really cool.

What else? 
If you'd like to read about low-res programs from the perspective of a faculty member, check out this article by David Jauss, an outstanding author and mentor who teaches at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock and in the low-res program at VCFA. (Note: The link above takes you to the VCFA site where you can request the article via email. The article, entitled "The Real Story Behind Low-Residency MFAs" was originally published in the February 2011 issue of Writer's Digest.)

I've tried to give you more than just a peek into how low-res programs work in general, and how the VCFA program works in particular. What have I missed?

Please chime-in below with your questions or observations about MFA in writing programs, either low-res or traditional.

***For future posts in this MFA mini-series, I'm considering offering a primer on how writing workshops function, and possible alternatives to the MFA program. Do those topics interest you? What else would you like me to address about writing, graduate programs, and the writing life? Let me know in the comments or by email, and I'll consider your questions for future In The Word Cellar columns.  

{See all In The Word Cellar posts here.}

How do I know if it's any good? (In The Word Cellar)

This week for "In The Word Cellar" I'm taking a short break from the MFA mini-series. I'll be back next time with more tips on choosing (or not) an MFA in creative writing.

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A few weeks ago a student in the current session of Alchemy: The Art & Craft of Writing asked me a question that froze me in my tracks:

I've been thinking about writing  a novel for a long time. But each time, I've pushed it out of my head because I didn't think I had the time or skill required for such a big project. I've come back to it recently because the urge to do it seems insistent. 

How can a writer gauge if his or her plot is any good?

Holy crap. It's a good question, right?

Substitute any number of words for "plot" and you have the crux of the writers' existential question: How do I know if my _______* is any good?

{*plot, idea, voice, essay, poem, story, novel, play, writing}

How do we know?

Hell if I know.

I read the question and sent her a quick note saying I'd be back with a full answer just as soon as I pulled together my thoughts on the topic. And then I put off answering her for more than a week -- because I was afraid to answer it.

Why afraid? Because it's a question I ask all the time about my own writing: How do I know if it's any good? 

But eventually I faced the question and offerd up the most honest answer I knew how to give. I think it's a question that many (most?) of us creative types struggle with, so I decided to share a slightly edited version of my answer here. Let's get the question (and the ways we can answer it) out into the open and talk about it. There's safety (and comfort) in numbers, especially when it comes to the burning questions of creative doubt and fear.

Earlier this year I asked one of my mentors that very same question: How do I know if what I've written is any good? Furthermore, I wondered to him why I couldn't answer that question for myself, especially at this stage in my writing life, when I've been at it for awhile now.

He answered me by quoting from W.S. Merwin's poem "Berryman," which recounts Merwin's experience of working with his mentor (John Berryman).

I had hardly begun to read
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can't

you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write

Isn't that wonderful and terrible?

Wonderful because even the great writers struggle with this question. So it's a natural question to have! It's also wonderful because it kind of lets us off the hook. It basically tells us: Just keep writing. Don't worry about the quality; just keep doing what you're called to do.

But it's also terrible, right? Because not being able to gauge your own work is frustrating. Plus, who wants to work at their craft their whole life without knowing if they're improving?

And so I still struggle with this question on a personal and a metaphysical level. How do we know if anything is any good?

Maybe we don't know.

Maybe we don't need to know. Maybe we're asking the wrong question. What would happen if we stopped wondering if our _________* is any good? What if we asked ourselves these questions instead:

• Is this a novel/article/book/story/essay/poem/play I want to write?
• Is this something I need to write?
• Is this something I'd want to read?
• Is this something I feel compelled to tell?
• What will I lose if I don't write this?

So I say: Write it. Writing it (whatever it is) is the only way to allow it to develop, to make sense of it, to figure out where it wants to go and what it wants to be.

On a practical note, I recommend reading and studying published works by respected authors to see how they do it. Learning to read like a writer has been the biggest thing to help me grow in my own writing. I learn so much by looking at the work of others to see how they do specific things with the craft.

Another practical thing to do, after you've written part or all of it, is to ask people you trust to read it. Ask other writers and ask people who love to read. Ask them to tell you the truth with love. Ask for specific feedback on whatever it is you need. Join a writing group, find a workshop, work with an editor or coach. Let your words out into the world at least a little bit, and see what happens.

The question of "good" is difficult when it comes to creative endeavors. It's murky water. On one hand, I don't believe it's possible (or even advisable) to directly compare and rank one piece of writing against another. Apples and oranges, so to speak. On the other hand, some apples do taste better than others. But here again, even that's not quite so simple. I prefer a very cold, crisp apple with a loud crunch and a balanced sweetness-to-tartness ratio. My husband prefers an apple with a softer bite and a sweeter taste. Which apple is better? It depends on who's eating it.

So it's all a matter of taste? No, not all. It's a matter of taste in part.

I told you the water is murky. Determining if something is "good" is subjective, and yet I do believe there are some objective standards by which we can sort (rank? judge? none of these words feel good) pieces of writing. I'm hesitant to make any sweeping claims on this right now because I need to think it through some more. (Chime in with your ideas in the comments if you'd like.)

So first and foremost, I say again: Write it. (Whatever it is.) It keeps coming back to you for a reason. I sometimes think that if we don't tend to the ideas that come our way, they'll eventually leave us and ask someone else to create them. And then we'll mourn the loss.

The only consistent way to learn to write something is to write it. Want to learn to write a novel? Write one. Ditto for essays, short stories, poems, plays. Writing is a practice of practice.

Again, how wonderful and how terrible.

I say all of this knowing that I'm preaching to/teaching myself.

What do you think?

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In The Word Cellar normally sometimes runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.

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Researching & Choosing an MFA Program (In The Word Cellar)

sticker found on ground; iPhoneography

Last time in this column I told you the story of why I decided to pursue an MFA in writing. Since then, I read an interview that Susan Orlean gave to Lee Gutkind in the journal Creative Nonfiction. In it, she offers an interesting perspective on graduate writing programs. She says that she wasn't initially a big supporter of them because she "always wondered why you should pay for something to be edited when you could be out there in the world, writing and getting editing as part of it -- and being paid." But a few things happened to change her mind: "One, it's harder and harder to get those jobs; two, the reality of the good editing [not necessarily] being there for you...." After serving as writer-in-residence at a few MFA programs, she thought this:

"This is where this is happening now, the chance to get your work really read and edited.' In a perfect world, that wouldn't be the case, but I'm not sure you would still get the apprenticeship. The model I always looked toward was that apprenticeship model from the 1900s: When you work for a cobbler, you're actually fixing shoes, but he's right there, correcting your mistakes, and there's a customer who's waiting for his shoe. I'm not sure that exists much anymore, so I've softened my position on writing programs because I think they are filling a need that maybe isn't being served that way."

I like Orleans' ideas on apprenticeship. That's very much how my MFA program felt; I was an apprentice to working writers and editors. Even though I wasn't writing for immediate publication, I did have that end goal in mind. I'll talk more specificity about my kind of program (low-residency) in this column and the next, and perhaps more about my particular school (Vermont College of Fine Arts) in a later column.

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In this installment, I'll share some tips on how to research and choose an MFA in writing program. There's a lot of information in here, so you may want to get a cup of coffee or glass of wine and settle in. Or maybe buckle up. Or hang on to your hat. Some such clichéd metaphor.

(If you're not interested in MFA programs, I invite you to use your time more wisely and check out this visual history of literary references on "The Simpsons." Or you could browse past "In The Word Cellar" posts about other writing topics. )

Types of programs: Traditional vs. low-residency

First of all, there are two basic types of MFA programs: traditional and low-residency. Traditional programs are what most people think of when they imagine grad school. These degrees usually take two to three years to complete. During that time you attend on-campus classes and work toward a final creative thesis. One of the practical perks of traditional programs is that they often offer students significant financial aid through grants and teaching assistantships. If you're willing to move somewhere to attend grad school, traditional programs are a feasible option.

Since I wasn't able to move to a new city or state for a few years, I chose to go the low-residency route. The upside is that I didn't have to move, could keep working, and my program was amazing. The downside is that low-res programs don't offer the same kind of grants that traditional programs do. But student loans are definitely an option. (Just ask me how much of an option they are in January when my first payment is due. But I digress.)

How low-res programs work...

Low-res programs usually take four semesters to complete. A semester is six months, so you're basically working on the degree for two years straight. Twice a year you spend about 10 days on campus. (This is the residency part.) During residencies you'll attend lectures, workshops, and readings with faculty members and other students. I found that residencies were like an alternate reality: total immersion in the world of writing. The "real world" of home and work fade away and seem quite distant very quickly. Frankly, it's pretty fantastic to be immersed in the world of writing and the company of other writers.

The rest of the semester is spent off-campus. So it's just you and your writing wherever you live. Each program may be a bit different, but most work like this: Once a month you send packets of writing to your faculty advisor, who will then respond with detailed feedback and recommendations.

A low-res program culminates in the completion of a creative thesis, just as in traditional programs. This is essentially a collection of creative writing you've done over the course of the program. Mine had to be at least 75 pages. It included a collection of essays that belong together plus one "random" essay that wasn't part of the same set. Your creative thesis could be part (or all) of a memoir, a novel, a collection of short stories, or a poetry collection. (The page count for poets is always much shorter, it seems.) My other graduation requirements included writing a critical thesis and writing and delivering a 45-minute lecture.

...and why I think they're great.

It's often said that the low-res model more closely mirrors a writer's life than does a traditional program, and I think that's true. Most of the time, being a writer means sitting down alone and writing. Then you might share your work and get feedback from an editor or your peers, and maybe get together with some fellow writers at a retreat or conference a few times a year. And then it's back to the page. This is how I spent my two years in a low-residency program, which seems to be good training for my post-grad writing life. I'm still working on writing consistently, but I'm so much better at it than I was before grad school. The experience of having monthly deadlines has helped me to become more consistent in my writing. It's also reinforced my need for external deadlines, which I now feed by making commitments with friends to swap work or deciding to send my work to lit journals.

How to choose a program

Here are some things to consider whether you're looking at a traditional or low-residency program.

First, consider what genre you want to write in. While some cross-genre study is usually possible, you will usually focus on one main genre. Most MFA programs include tracks in fiction and poetry. Most also include a creative nonfiction (CNF) track, but not all do. (For example, Warren Wilson, a very well respected program, does not offer CNF as a genre. On the other hand, the also well-respected Goucher Collge offers only CNF.) Some programs offer other genres, such as writing for stage and screen or writing for children and young adults.

Another thing to consider is a program's faculty. Check out how many faculty members teach in your genre. If you can, try to get a feel for their work. I admit that I didn't do this due to a time crunch and a feeling of overwhelm. I started researching grad school right before the next round of applications were due. (Low-res programs usually accept applications twice a year.) Plus, I looked at a lot of schools. Trying to research that many faculty members and what they had written was impractical. But it's truly one of the best ways to choose a program. It's impossible to read everything every faculty member has written, but it's nice to get a general sense of their work. It's also nice to see how long they've been teaching -- and where. A great writer isn't necessarily a great mentor or teacher. (Side note: A lot of the faculty who teach in low-res programs also teach at other universities and traditional MFA programs.)

Talk to current students and alumni. Contact the schools that interest you and ask to be put in touch with students or graduates. This is very common, so don't feel weird about it. I talked to a number of current and past students from several of my favorite programs. Since graduating, I've volunteered to talk to prospective students. It's a great way to ask questions and get an insider's look at the program. I even requested to speak with a faculty member after I was accepted to a number of schools and was trying to choose a program.

Does the program have any special features? For example, the low-res program at Antioch University in Los Angeles has an emphasis on social justice. Queens University of Charlotte's low-res program has students participate in distance writing workshops (which means that you interact with other students to share and critique work even when you're not on campus for residency). Some schools have a strong  interdisciplinary approach, an emphasis on publishing, or extra certificates in areas such as translation, publishing, or teaching. One or two that I know of even dispense with the "critical" component of the MFA. (I'll talk more about creative and critical work in the next column.) I'm not in favor of this approach, even though it does sound appealing. (More on this next time.)

Consider practical things such as class load, graduation requirements, residency length, location, and dates (for low-res programs), and financial aid. (For low-res programs, also look at past residency schedules to compare the amount and quality of lectures, workshops, and other events.)

Consider reputation and ranking. These are tricky areas. By reputation I mean both the academic reputation and the general vibe of the place. Rankings (see below) can help you sort out a school's reputation, but they have their limitations. (There is currently a kerfuffle raging over the Poets & Writers' ranking system.) Talking to students and alumni can help to give you a feel for a program's culture: Do students get a say in what faculty members they work with? Are faculty known for being friendly and available or elitest? Is the atmosphere of the student body competitve or collaborative?

Resources

**The current issue of Poets & Writers (Sept./Oct. 2011) is devoted to MFA in writing programs. The cover story is titled "MFA Nation: Do You Want To Be A Part Of It?"

Here are some other resources to help you research schools and programs.

• Poets & Writers overview of MFA programs, including their 2012 rankings
• "Where Great Writers are Made" and "Writers in Training," older (2007) but useful articles from The Atlantic assessing the top MFA programs
• The Atlantic's rankings of MFA programs (Again, this is older, but it's still a good starting point.)
• The Creative Writing MFA Blog
• The creative writing programs section of NewPages.com (which is also a great website for researching literary journals)
• The AWP Official Guide to Writing Programs (AWP is the Association of Writers and Writing Programs)

This list isn't comprehensive, so please share anything I've missed in the comments.

How to apply

Every program will have its own application requirements, so be prepared to get organized, especially if you're applying to multiple schools. Most programs require some combination of the following: 

• application form;
• writing samples;
• entrance essay(s);
• undergrad transcripts; and
• letters of recommendation.

Traditional programs may require GRE scores, but low-res programs usually don't. Oh, and there's an application fee, usually around $50 per program.

You can probably use the same writing samples for most programs, but make sure you adhere to the requested page limits and formatting requirements. You may also be able to use some version of your entrance essay(s) for several schools, though you will want to tailor this to each specific request.

Traditional programs often accept students once a year, for enrollment in the fall. Low-res programs usually accept students twice a year, for enrollment in summer and winter. Pay attention to the deadlines.

To how many schools should you apply? That's up to you and your own style of madness. I have a Type A personality when it comes to these things. I also have a keen inability to gauge my own talent and skill level. I had absolutely no idea if I could get into an MFA program. So, to increase my odds, I decided to apply to seven (yes, 7) of them. (I had a very specific timeline in mind in my head, and I didn't want to risk having to reapply in another six months.) In the end, I applied to just (just!) six. I only skipped the last one because I found out I was accepted to my top choices before the final application was due. Most people I know don't undertake this kind of craziness. A lot of my MFA friends said they applied to two or three schools. Some took a chance and applied only to one.

Since I'm often asked where I applied, here's my list.

• Vermont College of Fine Arts
• Bennington
• Pacific University
• Stonecoast (at the University of Southern Maine)
• Lesley University
• Goucher College
• Queen's University of Charlotte

Okay! That's all for now. (If you've made it this far: Thank you.) I'll do at least one more installment in this MFA series of "In The Word Cellar." If you have questions about grad school, please let me know. And please feel free to ask general writing or creativity-related questions, too, as I'll be returning to those topics in future posts.

In The Word Cellar normally sometimes runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.