 Every once in a while I’ll come across an article (or have one sent to me by writer friends) that inspires me to put together a blog entry. Nine times out of ten, it is because the author has written something valuable—offering an artist’s insight that I find educational or illuminating; I want to engage with it intellectually and artistically, and I’d like to pass it along to my friends, my readers, and my students, in the hopes that they might feel inspired to enter into that larger discussion, as well. This isn't one of those times. This is that tenth time where I find myself so irritated by the wrongheadedness and pretentiousness of an article that I feel the obligation as a writer, reader, teacher, and scholar of craft, to provide some counter-point. . . . Many years back, when I was earning my Master’s degree in Creative Writing, the college where I was studying had a writing festival. They brought in a half dozen big name writers—I’m talking National Book Awards, Pulitzers, Guggenheims, a Poet Laureate. A real who’s-who list. It was, as you can imagine, an exciting experience and an eye-opening one. It was also disheartening when all of the writers except for one used their time with the graduate students to deride MFA programs and their system of the “blind-leading-the-blind.” I found it particularly out-of-touch with the occasion—a show of pompous grandstanding by a group of quasi-celebrities who had graduated from and worked in MFA programs (some of them currently still working in those programs), and who weren’t above taking the lucrative honorarium offered by a writing program to come and speak to its students. I am, to this day, grateful of that one writer, Susan Stewart, who provided a sober and well-reasoned counterpoint: workshops, mentorships, autodidacticism—their goodness or badness is all relative; mostly, in the end, it comes down to the person doing the work and what he or she is willing to invest in the experience. It was advice I took with me to my MFA program a year later, and I would say that it held true, more or less. There were good parts about the experience, and there were bad, but mostly, by taking responsibility for my education, I made sure that I got what I wanted to get out of the degree. What makes Ryan Boudinot’s article “Things I Can Say About MFA Writing Programs Now That I No Longer Teach in One” so exceptionally frustrating is that, buried ten layers deep beneath its bombast and arrogance, it addresses some very real, very legitimate concerns about the learning and teaching being done in MFA programs. In some places, it says roughly what Stewart said to all of us back at that writing festival, and if it ever got over its own sense of smug superiority, it could be a well-reasoned contribution to the ongoing discussion (not unlike Steve Almond’s similar-but-excellent article in Poets & Writers, “The Problem of Entitlement: A Question of Respect”). Sadly, it doesn't get there. And maybe that’s not high on its list of concerns. It seems pretty clear from the onset that this article’s main purpose is to fan flames of controversy, riling people up and driving up page clicks for Seattle’s self-professed “alternative” weekly, maybe gaining some free advertisement for a local Seattle writing program (and its director) in the process. And that worked. We all took the bait, myself included. But I’m going to respond anyway because the subject matter and the way it is addressed here (and elsewhere) warrants attention. It’s not a new argument: too many young writers don’t read enough, don’t devote enough time to their craft, make too many excuses, and have inflated egos. Anyone who has ever been in a writing workshop at any level probably knows this. It can be especially discouraging when it happens in a graduate program where the writers are supposed to be, at the very least, well-educated and productive. Plenty of my betters (and Boudinot’s betters) have addressed this topic. Some, like Almond, are brilliant and intellectually challenging, lively, humorous, humble, self-effacing, even uplifting in their albeit-no-holds-barred take on the problems with young writers. Their goal, it would seem, is to provide some guidance, paying a debt of gratitude owed to all those writers who served as official and unofficial mentors to them. Other times, the essays are tired, rehashed, bitter, and smarmy—filled with hyperbole, hand-wringing, and a bit of the old down-the-nose sneer. I don’t know Ryan Boudinot. Could be he’s a great guy, top-notch writer, fantastic teacher, positive thinker, charitable soul, gentle lover, five-star chef, and devoted advocate for the arts. If he were to FaceTime me right now, he and I might find that we share a great many opinions about writing life. Who’s to say? It doesn't change the fact that I have some serious bones to pick with his article in The Stranger and the way it was written . . . . Defining the MFAPerhaps this is me being suspicious, but after reading this article, I can’t help but think that either the author or the magazine is trying to slip one past us by soft-pedaling the distinction between a Low-Residency MFA and a traditional MFA. The author presents himself as the expert on all things MFA—he is setting out, in this article, to tell us the things about MFA programs that he’s been keeping inside all this time (presumably, so as not to bite the hand that was feeding him—unlike those literary superstars who visited my Master’s program way back when.) Our author is clear about the fact that he went to a Low-Residency MFA, and later worked at a Low-Residency MFA. He draws on this experience to frame his argument, explaining how the Low-Res program worked, and he does not mention working for any traditional MFA programs, so it is safe to assume that he hasn’t. What he doesn’t honestly acknowledge is the fact that Low-Residency MFA programs and traditional MFA programs (while they may share some of the same issues) are not similar entities. In fact, there are a great many snobs out there who call Low-Res Programs the “MFA-Lite.” The truth is: Low-Res Programs are often a good option for serious writers who already have other obligations—families, jobs, etc., which prevent them from joining a traditional MFA program. Additionally, these writers typically don’t want to go on to become professors or to start new careers, and so their coursework is condensed and much of the traditional scholarship done in full-time three-year MFA programs (or longer Ph. D programs) is omitted because it is not necessary in light of these writers’ goals. That said, for the author to weigh in under the auspices of being an “experienced” MFA teacher is a little disingenuous. The two types of MFA programs attract different types of students with different needs, goals, and experience levels; the nature of the work is different and projects are completed at different intervals and paces; students function within different educational structures. They are not identical by any stretch of the imagination, yet by using the umbrella term “MFA” it suggests that this author is qualified to speak authoritatively about a teaching experience he hasn’t actually had. (It is, at the very least, ambiguous.) Of course, the title “Things I Can Say About Low-Residency MFA Writing Programs Now That I No Longer Teach in One” probably isn’t going to blow up the internet. More to the point, this article draws a distinction that doesn’t really matter. As we know (as Susan Stewart knew), there are great writers coming up through the ranks of MFA programs and Low-Res MFA programs all over the country. There are also plenty of lousy/lazy writers in both. There are also many great writers who never do an MFA (and, you guessed it, lousy/lazy writers outside of the academy, as well). Your writing education, in whatever form it takes, is what you make of it. Perhaps I am missing the point here, but I don’t see what new ground this article breaks with regard to the MFA as a conferred degree and those seeking to earn it. Of course, the title “Things I Can Say About Writers in General Now That I’ve Taught A Few of Them” is probably a little too sweeping and a hair oblique, even for the internet. TalentI’m quibbling I guess—to this point, the article hasn’t really said anything incorrect, even if a cynic might be inclined to distrust its author’s ethos. (And, even then, he can, at least, point to the fact that he’s worked hard, published some books, built a reputation. We can overlook a little ambiguous wording, can we not?) Of course, we come to the controversial question of talent—the old nature vs. nurture debate rears its head, manifest in the realm of the liberal arts. It is true that we are not all blessed with the same artistic gifts. Every aspiring writer knows that. We covet those skills and abilities that come so easily to our peers. In his craft book, On Writing, Stephen King famously says (albeit in a much more encouraging way) that a bad writer can become a good writer, and a good writer can become a great writer. So the stance taken in this article is not necessarily problematic in the abstract. Rather, its failure is in its tone and positioning. Our author knows talent when he sees it—he makes no bones about. He can make you a star, babe, if you’ve got the right stuff, can spot “The Real Deal” from a mile away. Of course, this is patently absurd, especially when paired with earlier statements about how talent may be squandered or exceeded. The old tree-drops-in-a-forest aphorism comes to mind: If a writer has talent but is currently squandering it, can he/she still be accurately identified as “The Real Deal?” That of course leads to other questions like, can a writer who squanders his or her talent ever stop squandering it? Can a writer who lacks talent ever grow talent? Does being “The Real Deal” (according to whom? The guy teaching in your Low-Res MFA program!) really mean anything? Or is being the most talented writer in your workshop a little like being voted prettiest zombie at the prom? And, if two writers who are “The Real Deal” approach each other from opposite directions and collide, one of them moving at 80 miles-per-hour while the other one moves at 120 miles-per-hour, will there be enough Real Deal shards left over to put Humpty Dumpty back together again? At the end of the day, the point being made is admirable, even if it gets lost beneath a lot of grandstanding. Don’t rely on talent. Read a lot. Learn to improve yourself. Learn the imperativeness of improving yourself. However, what really stands out about this article (why, I assume it has gotten so much attention) is that it manages to take some of the most axiomatic platitudes about writing and use them to still somehow alienate a large number of readers. Yes, some writers have natural gifts while others don’t. The same can be said for any artist, athlete, student, worker, etc. So what? It is largely irrelevant. We all know a great many athletes, students, workers, artists, and writers who have exceeded their limited natural quota (which this article acknowledges). So why even bring it up? Again, I raise the question: What have I really learned here that I didn’t already know, other than that this guy can be, as the follow-up article suggests, kind of “an asshole?” (And that the magazine he writes for, and its equally arrogant editor, is happy to double down on him, regardless.) AgeAfter this, the piece takes an uneasy turn toward ageism, implying that writers generally will not succeed if they do not decide that they want to be writers when they are teenagers. It is among the most facile and unsubstantiated “writing arguments” I have ever read, and it holds in contempt the experiences of the nontraditional student/writer. (It also isn’t particularly accurate in its understanding of the capacities of the human brain, but pish-posh, right?) What’s that? You didn’t make that choice to become a writer somewhere between homeroom and band practice? Sorry, Gramps, you’re up a river. Maybe jigsaw puzzles will be more your speed. If not, you could always learn to build ships in bottles or take up bocce ball. It’s true that a writer must be intimate with language. However, this article implies that the only people who are intimate enough are those people who decided in their teens that they wanted to become writers—instead of, say, ballerinas, or doctors, or coal miners, or those who really had no idea what they wanted to grow up to become. (And don’t give me any of that junk about them being “writers” all along because they liked to read.)
Hold on! There are exceptions to the rule, such as Haruki Murakami! Oh, okay. So, then, maybe my students are, like, exceptional? I don’t know. Ask them. Meanwhile, what I’ll ask (again) is this: what am I really learning here? To wit: If you decide to start writing when you are older, it’s probably too late by that point, except when it isn’t too late because you are an exception to the rule. You see, it’s all about neural architecture. . . . Oh, okay. Got it. Etiquette“Students who ask a lot of questions about time management, blow deadlines, and whine about how complicated their lives are should just give up and do something else. Their complaints are an insult to the writers who managed to produce great work under far more difficult conditions than the 21st-century MFA student.” When I was a lad, I used to have to walk ten miles uphill through a burning forest just to reach my writing desk, at which point I would have to fend off hungry buzzards and biting flies just to get any work done. Shame on you for asking questions or having a complicated life or whining, you hopeless, deplorable creatures. It used to really irritate me when, in my graduate school teaching days, other instructors used to say, “My students are stupid” as though that somehow exonerated them from the duty to innovate, motivate, educate, and matriculate. Yes, we’ve all had students who are unteachable, and we’ve all bemoaned their egotism and lack of effort from time to time, but it was always the feeblest teachers who made the most excuses about student intelligence, high school curriculums, and “The System.” The good teachers still complained, but they were too busy teaching to come up with the really outstanding excuses. Bottom line is this: I am a huge believer in accountability. I’ve taught classes at a few universities and in my community, and I know how frustrating it can be when students turn in work that isn’t very good. (Unlike some people, I’ve never read anything so bad that it “literally put me to sleep,” but I get a full six-to-eight hours every night, so there’s that to consider.) At the MFA level, the expectations are even higher, of course, and students are expected to be self-motivators. Even so, being a writing teacher is not just about correctly picking out who is and isn’t “The Real Deal.” A large part of the job is educating students on how to make use of how complicated their lives are and how to get the most out of their time. It’s about encouraging students to stretch themselves beyond their current capacities, setting standards and holding them to it. There will always be a few who remain unteachable, but if there are so many that it warrants writing an article about it, it may be time to reflect on the teaching itself, or the college’s screening process for applicants. “If you aren’t a serious reader, don’t expect anyone to read what you write.” I agree. And, as a teacher, it is my job to ensure that students read vastly (not just Gravity’s Rainbow or whatever qualifies as “difficult” within my narrow aesthetic) and that they understand the value of that practice. In the end, students take ultimate responsibility for their education, but that does not give teachers a free pass on doing their jobs. A Few Other Gems"The vast majority of my students were hardworking, thoughtful people devoted to improving their craft despite having nothing interesting to express and no interesting way to express it." In other words: They were Neanderthals, really, and not of my ilk, but golly it was entertaining to watch them at play. “Just because you were abused as a child does not make your inability to stick with the same verb tense for more than two sentences any more bearable.” It’s true that child abuse and tense shifting really don’t have anything to do with each other. That said, when I read things like this, I’m glad I’m not the sort of prick who makes glib child abuse jibes in order to emphasize relatively simple craft points that could be illustrated any number of other ways. “In fact, having to slog through 500 pages of your error-riddled student memoir makes me wish you had suffered more.” Fuck you. “It’s not important that people think you’re smart.” So said Brander Matthews, back in 1901, in his essay “The Philosophy of the Short-Story”: “Cleverness is incompatible with greatness, and to commend a writer as ‘very clever’ is not to give him high praise.” It’s good advice—I mean it. I truly and honestly agree. The rest of the essay isn't worth much, but I always remembered that line. For those who would read the rest of the essay, be aware that Matthews was also a raging chauvinist, so not everything he says is as clear minded or insightful. (As far as I know, his opinions on child abuse were not well documented.) “If you can put your ego on the back burner and focus on giving someone a wonderful reading experience, that’s the cleverest writing.”
In the end, what strikes me most about this piece is that, for all its bluster and backtracking, it really doesn’t buy into the basic tenants of education (MFA or otherwise). In this peculiar, obsolete, narrow-minded world, writers have a finite amount of talent, a limited window of opportunity, a prescribed etiquette, and once they get to the MFA program, they have one chance to buckle down and get it right. There are hypothetical exceptions that prove the rule, but for all practical purposes there is little hope for redemption, no room for personal or professional growth, and learning through trial and error is not a valid pathway to success. Revision, conspicuously, is never mentioned. Teachers are really more like glorified ranch-hands whose job it is to corral students from one project to the next, occasionally branding a few of the choice heifers along the way. In fact, to the reader of this article, the message is clear: if you put your instructor to sleep with your first workshop submission, you’d best not come back (unless you want to end up bad-mouthed in an internet flame piece someday). Ultimately, it is an article that takes valid observations about poor reading habits, narcissism, lack of commitment, excuse making, and the need to work hard, and twists them into a bitter, self-serving diatribe that casts its author as the arbiter of talent and accountability. For some writers, perhaps this attitude qualifies as “tough love” or serves as motivation, but the approach is not and will not ever be welcome in my classroom. Update: For an excellent follow-up to the original article, check out Laura Miller's Salon.com article, "Nobody cares about your book."
Update #2: Another excellent response! Update #3: And another. Update #4: Boudinot has since refused to apologize, likening it to "censorship" (a concept he seems kind of hazy on), and pompously comparing himself to the journalists that were gunned down at Charlie Hebdo. Sure, saying something stupid and then being criticized for it ranks right up there with people losing their lives in a terrorist attack. (Incidentally, I once got a splinter in my finger that felt like the sacking of Carthage.) But, hey, why stop there? Why not compare yourself to the slaves of the American South or the millions of Holocaust victims while you're at it--there have to be at least a few people out there you haven't pissed on/pissed off yet.
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