The Girl Detective

Ah, the MFA program, whipping-boy of higher education. It seems that the more popular they become, the more satisfaction people get from disapproving of them. (MFA programs, Wicca, and Harry Potter should start a support group.) The essence of the argument against MFA programs can essentially be boiled down to this: MFA programs are discouraging creativity and negatively impacting American literature by promoting boring, conventional writing through an overabundance of rules and constraints. Well, a recent argument on Jane Awake and a not-so-recent flame war on The Creative Writing MFA Handbook blog, along with all of the casual comments and warnings I’ve had to put up with in person, have inspired me to set the world straight. Listen to me. It’s just not true. None of it’s true. Furthermore, I’m pretty disgusted that we’re still actually debating it - almost as disgusted as I am that we’re still debating whether women belong in the workplace or whether Democrats are affiliated with Al Qaeda. Thing is, I haven’t yet encountered an argument against MFAs that hasn’t almost immediately turned out to be a simple prejudice confirmed by one isolated experience or incident, if the critic has bothered to try and confirm it at all. The stereotypes perpetuate themselves the same way other stereotypes do - by incorporating evidence that supports an idea one has already formed, and discarding or ignoring anything that weakens it. I used to be a little wary of MFA programs myself; before I applied, I’d heard dozens of rumors that enrolling in them ruins young writers’ work and dampens their spirits. All it took, though, was a quick look at alumni, students, and the pedagogy of the workshop to discover that the rumors just weren’t true.

Let’s tackle the myths one by one, shall we?

1. Programs tend to quash unique voices and encourage conformity.

One needs only look at the wide variety of MFA alumns’ styles to see that this idea is absurd. Compare the works of Heidi Julavits, Michael Chabon, Kelly Link, Aimee Bender, Michael Cunningham, Glenn David Gould, Charles D’Ambrosio, Alice Sebold, John Irving, Karen Russell, Yiyun Li, George Saunders, Ann cummins, and Kevin Brockmeier. Now, unless Aimee Bender spent her pre-Irvine years writing stories on her torso and Michael Cunningham spent his pre-Iowa years writing novels in a language he made up, I’d say this is a pretty good indicator that MFA programs foster vibrant, interesting voices instead of discouraging them. The fact of the matter is, there’s just absolutely no evidence to suggest that MFA programs routinely strip writers of their individuality. I’ve never been in a workshop, undergraduate or graduate, in which a writer with an interesting style was told to be less interesting. Sure, students (including myself) have been told that certain stylistic elements aren’t working in a particular draft, but none of my classmates have ever been told that they shouldn’t be writing in that style at all. So how in the world does this myth continue to perpetuate itself? I have a feeling it has a lot to do with myth number two.

2. MFA Programs try to teach you how to write, which can’t be done.

Writing programs teach writing in the way that Studio Art programs teach painting or sculpting: by examining the work of the masters and giving students access to feedback on their own projects. A workshop is basically just a group of people reading your story and telling you what they think of it. It’s not a forum in which everyone makes sure that everyone else is following a set of rules, or in which the writer aims to please as many people as possible. The funny thing about craft is that, when a story is working, the mechanical elements conceal themselves; when the narrative has an easy, natural rhythm to it, one doesn’t notice the author’s choices and tricks. So when half the workshop says something like “Too much of the action was summarized” or “It needed more backstory,” it doesn’t indicate that they’ve all been told that a story should adhere to a certain format. It indicates that those particular seams in your story are showing, and that you should consider adjusting them (although not necessarily in the ways your classmates may suggest).

Furthermore, even when professors do offer guidelines on what makes a story effective, the understanding (if they don’t say it outright at the beginning of the semester or class session) is that students are allowed - often even encouraged - to disagree. You will never hear a competant professor claim that it must always be done their way. Now, this is not to suggest that all creative writing professors are perfect all the time. I remember one class session in which a professor began insisting that a story wouldn’t be publishable until a certain scene was written in one specific way. But isolated problems in other fields don’t lead to a general dismissal of that entire field. I’d appreciate it if writing were awarded the same respect.

Finally, who the hell says writing can’t be taught? I’ve learned a lot of valuable craft lessons during my time at my program, and my writing has improved because of it. The important thing to remember is that what comes naturally to one writer may not come as naturally to another and vice versa, even if their talent is comparable. No writer begins their career fully formed.

3. MFA Programs tend to favor certain types of writing, and prefer to admit students who adhere to those types.

During my senior year at Sarah Lawrence, an editor from Harvest Books came to talk to us about publishing. When asked how she decides which manuscripts to accept, she answered with one sentence: “If I love it, I buy it.” This was an eye-opener for me; I’d spent so much time thinking that editors were concerned solely with sales and demographics that I’d forgotten that they’re primarily readers. The same is true of admissions committees. They’re readers. Readers aren’t concerned with furthering a particular aesthetic or protecting a certain reputation; they just want writing that’s exciting, engaging, and intelligent. The only type of writing that admissions committees favor is good writing. The fact that Frank Conroy admitted Kevin Brockmeier and James McPherson admitted Craig Davidson demonstrates that program directors aren’t interested in taking on students whose styles mirror their own; all they want is writing they love.

***

Well, those are the big three. If I’ve forgotten one, let me know and I’ll happily address it. I’d like to finish up by quickly addressing a myth specific to my program. I almost wrote on the rumor that it only accepts Christian students (this started when one professor had a negative reaction to a racy story, and that student took it upon herself to spread the word that the entire program is run and dominated by narrow-minded traditionalists) but decided that it was too absurd to waste my time on. Again, not all professors are perfect all the time. Let’s move on to something worth discussing: funding.

The tiered funding system leads to an extremely competitive atmosphere.

It’s true: we do have a tiered funding system. Everyone gets something, even if it’s just in-state tuition, but some people do get more money than others. The first thing I want to address is the fact that, although my program isn’t alone in giving out varying financial aid packages, it’s the only one that’s regularly criticized for it. I think this says much more about the critics than the program itself. However, a more important thing to consider is why the funding system is tiered. Is it because the faculty wants to encourage the stronger writers and give the weaker writers a subtle hint that they should pursue other interests? Nope. Is it because they want to prepare us for the cutthroat world of publishing by getting us used to rejection? Nuh-uh. So what’s the real reason? Anyone have a guess?

Come on. It’s easier than you think.

Give up?

It’s because it’s a huge program.

Because the workshop places an emphasis on maintaining a lively and diverse community, it admits fifty writers a year, for a total of one hundred. The workshop receives its money from a mixture of University funds and private donors. Therefore, the workshop simply does not have the resources to fully fund every single one of its students. Is this a situation that sucks? Yes, it’s a situation that sucks. But what sucks more is that people use it as an excuse to attack the department’s moral character, even though, as I said, plenty of other graduate and undergraduate programs give more aid to some students than others.

Now, I’ll be honest - sometimes the funding does lead to a crisis of faith. Sometimes it can feel like our writing isn’t good enough, or that we’re competing for professors’ good graces. But writing itself is competitive, whether we idealistic artists like to admit it or not. Writers are insecure. Writers have a habit of judging themselves according to whatever criteria is available. We go crazy trying to figure out why a rejection slip says “best of luck in the future” instead of “we were happy to read your work.” Is it any surprise that, upon Writer X’s discovery that he only got a third-time appointment while Writer Y got a half-time appointment, Writer X begins tearing his hair out trying to figure out what it was about Writer Y’s writing that landed her $2,500 more per semester?

Furthermore, if there’s resentment over financial aid packages festering in the program, I haven’t seen any of it. There is some speculation as to how exactly the most prestigious fellowships are chosen, but since TAs with half-time appointments receive the same amount of money and do about the same amount of work, no one really goes crazy over it. Almost all dissatisfaction we feel about our aid is aimed at the university, not the department, since it’s the university that determines TAs’ salaries and program budgets. People seem to think that fellows consider the rest of their peers hopelessly inferior and refuse to have anything to do with them. And it’s just not true.

I mean it, guys. Voice of experience here. It’s just not true.

Well, I hope that cleared up some misconceptions. If it sounded like I was getting a little defensive, it’s because I was. I get similarly defensive when I read articles politely suggesting that women should only pursue careers once their children are grown up. The idea that MFA programs are a negative force in American literature isn’t a benign academic debate; it’s a direct insult to those who choose to pursue MFAs. It implies that we’re either being duped or that we don’t have enough confidence in our work to strike it out on our own. It’s an insult to the writers I’ve mentioned above, and it’s an insult to me. It’s an insult to my choices as a professional and to my artistic integrity. And I will not abide being insulted.

There are patches of yellow snow on every single street corner, lawn, garden, and curb in the city. They’re everywhere. Everywhere. Are people actually seriously taking every opportunity they can to pee outside? Or are they just not finishing their Mountain Dews? Because this is ridiculous, people. I can’t bring myself to believe it.

…no, I mean it! They’re everywhere! I passed like fifteen of them on my way home from the post office!

I wanna do a top-ten list, too! Me me me! Look at me! All the cool kids are doing it! I want to be cool!

Here’s the problem, though. I’m not particularly music savvy, nor am I a huge film buff, which leaves books - a subject which I pride myself on being relatively knowledgeable on, but don’t keep up with on a year-to-year basis. Meaning, simply, that I rarely read books within the year of their publication (especially when they’re published in the fall). Music and movies are easier to keep up with; it only takes an hour to listen to an album or two hours to watch a movie, but I’m a slow reader, so it can take me up to two weeks to finish a book (or a month if I’m forcing my way through The Tin Friggin’ Drum), which means that I can barely keep up with books published in the past decade, let alone the past year. Nevertheless, there are some books out there, new and old, that were fantastic enough to spur me to spread the gospel. So here’s what I’ve done. Instead of one list with ten books, I’ve compiled two lists with five each: one of books that were actually published in 2006, and one of books that I read in 2006, but were published earlier. And listen, young’uns - I know most people under the age of thirty look at a book and get this sick feeling in their stomach like they’re about to be shoved into solitary confinement with only a rubber ball to entertain them except the rubber ball is actually 300 pages of words strung together for no reason, but please, please believe me when I say that these books really are fantastic, and that if you can put down the headphones for a second, they’ll be worth your time.

5. Saint Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves by Karen Russell
I almost didn’t put this on the list because I felt that, for the most part, it was pretty fluffy. Each story starts off with some sort of wacky premise (an American pioneer who’s also a minotaur! A boy’s choir that sings to cause avalanches! A boarding school for the children of werewolves!) and, for the most part, they don’t really transcend their gimmicks. The plots are predictable, the characters firmly embedded in shallow roles. Furthermore, almost all of the stories end just before a climax would occur - suggesting, perhaps, that Russell feels uncomfortable pushing her writing past what comes easy and into the realm of forceful, directed storytelling, and prefers to let the magical realism do the work of making her writing compelling. So why is it on the list? Because it is so fucking fun to read.

4. The Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier
I could be biased because I studied with him, but this book was pretty fantastic. The enormous magnitude of the plot - a lethal virus is sweeping across the planet, and those in The City (a place where the dead who are remembered by those still living wait for the next stage of the afterlife) find themselves connected to Earth by the last survivor, a scientist in the Antarctic - is coupled with social commentary that’s strong and chilling, but plausible enough to escape being heavy-handed. Ultimately I thought he could have done more with the psychological ramifications of a shifting afterlife - no real, meaty conflicts develop in the chapters that take place in The City - but the book was haunting, intriguing, and beautiful enough that I didn’t mind all that much.

3. The Acme Novelty Library #16: “Rusty Brown” by Chris Ware
Fans of the Acme Novelty Library know Rusty Brown mostly as a pathetic and unhinged middle-aged toy collector, but this installment gives us a deeper look at his childhood. Ware is a master at portraying situations that are mundane on the surface - a first day at a new school, a superhero fantasy, a mid-life crisis - but devastatingly heartbreaking once the veil of normalcy is lifted.

2. In Persuasion Nation by George Saunders
Probably the funnest satire that’s been written in years. I think the comparisons to Thomas Pynchon and Kurt Vonnegut are accurate, but at the same time, Saunders’s style is unique enough to earn him his own spot in the canon.

1. Mistaking the Sea for Green Fields by Ashley Capps
I didn’t expect to put this one in the top slot, but there you have it. The thing is, I don’t read a whole lot of poetry. Almost all of my book purchases are either novels or short story collections (with the occasional memoir). I originally picked this one up just because Capps just graduated from the program last year and I felt I should support a classmate. Except that I ended up loving it. Her poems shift from intensely personal narratives to lonely ruminations on the landscape to moments of uplifting solidarity with families and communities. The subject matter is sensitive without being hokey, heavy without being melodramatic. Take, for example, this excerpt from “I Used to See Her in the Field beside My House:”

Cow, listen - forget the deep pools
of rain that pock the lit, green land-
scape of your youth. Forget the singing
man who rubbed your head. He’s readying the rape rack.

In the end, you’re skinned and processed. A hip pulls
loose, shoulders dismantle in the hands
of some masked worker. There is nothing
in this world that loves you back.

Listen to me. If you only read one book of contemporary poetry ever again, read the one that made the number one spot on a fiction reader’s top-five list. It really is that good.

I’d also like to give a nod to The Best American Comics 2006, which I didn’t include only because I felt like it’d be cheap to put a Best Of collection on a Best Of list. (It’s the same reasoning that kept me from deciding that We Shall Overcome: The Pete Seeger Sessions was the best album of the year. Pitting Bruce Springstein, Pete Seeger, and the spirit and determination of the American Working Man against Colin Meloy? That’s just not fair.) “The Gift” and “Rabbithead” are especially good.

Anyway, on to the old news.

5. A Thousand Years of Good Prayers by Yiyun Li
When I saw that yet another book about Communist China had come out, my first reaction was weariness. Amy Tan did it, Ha Jin did it, and now another author was coming along and doing it, too? Here’s why it works, though - Li is an immensely talented storyteller. The obvious stand-out in this collection is “Immortality,” a story that chronicles a town with a history of shape shifters and doppelgangers, men who achieve glory and fame by pretending to be what they’re not, but the other stories are strong, too. There’s also a peculiar vein of characters falling in love with someone, and then setting that person up with someone else. A preoccupation, perhaps, with an incident in Li’s own life? Scandalous!

4. The Human Stain by Philip Roth
There’s not much I can say about Roth that hasn’t already been said. He’s a super-genius. The twist in this novel is more shocking than the revelation that J.T. Leroy was actually a committee.

3. Disgrace by J.M. Coetzee
Holy shit! A Nobel Prize winner on a top five list? How unexpected!

2. Shhh! by Jason
I can’t believe it took me so long to get to this book, especially considering it only takes about twenty minutes to read. The humor and sadness of the stories are extra astounding because there are no words (oh, it’s a comic, by the way) and extra extra astounding because the art style is minimal and the characters are animals wearing jackets and no pants.

1. The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen
I feel silly bringing this up after the last of the buzz has died down, but I think this book is destined to become one of the classics of the 21st century. I mean it. I’m also always happy when I see proof that, in this age of reduced attention spans and instant gratification (would you please put the headphones down!?) the long novel is still alive and well.

Well, that was a fun way to put off working on my own book. Wouldn’t it be awesome if I had some sort of witty and intelligent observation to cap this off with? Yeah. That’d be nice.

I hate to steal a title from another blog so immediately after the author posted it, but man oh man, does it apply here. I just got the worst evaluations of my teaching career. I mean like monstrously bad. I’m depressed now. I’m dreading facing my class on Tuesday.

Here’s the thing about last semester - I really thought that I’d gotten the hang of teaching. Discussions went smoothly and I never had a problem parlaying students’ reactions into broader lessons on craft. Workshops were usually lively and the overall atmosphere was friendly and relaxed. When my class was observed, the observer said I was doing fine. Most importantly, the students seemed to like me. I never felt like they were hostile or resentful. I could tell they were sometimes bored, but I’ve been bored in class plenty of times, both as an undergrad and a graduate student. This is college we’re talking about, not kindergarten. My job isn’t to entertain them.

Except apparently it is. Over half the evaluations - maybe even more; I didn’t do an exact count - called my class “boring and repetitive.” They complained that we did the same thing every single week. They complained that we didn’t do enough writing exercises. They complained that they didn’t like the readings. A couple even complained that I just wasn’t a good teacher. Unfortunately, since not a single student cited a specific example of how things went wrong, and since, like I said, it seemed like everything was going fine during the actual class, I can only guess at what they’re referring to.

Now, before I address their specific points, let me just say that I’m not one of those whiney people who automatically pin the blame on everyone but themselves. I’m reworking this semester’s syllabus to mix up the routine and incorporate more in-class exercises. With that said, though, there were some complaints that demonstrated a fundamental lack of understanding of the student’s role in a college course.

The class was boring and repetitive. I followed the exact same format that every workshop I’ve ever taken has adhered to: a discussion of assigned readings in the first half, and a discussion of workshop submissions in the second. If there’s another format (besides the straight-up workshop, which doesn’t include assigned readings), then I haven’t heard of it. What exactly are these kids doing in their English and History classes that makes my class so excruciatingly boring in comparison? My best guess is that they signed up for the class expecting a semester’s worth of word games and fluff, and were devastated when instead they encountered (holy shit!) actual work. I never found my workshops at Sarah Lawrence repetitive because I was engaged with the material. I cared about literature, I cared about writing, and I cared about contributing to the class. The format was merely a vehicle for the ideas. If the format is all these kids notice about my class, then I suspect it’s because they’re so far removed from the subject matter that they shouldn’t be taking up space in a workshop in the first place. And I picked fun readings, too. Stuff like George Saunders and David Sedaris and Tim Pratt. There’s only so much I can do.

There weren’t enough exercises. We spent the first third of the semester doing exercises, and I gave them a two-page handout of additional exercises. I think what they meant was that we should have spent the entire semester doing in-class writing. But do they write their English essays in class? Do they do their science homework in class? Why do they expect to do their creative writing in class? The class session is where we gather to discuss the work we’ve done. It’s not where we do the actual work. This is a given in other disciplines, and it frustrates me to no end that these kids demand that my field be an exception.

I think this just points to the ever-present “edutainment” trend that is running rampant in universities - the idea that the instructor’s job is to make sure you’re enjoying yourself, and that if you’re reluctant to put forth the effort the class requires, the problem lies not with you, but with the class. I feel like these students start the semester disinclined to trust that the work I assign is good for them; partly this stems from the fact that I’m a lowly grad student, but it also comes from this idea they have that if it’s not fun, it’s not worthwhile, and that college is just a formality anyway, so any effort they have to put into it is just busy work.

What really ruined my day, though, was the one evaluation I got in which the student just made a bunch of shit up. According to this student, I was “one-minded and didn’t accept anyone’s ideas as good ideas” and “arrived five minutes late on three instances with a bad attitude.” Those are just the highlights, too; there’s plenty more juicy content. The least this kid could have done is stick to things that actually happened. (Luckily none of the other evals mention any of these problems, so at least I was able to do a reality check.) The most disturbing thing about it, though, is that I have absolutely no idea who wrote it. Not a single student gave any indication that they were that unhappy with me.

So there you have all the factors that I’m blaming. Underneath it, though, I’m terrified that I’m just a terrible teacher. How many other TAs were told that their classes were boring? Did they curry favor by catering to their students’ stunted intellects? Do they have more charisma than I do? Or am I just bad at teaching?

I’m keeping myself sane by trying not to think about it. Instead I’m thinking about the fact that I’ve got Middlesex and Atonement in my bookshelf and I’m itching to start them. I’m thinking about the two wedding dresses that are arriving in less than a week. I’m thinking about the Wii that I’m going to pick up as soon as Best Buy gets more in stock. And I’m thinking about the magnificent classes I’m going to lead once I’m teaching motivated students at a decent university.

A couple of weeks ago, I found a bunch of old drawings and things I did when I was a kid. Could I ask you guys? What sort of things did you draw when you were kids? Was it closer to the stereotypical family-standing-in-front-of-house genre, or the child-psychologist-uses-it-to-put-mommy-in-jail genre? Something in between? What’s normal? Is the stuff I drew as a kid normal? Here, these are the three drawings I found:

- Bullwinkle the Moose is trapped under the ocean in what looks like a glass bubble with controls, and there’s a hole in the bubble with water pouring in. A second Bullwinkle is leaning out of of a helicopter lowering a rope, but things are looking grim; on one side of the first Bullwinkle there are two sharks (a regular shark and a hammerhead) and on the other side is a row of angry giant seahorses with an angry octopus in a throne looking on. At the top of the page, spelled out in miniature bubbles, is written “Help me!”

- There’s a group of burglars standing in a warehouse or something, and there’s a guy tied up in a chair desperately kicking one of the burglars. They’re all holding weapons. One of them is smiling and thinking about cake.

- There’s a Thanksgiving hand turkey (like a turkey you trace from your hand) standing on a field with a tree behind it. There’s a beehive in the tree, surrounded by bees, except one of the bees is on the ground with blood spurting out of its body. If you look closely at the turkey, you can see a stinger in its backside, also spurting blood.

So what do I make of these? I remember not being all that happy as a kid - I went to one of those screwy private schools that believe in shutting off outside stimulation in order to facilitate learning, which basically means sitting kindergarteners at little desks and making them do worksheets - and I didn’t have many friends, but damn. Bees spurting blood? There was a lot of blood in that picture. How did no grown-up notice all the blood? And what does it mean when a kid writes “help me” across the top of a page? Is it just the title of the drawing (like from Bullwinkle’s perspective), or is it one of those freaky subconscious messages? Once I saw this TV show where a kid drew himself in a pool and the child psychologist said it meant that he felt like he was drowning. Think about it.

In a weird way, though, I’m kind of proud of those drawings. Before I had the patience to write stories down, I’d draw scenes from them, and it was kind of cool to see that I enjoyed creating narratives before I even remember. And the bee thing could be interpreted as a reaction to learning that they die when their stingers detach. I do remember being fascinated by that, even though I don’t remember drawing it.

Well, anyway. I’m navel-gazing even more than usual.

Wedding plans are kind of coming together, although we haven’t signed any contracts yet, aside from the venue. I tried on dresses the other day and couldn’t see myself in any of them (especially since they all cost over a thousand dollars). I’ve decided to go with the simplest no-frills dress possible; the more ruffly, sparkly, beaded, or lacy dresses I put on, the less I like any of them. I might just get a regular ol’ cocktail dress. (Want to know what’s scary? Since I’m going to be in Iowa from the 14th until mid-May, I probably have to make a decision this week. Ha! Ha! Ha!) Same goes with flowers. Tom and I saw a florist the other day whose rough estimate was $2,500. This whole wedding industry is redonkulous, and I hate the starry-eyed “Today… I’m a princess!” mentality that it feeds on. Fuck centerpieces. You stick a flower in a vase and badda-boom. No one’ll notice anyway. What I want the guests to remember is the food and the music, not the green roses shipped in from South America.

I finally got around to importing all of my old Blogger posts. Maybe, if a miracle occurs, I’ll actually muster up the energy to fill in my blogroll and reading list!

I also decided not to import my old Raptor posts - partly because they’re completely loaded with spam, and partly because I kind of liked the fresh new start I got when I switched hosts. I’ll still link to them in the archives section. At some point.