An Honest and Good Thing
Lately, I have begun teaching creative writing at Lesley University in the Writing for Young People genre — the term MFA programs seem to use to denote not actual genres, like mystery, romance, fantasy, but the basic categories of fiction, nonfiction, poetry. WFYP consists of students writing for children to young adult; in other words, picture books through novels. Lesley’s is a low-residency MFA program, with a nine-day residency on campus kicking off each semester, the remainder of which is comprised of a series of manuscript submissions and critical responses conducted through email.
Now, I’ve written a lot of books for children and young adults; a career writer, I suppose I’d call myself. Although both my parents were teachers, I never thought about teaching; I was a professional. But I did always love the idea of forming one’s professional knowledge into a shape, something that could be summarized, taught, and learned. So when the opportunity came along, I took it. Because Lesley’s program is low residency, essentially requiring a short stint on campus twice a year, it’s really the only way I could have dipped my toes into the world of teaching. I have since jumped in with both feet.
The collection of hundreds of students and dozens of faculty for a week and a half twice a year has any number of real benefits; the creative energy of the residency is palpable, not least for me and the other faculty. The discussions are pointed and unique: you simply don’t talk this way at home. There are no dishwashers, pets, children, lawn mowers, or brooms in sight. There are books. Lots of books. Lots of paper. Lots of enthusiasm. Lots of imagination. Lots of workshops and seminars and readings and performances, and lots of chat with peers across the genres. Overall, there’s a sense that trying to understand the world creatively is an honest and good thing.
One aspect of it that I’m finding most congenial is the relative ease of dealing with longer work, that is: manuscripts above the usual 20-30 page limit. Because each faculty member’s load consists of anywhere from two to five students per semester, the teacher (or mentor) can devote many hours to the manuscript, covering not only those things one would deal with on a short work, but overall elements like theme, structure, story arc, and character development. Most YA students are writing novels, so this is perfect.
Certainly not every writer needs a graduate program. Some of my favorite writers — Capote, Faulkner, Hemingway, Cheever — never attended college, or if they did, didn’t stick around for the degree. It sure didn’t hurt them. On the other hand, Flannery O’Connor attended the Iowa Writers Workshop, a fact I still have trouble getting my head around.
Recently, a number of folks, both from within and without the academy, have debated the necessity of the MFA program in any genre. I like such argumentation and think it only strengthens the programs. For some writers, programs like these shape their writing lives in ways too numerous to deny. Who dares criticize another person’s intense two- or three-year fierce concentration on the basic form of human expression? To say nothing of learning one’s language in a more profound way than one gets anywhere else? Some people, and I suppose I’m one of them, live and die with the word. You can view MFA programs as a waste of time and money, and for some they undoubtedly are; but for others they are nothing less than an affirmation of the life they have chosen. Of course, the debate will continue, but what’s wrong with that?
