10 Considerations Before You Apply to a Creative Writing MFA Program
photo by @jasongoodman_youxventures
This week I presented on a panel at my MFA alma mater, Lesley University. I did my MFA quite a few years ago now, and worked for the program for many years afterward as Assistant Director.
Getting an MFA is still a dream for a lot of people, but there are now more options for serious writing training. I recently spoke to a client who wasn’t sure if he wanted to do an MFA or not – or if he was even ready to apply. Our conversation sparked some ideas that I wanted to share for anyone considering doing an MFA.
First, know that there’s no one right answer, or right program, for everyone. You can do your research looking up programs on Poets and Writers. But how do you begin to narrow down the possibilities? Ranking aren’t that helpful; you don’t always know the criteria they’re based on, faculty and program directors change, etc. etc. It really comes down to a sense of individual fit, which can be hard to know before you get there.
(Any good program will put you in touch with students, alumni, even faculty. Always ask!)
Below are some things to understand and take into consideration when deciding whether or not to apply to an MFA program:
1. Understand the difference between full-residency and low-residency (or fully online): Full-residency programs are those where you go somewhere to study full-time, face-to-face. You take seminars and workshops, usually with a small cohort of other students. There may be opportunities to teach, or edit a literary journal. Low-residency programs only involve you coming to campus once or twice a year (there are also fully-virtual programs now). They are ideal for people who have families and/or jobs they can’t drop for a full-time program. During residencies, you attend seminars, lectures, readings, and workshops. During the semester, you send your writing back and forth to your faculty mentor for individualized feedback.
There are pluses and minuses to both. Full-res programs can be a hothouse bubble that allows you to focus completely on your writing; but you may have to deal with intense rivalries or favoritism you can’t get away from, and at the end, you will have to go out into the world and continue without the structure of the program. Low-res programs are more flexible, but you will have to juggle program requirements with the rest of your life. You may also feel less a part of a writing community. On the plus side, the regular deadlines met no matter what else is happening can give you the discipline to keep writing even when the program ends.
2. Make sure you’re ready: You should have a grasp of the basics of craft. You don’t have to be perfect to get into a program, but you do need to be at the point where you feel you can’t go any further with just ad hoc courses and conferences. Also, you should be reading widely and deeply, especially in your genre (by which I mean poetry, fiction, nonfiction, etc.). In order to be a good writer, you need to be an active and engaged reader.
3. Have experienced critique of your work and know how to give good feedback to others: If the first time you have your work read and critiqued by other people is in an MFA workshop, you will be in for a rude shock, no matter how thoughtful, kind, or nuanced it is. Having the experience of giving and receiving constructive feedback is invaluable so that you can take in what people are saying and use it to improve your work, and also to give sensitive and effective feedback to others. Your skills in both will improve through an MFA program. A good question to ask of any students or alums you talk with is how critique is handled in workshop: do the faculty allow (and model) cruel teardowns that can damage or derail your writing career? Or is it constructive, specific, and supportive of your development as a writer?
4. Take the time to research a good match in terms of structure or ethos of program. No two programs are the same. There are hundreds of them, both full- and low-residency. Unless the quality of your writing is very low, chances are you will get in somewhere. But don’t blow two years and thousands of dollars on a program where you will be miserable. Is there an established curriculum, or is it whatever the faculty feel like teaching? How much workshop time will you have focused on your work? How much of your time will be focused on reading and critiquing others’ work? (This can be valuable, but it can also take a lot of your writing time.) Is there a focus on intense competition, or a focus on supportive community? This doesn’t mean easy; it should still involve rigorous feedback.
5. Research the faculty. How much access to faculty will you have? Are they superstars, or dedicated teachers (this isn’t necessarily an either/or question)? What books have the faculty written? Is there a diversity of writing styles and personal backgrounds? Are there people on the faculty who are experienced in your genre? How diverse is the faculty (and student body) in terms of race, gender, class, age, sexual orientation, etc.? (Also, if you need them, find out what accommodations for physical or learning disabilities will be available.)
Programs should have a cadre of dedicated core faculty, with the superstars usually as visiting or guest writers (if they are only there to bask in the adoration of student disciples, run). This is one of the major pluses of doing an MFA: having that consistent combination of knowledge, mentorship, and individual attention, but only if it’s the right attention.
6. Check your attitude. You will likely be surrounded by a much higher caliber of writing peers than your average writing group. Of course, the faculty will push you to do better work, but so will others in your cohort, either through their critiques or the strength of their work. Ideally, you’ll learn a lot from them if you are open to it. However, there are some writers in MFA programs who either think they are so good they are above criticism, at least from their peers, who they think of as “inferiors” (don’t be one of those) or who are there only to get feedback on their writing and are not interested in being generous with their own critiques, giving as little as possible (don’t be one of them either). MFA students may have a range of ages, personalities, and backgrounds, which should expose you to a wider range of feedback and influences than you had previously, as well as high-level craft discussions. Be open and generous, and you’ll learn a ton.
7. Don’t think it’s a ticket to publication. If you work hard, you will be a better writer than when you began. It can even catapult your writing way beyond where you could have gotten on your own in the same time frame. However, there are no guarantees you will be published, at the end of the program or later. Many go into an MFA with the hope of emerging with a “publishable” book. Very few do. That should not be seen as a sign of failure. Learning the craft of writing is a long process, and it may well take you more than two or three years to learn it to a publishable standard.
Even if you do excellent work, there is no guarantee. The vagaries and the pervasive competitiveness of the publishing marketplace means that even good work often goes unpublished or unheralded. A writing career is a long game. Writing the manuscript, finding an agent, then selling that book to a publisher — often changing agents, or editors, along the way — plus the challenges of marketing (i.e., getting anyone besides your mother to actually read your book). There is a lot you won’t have control over, besides doing the work itself. Self-publishing is always a possibility these days, but many writers immersed in the literary MFA tradition pour scorn on that idea. Your work as an alum will likely be ignored, not awarded, if you go that route.
8. Don’t think it will lead to automatic access to agents and editors. It is not a given that your faculty will introduce you to their own agents and editors and other connections to the literary world, although they may, if they feel your work is strong enough. It’s still no guarantee these people will take you on. Your program may have guest agents and editors who come in and speak about the business, or arrange for special submission opportunities. These can be valuable, but again, no guarantees.
9. Don’t think it will get you a job in publishing, or teaching at the college level. Some programs have certificates, courses, or internships in teaching or editing, which may help. An MFA may provide you with skills in writing and editing, but publishing is a world of its own. You may be able to adjunct teach with an MFA, but without publication of at least one book, you won’t have a chance at a visiting writer position, much less one of the few tenured jobs (for which you would likely need a Ph.D. anyway).
10. What about funding? A few, highly exclusive, full-residency MFA programs are full-ride, and extremely hard to get into. Once there, you usually have to teach (usually freshman comp) or do other work, perhaps for a literary magazine, as part of the funding package, and it may or may not be enough to live on. On the other hand, how do you feel about taking out $30K+ in loans for a program that can’t guarantee you will be a published author, or get a job in teaching or publishing? What is the cost of living in the area, or of traveling to residencies if it’s a low-residency program? Are there scholarships available? (Always ask, never assume they will be offered just because you applied or were accepted.)
People who do an MFA program are not there because of a carefully calculated ROI. They are there because they love writing, and reading, and are hungry to learn more than they’ve been able to up to that point. Just be aware of the financial burden you’ll be taking on for a degree that is not purposed to lead to a job.
So now what?
With all the considerations listed here, do you really want to do it? Can you DIY it instead?
My answer: It is difficult but (sort of) possible. The main drawback is figuring out the faculty piece: where do you get systematic, knowledgeable feedback of what’s working and what’s not? How do you figure out how to learn what you don’t know? You can take classes and go to conferences for years but never really make progress. You can try to build your own high-level writing community, but it can be time-consuming and difficult.
There are some amazing literary centers around the country, though, that offer in-person and online options, such as Grub Street in Boston or The Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis or Gotham Writers in New York or UCLA Extension that are probably your best bet for a combination of advanced-level teaching and vibrant writing community. To mimic the MFA experience, try to do a program for long-term development that requires an application process (such as Grub Street’s Novel Incubator or Memoir Incubator).
I liken it to the difference between the casual exerciser and the person who wants to be an Olympic athlete. Eventually, you need to connect with coaches and teachers who can help you systematically get where you want to go. Figuring it out on your own could take years and never bring you to the same level. Having seen many applications, and talked with many MFA applicants over the years, I can tell you 95% of them have almost no idea what the gaps in their knowledge are — whether we’re talking the craft or business of writing. They have a passion for writing, and a dream, and a lot of cobbled-together pieces of the puzzle.
There is still a mystique, a cachet, about doing an MFA. If it’s your dream to get an MFA and if you go into it understanding what it can and can’t do for you, and if you’re dedicated to squeezing all the juice of knowledge, connections, and community from it, then it may be the right choice for you.
Next time, I’ll talk about actually applying to an MFA program in more detail. What is involved? How do you prepare an application package that gives you the best chance of making it into your program of choice? And what doesn’t really matter in an MFA application?
