The KR Editors have asked the blog to consider a question that has badgered MFA programs since their inception (and their recent exponential proliferation):
What is the purpose of a creative writing degree? (Let’s construe “purpose” broadly.)
A lot of dust has been kicked up in the blogosphere (see here and here and here) after Edward Delaney’s piece in the July 2007 Fiction Issue of the The Atlantic, “Where Great Writers are Made.” (Though his article requires a subscription to read online, you can see his rankings and an interview with him about writing the article by clicking the links on the right, after the jump.)
And for all that proverbial dust, it seems that most of the blog banter could agree that while there are some quantifiable statistical bits of data that differentiate one program from the next–selectivity, faculty/student ratios, student funding, etc.–there were myriad others, and arguably more important factors, that remain difficult to quantify. While in the accompanying interview Delaney admits he didn’t find anyone in his research who thought their MFA experience had hurt their writing, I found myself wanting to venture in the opposite direction–which programs help their writers the most? Would I be a better poet had I spent my two MFA years at Texas or at UMass? (UMass, for that matter is actually a three year program–would that help?)
Of course, discovering some formulaic method for figuring this out would be something akin to figuring out how to write something canonic each time you sit down with a pad an pen. If there were a discernible recipe, what would be the point? It is clear that the mix of active ingredients in writing, and in teaching writing, is more volatile–more unstable–starting with which I is the one doing the writing or the learning. (See Heather Christle’s recent thoughts on the matter.)
So per purpose: I think there are two poles on the spectrum of MFA programs. The first are those programs that function something like a finishing school for writers, that have something of a pre-professional tone about them, and that emphasize jobs and publications. The second is the MFA as extension of a liberal arts degree–programs that push you to take a chance on your talent and do something new–and permit some falling on your face along the way.
In reality, (and this is a hunch, not a journalistic observation) most programs seem a blend of these. Perhaps the median of these poles best prepares for a writing life. My personal bias is toward the MFA as liberal arts extension–a program that asks you to write variedly and in many styles–so that your own writing while in a program may not shake the earth off its axis, but you’ve learned something about different styles of writing along the way. Knowledge has a shelf-life. A lot of the writing I did in my MFA program, unfortunately, does not. Not even for my mother.
There are other questions along the line of purpose that are worth considering: Is the Ph.D the new MFA (oh, is this ever a Pandora’s box…)? What of the glut of MFA graduates (350 programs, say 10 graduates a year from each…)? Delaney talks in the interview of the utility of a workshop among well-read participants–the referential field was critical to that utility. To that end: should MFA programs require a reading list, like a MA/Ph.D program? To test knowledge over a body of work? (Maybe some do–I’d love to hear if you know of a program that does.)
Look for the blog to kick some of these ideas around in the coming weeks; we’d like to hear some of your thoughts on these matters, too.