A (Pretty) Penny For Your Thoughts: In Defense of the MFA

Disclaimer: The thing about arguing in favor of or against something that has sparked so much discussion in the past few years (and will continue to act as conversational fodder for years to come) is that there is no one way to properly answer the question: “Is it worth it?” 

Whenever the debate arises about whether or not getting an MFA in creative writing is “worth it,” I’m struck by how often the two people conversing are really just having two monologues in disguise. Because the truth of the matter is, what someone values in a professional degree is not going to be the same as what another person values in a professional degree, and what both people do or don’t value is a reflection of what they ultimately do or don’t value in, well, life.

This is not a sweeping generalization. This is simply the truth. The reason why education is such an oft-discussed aspect of our society today is that while everyone recognizes that it is intrinsically important, the value that we ascribe to it varies from person to person. And because of this wide spectrum of thought, we are often left talking about our own understanding of costs and benefits but not the actual (individual) value of having the MFA as an option at all.

So here are my two cents (because, truly, that’s all I have):

Yes, the MFA is “worth it.” I am one year into my two-year non-funded MFA program, and while my reasons for pursuing this degree are not necessarily the same reasons why others in my program are pursuing this degree (much the same way none of our pre-program circumstances were the same), I believe there are some fundamental truths that ring true across our wide spectrum of experiences.

Take, for instance, the label itself. The degree in creative writing is a misnomer. The creative writing MFA is at the root of it all a degree in creative thought. Or, put more simply, thought. It is granting people the permission to spend two years of their lives absorbed entirely in their thoughts so that they may become better thinkers, and therefore better people, and by virtue of that, contribute more positively and extensively to society.

The writing, the actual words that appear on a page, are, in my humble view, actually just a happy byproduct.

Compassion is feeling with intelligence. Wisdom is intelligence with flexibility.

The process required to produce works that truly touch readers from a wide variety of backgrounds involves a lot of earnest soul-searching, open-minded observation, and what my thesis group and I like to call “research”: exchanging ideas and opinions to better understand ourselves both as writers and as members of the human race in general.

Experiencing the collision of our cultural, societal, and socioeconomic differences, then, is not unlike feeling the ebb and flow of the ocean’s tides — sometimes it takes a wave or two to revive our minds, to remind us of why we’re doing what we’re doing. But by sharing ideas and opinions, we are at once sharpening our lens and broadening our world view in ways that might be harder to come by were we not granted the time and space to do so.

Critics of the MFA argue that institutionalizing a creative pursuit like writing homogenizes the industry, molding students of the craft into drones who only know how to write one way: formulaically. The phrase “overworkshopped” comes to mind; it is believed that dissecting a piece too much can dilute the writer’s voice, and ultimately, her message. Critics stress that by enrolling in an MFA program, emerging writers are ascribing to a limited view of what “good” writing can be, and are therefore opting to learn little more than how to plug and chug one-note, dull manuscripts.

My opinion? Were that actually the case, every creative writing graduate would be churning out bestsellers, having been inducted into the secret society of literary success. The fact that this is (unfortunately) untrue by my last count tells me that this belief is at best reductive, at worst just plain wrong. The numbers don’t lie: the books that MFA graduates churn out are not all predestined for success simply because of the weight of those three letters: M.F.A.

No, the success of said books only exists after months, years, sometimes decades, of hard work and hustle and this silly little thing called thought. Even then, the reality is that a “successful” first book is as much dependent on timing and luck as it is on hard work. There are some trends — be it vampires or flush-inducing erotica — but for the most part, what the general public is craving (literarily speaking) at a given moment is pretty whimsical. What’s left, then, is the writer’s own convictions and his hope that his understanding of a greater societal need is on-point at that moment in time.

Monetary success, then, is probably not the best way to measure the “worth” of an MFA in creative writing.

And since we’re on the subject, let’s talk money matters. Other critics of the (non-funded) creative writing MFA argue that the high cost of an education in places like New York is exploitative. My assessment, from my admittedly limited experience (since I am, indeed, studying at a New York institution), is that yes, tackling higher education in this field won’t guarantee a return on your investment in the sense of “getting your money back.” (No one expects to be rollin’ in dough as a writer; the term “starving artist” exists for a reason, after all.)

“Getting your money’s worth,” however, is another story entirely. Idealistic though it may sound, the point of the MFA at the end of it all isn’t the product itself so much as it is the process — the gathering of minds and the facilitation of ideas is what matters. How do we change the rules of the game so that we are playing in our favor as opposed to struggling to measure up to a more rigid sense of societal standards?

There are some who say that while the idea of a writing community sounds all well and good, shelling out money for a (non-funded) degree is unnecessary when there are other ways to recreate that environment. Or to publish a book. To both points, I concur, but with a caveat: what works for one writer is not what will work for another, and the argument I want to make here is that when we talk about “worth” in terms of an MFA, the “it” we should be evaluating is process, not product. In other words, gaining a book deal or a group of writerly friends is not the point (though both are great things).

The thing is, I am writing this as much to sort through my own thoughts as I am to convince you, reader, that what I am writing is “right.” When it comes to trains of thought, the policy is hardly one size fits all; if anything, each metaphorical train is headed toward a different destination anyway. And this, I believe, is the point of writing: to act as a conduit through which one’s thoughts can find an outlet, a station, an external home.

Society rewards product. Not process. And that is a sorry loss (though perhaps realistic, in some people’s lenses) — because the thing to note is that art is as much about process as it is about product. Artists of all mediums and shapes and forms are more than anything thinkers who help to push forward the change that we, yes, wish to see in the world (© Mahatma Gandhi).

But perhaps this is one reason why defending the MFA is such a difficult task. On the surface, the difference between a writer and someone who writes is hard to discern because the physical act of putting pen to paper is accessible to us all. But so is anything, really.

Think about chefs vs. cooks. Anyone can, hypothetically, cook. The difference between the two, however, is more than semantics. It’s in knowledge of the materials and how to pull those ingredients together, to give patrons a story through food and tastes. Or put another way: done properly, every meal should be a story, a work of art.

Because at the end of the day, we’re all the storytellers of our own narrative. Regardless of whether or not we write or paint or sell paper or crunch numbers, we are all constantly thinking about the past, present, and future elements of our own personal stories. All. The Time. It’s just a matter of how and in what medium we choose to tell them.

All this to say, I’m not sure what will happen in this next (and last!) year of my Master’s program, or what will happen beyond this brief two-year academic refuge, but I know that I have been fortunate enough to meet a group of like-minded people who also see the value of spending a good chunk of their lives really digesting and dissecting their everyday experiences. Their past, their future, the things that make them tick. It’s been a breath of fresh air (along with other clichéd aphorisms).

Sometimes, however, we do talk about what it’s like to feel unsure about whether or not what we’re writing is important, about whether our narratives will serve a greater purpose other than a selfish, cathartic release.

But when those doubts arise, we write anyway.

Doubt is one of the best places to begin any story, because doubt gives way to growth. It is a launching pad for a genuine process of learning and discovery, both within ourselves and without.

A good friend once told me that the thing we have to remember is that the point of writing, of thinking, of life, isn’t to master the subject, but to master ourselves through the subject. And that has been, will be, and is, without a doubt, what makes the MFA so decidedly “worth” it.