Monthly Archives: May 2011

Dudes. MFAs are not that bad.

Why are so many writers so angry at Creative Writing MFA programs?  Do artists of all stripes loathe academic departments where their craft is studied?  Are there a bunch of actors and musicians out there who are really pissed off at performing arts schools?  I am genuinely puzzled at all the vitriol that seems to surround the MFA question when you throw the topic at a bunch of writers.  I don’t understand why I so often run into columns discussing MFA programs as if (1) they are really important and/or (2) they shot the author’s dog.  Chill, dudes.  I went to one so I thought I’d attempt to reply to some of the most common criticisms of this much-reviled but ever-proliferating beast, the Creative Writing MFA Program:

Creativity can’t be taught:  Okay, sure, talent can’t be taught.  But craft can.  Just ask Bob Ross and his happy little trees.

Young writers shouldn’t coop themselves up in a graduate program; they should “go out and experience the world:”  This argument is always delivered with the assumption that graduate programs aren’t part of The World.  They cannot approach the realness of, say, working at an Alaskan fish processing plant.  Okay, lean in for a second while I tell you a secret: writing material comes from people, mostly the fucked up ones.  There are people everywhere, even in MFA programs, and a lot of them are fucked up.  Just watch them.  If you pay enough attention to people wherever you are, they can be used for any piece of writing you like. You could even write a novel set in an Alaskan fish processing plant based on the tortured rich kids in your writing workshop.  I promise.

MFA programs homogenize writers’ voices and worsen the general mediocrity of American letters: This argument always assumes that writing was just better in the good old days, neglecting the fact that the stuff we read now from one hundred years ago is the stuff from a hundred years ago that survived a hundred years.  So, presumably, the best stuff.  It’s been through the strainers of time.  The stuff that’s being published now looks generally crappy by comparison because it hasn’t been vetted by history yet.  (Can you imagine how much poetry must have fucking sucked in Restoration England if goddamn Alexander Pope is the best that came out of there?  Holy fuck.)  Also: if you have the kernel of a unique and compelling voice, an MFA program will not ruin you and make you sound like everybody else, I promise.  It will make you realize what you don’t want to sound like.

MFA programs allow shitty writers to delude themselves that they don’t suck and send them out all fluffed up into a world of disappointment: I think this is mostly false, because there is no way you can make it through an MFA program without thinking that you suck.  Your work will be spreadeagled and pecked over so thoroughly that you will be quite convinced that nobody sucks at writing more than you.  Yes, graduate study is a move towards validating yourself as an artist, but it is also intensely grueling, and may make you decide that you don’t want to do this after all, which is totally okay.  I would argue that the regular beatdowns you receive in MFA programs actually prepare you for the world of disappointment to follow, and that if you get your stuff published, you won’t even blink at being edited because you learned to take your punches like a man in graduate school.

All these domesticated writers in their dinky academic detention centers are ruining the romance of the Author, who should presumably be drinking and screwing a lot and shooting large animals somewhere: Plenty of drinking and screwing goes on in academic detention centers.  If you must shoot large animals, there are a couple of MFA programs up in Alaska.  You can get a huge husky and name him Frostbane, go out into the perpetual snowy night to blow away some bears, and even visit that fish processing plant if you like.

Please don't shoot me. Work on your paragraph transitions instead.

MFA programs are a pyramid scheme, fleecing stupid young people with dreams.  Yeah, kind of.  Honestly, I still feel like a bit of a dumbass having taken out a bunch of student loans to attend one.  So do careful research into MFA programs, and apply only to the ones that will fund you.  If you don’t, well, you will probably feel like a bit of a dumbass for having taken out a bunch of student loans for what is mostly a pretty useless credential.  But, you know, it’s just money.  There are worse decisions you could have made than plunking down a bunch of it to take a couple of years off to write.  If you have made that mistake, take comfort in this List of Life Decisions That Are Worse Than Taking Out Student Loans For An MFA:

  • dating a drug dealer
  • being a drug dealer
  • simmering your whole life in a shitty job you hate without ever trying to go after your dreams
  • tattooing the whites of your eyes
  • meth
  • wearing leggings as if they were pants
  • appearing on reality TV
  • loving someone who treats you badly
  • joining a cult
  • visiting England for the food
  • meth
  • taking out more student loans for two MFAs

You’re welcome.

Maybe some Xanax, but mostly just the Lego.

Here is the panel I was on a few weeks ago at the LA Times Book Festival.  Can you spot me?  It was a great session, moderated by Thomas Curwen of the LA Times, with authors Lisa See and Karl Marlantes, both of whom were lovely to talk to and sell a buttload more books than I do.  Can I be them when I grow up?

It’s been a while since I’ve written an entry that justifies the title of this blog.  Never fear, there is plenty of sophomore novel angst happening here!  Ever since I finished my Romanian collective unconscious document I have been genuinely scared to address the actual narrative of In the Red.  Is it because it collapsed so spectacularly last time?  Partly.  But I think it’s mostly because once I get started it’s going to tell me a bunch of shit I don’t want to hear.  The consciousness of this book is so heavy.  It has an existential obsession with human morality in the face of the void.  So I’ll just be going around my business when the book will spontaneously say something like: “We all collaborate with our miseries.  The only true gesture of negation is to cease existing.”  And then I respond, “What?  Are you telling me to eat a gun?  Can you shut up while I play Angry Birds here for a minute?  Jesus.”

I swear, it’s like I have Albert Camus living inside my braincase.

Also it really, really wants to talk to me about Capitalism and while it’s fun to channel that problem into goofy rants about toothpaste, this book does not want to be a goofy rant about toothpaste.  It intends to be Serious.  It also wants to talk about exile, history, repression, abuse of power, and all sorts of fluffy shit like that.  Please send help.  I want to write a book about puppies and rainbows.

(Don’t worry, potential readers, there will still be hot sex.  I mean, this is me we’re talking about here.)

Okay, let’s talk about Lego instead.

Before I went away for the book festival, I admired this Lego set at Target:

I totally wanted it, but could not quite justify plunking down forty five bucks to buy this for myself since I am, allegedly, an adult.  I mean, that’s what my driver’s license says.  (It lies.)  Fortunately, I have the world’s awesomest husband ever, so this set was waiting for me on my desk when I got home from the festival.  I love him so much.  There was a feature to this set that he, like me, simply could not resist.  Take a closer look at the cargo the truck is hauling:

Yes, it is hauling tiny Lego sets for Lego people, among them sets of itself.  Could you die?  Okay, probably if you are not a huge dork, this does not make butterflies flutter in your stomach.  But, I am not not a huge dork, so this makes me unreasonably happy.

Anyway I just put the set together last night, after a particularly grinding bout of unproductive sophomore novel angst.  It was such a fucking fabulous experience.  Everything clicks into place so satisfyingly, and it all looks exactly how you expect it to, and it gives you a sense of achievement.  Why can’t life be more like that?  I need more Lego.  And maybe some Xanax, but mostly just the Lego.

New! Colgate Whitening Existential Angst! With Liberal White Guilt Beads!

Dear Capitalism,

I don’t mean to complain.  I mean, you are much nicer than Feudalism.  But seriously, Capitalism, we do not need this many kinds of toothpaste.

Last night, I emptied out a tube of toothpaste.  I went to get another tube, and when I opened that one, the contents had separated into a gritty paste and a viscous blue liquid that smelled and tasted funny.  I understand that toothpaste expires eventually, and this mishap was probably due to this tube being the last one in a Costco 144-pack of Colgate that I’d been working my way through since I was eleven years old.  So, I went to Target this morning to get a single new tube of toothpaste, to discover with great awe that there was an entire aisle devoted completely to different kinds of toothpaste.  I thought: verily, this is a great country.

The aisle was half Crest, half Colgate.  I entirely bypassed the Crest half, since I’ve been brushing with Colgate as long as I can remember.  (I’m sure lots of marketers would like to figure out where that brand loyalty gland lies in my consumer brain, and how to access it.  It appears that only Colgate has found its way to it, for I do not have particular allegiances to any other kind of hygiene product.  I am, for example, a total shampoo slut, switching brands with every new bottle.)  I was confronted with a stunning panoply of Colgate products, all in graphically similar but subtly variegated packages.  Clearly, toothpaste technology had evolved since I last picked a tube (it’s been a long time; I usually just get whatever kind of Colgate Costco has, and it is always the same).  There was Colgate Whitening, and there was Colgate Clinical Whitening.  There was also Colgate Sparkling White.  Then there was Colgate with Baking Soda Whitening Bubbles.  Then there was Colgate Tartar Protection with Whitening.  Colgate with tiny strips of breath freshener leavened right into the paste.  Colgate with little globules of mouthwash hovering in gel.  Colgate Max Clean with Smart Foam (look the fuck out for that shit, it threatens “an intense sensation,” the package copy guaranteeing that the paste will absolutely explode in your mouth into rabid quantities of froth sure to clean the fuck out of your teeth so thoroughly that your teeth will be too scared to ever be dirty again–won’t you, punks?!  The experience of this product must indeed be X-treme.) and even Colgate Luminous, if you’re more into getting ineffable religious ecstasies out of your toothpaste.  Also, Colgate that comes in a little bottle instead of a tube.  Every single choice iterated in both paste and gel forms.

Capitalism, I appreciate the effort, I really do.  I really try to believe in what our patriarchs call the wisdom of the free market.  I looked at numerous Colgates, trying to gauge which one would be the best for me, since you were considerate enough to provide me with so many choices.  After a while, this started to hurt.  After a while, I considered the idea that maybe one kind of Socialist Standard Issue Government Toothpaste in a blank gray box would not be oppressive but rather restful.  After a while, I flipped the boxes over to look at the “active ingredient” in each.  Strap in, Capitalism: the “active ingredient” was the same in all the tubes.  It was also present in the same dosage in all the tubes.  All that patter and flash and all those copywriters coming up with slightly differently-worded promises of gleaming whiteness and cleanliness–indeed I could choose to have my toothpaste talk to me in the reassuring tones of a clinician or with the effervescent pep of a caffeinated cheerleader–all that choice to discover that the actual products contained in all those seductively colorful tubes at all those slightly different price points were all one and the same.

I grabbed a tube of exactly the same stuff Costco carries, the same stuff I’ve been using for years, and made a quick exit because I was thisclose to having a full-blown existential meltdown right there in the aisle.  Capitalism, I suspect that maybe you have something to do with why our nation suffers from the most mental illnesses despite the fact that it is possibly the most comfortable place to live in the world.  Capitalism, I suspect that maybe you have something to do with our fragmentation, with the slow erosion of collective experience, with our chronic loneliness, with our nameless fears, with our emptiness.  You are giving us too much; instead of making us expand in welcoming openness you are making us contract in overwhelmed terror.  Our hearts and minds may be shrinking in the face of that much choice, tightening ourselves around a few familiar things that are disappearing in our death grip because they are being translated into ever new and improved and varied versions by the wisdom, by the infinitely outward spiraling wisdom of our beloved free market.

Capitalism, please, we do not need this many kinds of toothpaste.

Sincerely,

America