As I mentioned in my last post about getting my MFA in creative writing at San Jose State University, one of the draws for me was the literature units requirement. Of 48 units required for graduation, only 15 must be workshop units. The balance of workshop and literature classes varies from program to program (Iowa’s is about half and half and Columbia’s is 21 of 60 total units — these are probably regarded as the most prestigious programs), but even if they take up a smaller percentage of your units than other courses, the workshops are often the most important aspect of being an MFA grad student. They are where you most closely and personally interact with your fellow students and where you develop the most as a writer — not so much in your skill, though good critiques will help you a bit with that, but in your attitude. Both receiving and giving critiques teach you to keep your ego in check and understand your writing better.
So what is an MFA writing workshop like? I’ll give you my experiences, and I’ll bet they’re pretty similar to writing workshops around the country. I’ll concentrate on being on the receiving end of critiques first.
Receiving Critiques
Typically, in a workshop, two or three writers turn in a piece for critique at a time. When you’re up for critique, you might read a portion of your piece (or the whole thing), but after that, you are expected to be silent until everyone is done discussing your work, except if you are explicitly asked a question for clarification reasons. Desks or tables are arranged so that everyone faces each other.
Be Prepared for:
- The phrase “I have a problem with…” This, for some reason, is the go-to euphemism for “I didn’t like…” of MFA students. I suppose because “like” is so subjective, but a problem, well, you don’t want anyone to have a problem with your work, right? Take it for what it is — something subjective that may or may not be backed up with good reasoning and taste.
- Contradictory advice. The problems people have with your work may be directly at odds with each other. Some may like the first-person narrator; others may find the voice unnatural. They might argue with each other. Again, listen for your fellow students’ reasons for their opinions that help you decide which advice is best for your work.
- People who absolutely don’t “get” what you write. They might not understand or agree with your aesthetic goals — which is a fancy way of saying that your writing just isn’t their kind of thing. This will always happen, but if you realize that there’s just a disconnect between your style and someone’s taste, not necessarily a matter of quality, then you can learn what’s useful and what you have to politely disregard. Don’t fall into the trap, however, of thinking that whenever someone doesn’t like something you wrote it’s because they don’t “get” your work.
- People who want to rewrite your stories. Sometimes they will want you to change the plot. Sometimes they want your prose to be more like their prose. In one of my workshops, a very nice woman crossed out several sentences of my stories and rewrote them in a style completely at odds with the rest of the stories. Why? I don’t know. I considered whether my writing style wasn’t cutting it and needed to be changed up to achieve the effect I wanted, decided, No, it does not, and learned how to ignore stuff like this. It’s still kind of irritating when I think about it, but, really, it shouldn’t be.
- Retaliation — or at least someone being irritated with you. This is related to interpersonal politics in workshops, and the best way to avoid it is to give honest, helpful and not-overly critical critiques. (I’ll cover that in my next post). Keeping your trap shut about critiques also helps. After my first critique session as an MFA student, I wrote in my blog that I was confused about the contradictory advice I had received and, in the end, had to decide to go with my best instincts and understanding of my writing and not try to please everyone. I remember being shocked at the barely-restrained hostility someone responded to my suggestions during a critique session and then in the line notes of the a critique I received from the same person after that, and it came to light in a note at the end: Someone told this student about this post in a way that cast me as an ungrateful “too good for you losers” light; this person had thought I was singling them out, which was not the case at all. I wrote an email, pointed the person to the post in question, and cleared it up. I still don’t know who was talking shit about me, but I don’t care at this point. What I learned from this is to never, ever, ever write or speak publicly about being frustrated with the workshop process while you’re still a student. I’m not a student anymore, though.
- People you just don’t like. As I mentioned, you’re interacting closely with people in workshops, and personalities are inevitably going to clash. Don’t let the fact that you don’t like someone affect how you value their suggestions. They might have good writing insight that’s completely separate from their unattractive (to you) personality.
How does dealing with this help you understand your writing better? You have to learn to separate what constitutes personal preference on the part of your critiquers from quality issues in your writing. And, most importantly, you have to learn when and how to stick to your guns — and how to do it without being arrogant. When you have to articulate to yourself why you’ve made the choices you’ve made — why you structured a story a certain way, why you used this word instead of that one — then your writing improves, and facing suggestions for changes makes you consider if the changes would have merit (depending on your goals and style). Whether you choose to implement the suggestions or not, this process makes you critically consider your own writing, which makes you understand it better.
I find it helpful to remember that when it comes to my writing, I am in a position of power. It is my writing, and it will always be my choice about how to change it. It is arrogant to advertise this position of power by making it known how unhelpful critiques might have been — so undertake receiving and considering critiques and editing your work humbly and quietly.
I’ll write about giving critiques next time!
