I have just finished a rather large tumbler of whiskey and now I am sitting at my desk, straightening the pages of a manuscript I pulled from my vintage Royal typewriter. The piece – human, being – is a prose poem about a man watching trains pass through his hometown as a metaphor for human apathy, and while I doubt the other members of my workshop will understand its nuances, I still intend to read it aloud and present it for critique tomorrow.

Unenlightened “colleagues” present just one of the many challenges to completing my MFA in creative writing at one of the nation’s most prestigious programs; they operate alongside incompetent professors who insist on editing already perfect pieces, literary magazines that clearly accept submissions based on nepotism, and parents who don’t seem to understand that writing is a realistic life’s work. And yet, when I read articles like Why Writers Love to Hate the MFA in the New York Times, I can’t help but recoil in disgust at the blatant misunderstanding and – dare I say it – jealousy so obvious in those who criticize the degree. I am the white, male, upper-middle class MFA student and, for once, my voice deserves to be heard.

I am the white, male, upper-middle class MFA student and, for once, my voice deserves to be heard

Critics of the MFA program seem unable to grasp one simple notion: becoming an artist is a calling, not a choice. With my talent for identifying improper modifiers and close-reading 19th century literature, I could easily find employment in some menial corporate job. I could be making enormous amounts of money but at what cost to my soul? Instead, I nobly pursue something purer than wealth: truth itself.

In the business world, men in suits concern themselves so much with numbers and data that I don’t doubt one would cross out one of my misspelled words in a memo thinking it was a “typo”, not recognizing it was an intentional subversion of semantic form. In an MFA program, I am surrounded by a select group of men who understand that rain is always a symbol for baptism and a character named John Cane is an obvious allegory for Christ (1). These are the types of artistic nuances that would go unappreciated in what my mother so cleverly calls the “real world”.

Continuing to write in literary academia also means I find myself acquainted with the type of woman who appreciates my Pynchon tattoos (2) and offers to share absinthe in my student apartment. Although I know the inner workings of my mind are too dark and complex for any woman to understand, I’ve found that a string of meaningless physical encounters have inspired some of my most profound musings on the Human Condition.

To those who see writing fiction as a selfish or narcissistic endeavor, I must assume you’ve never witnessed one of my workshop sessions. I spend hours patiently offering insights to my less talented cohorts and charitably listening to their “feedback” on my pieces, restraining myself to only a knowing eye-roll in response to particularly terrible commentary. Writing is a solitary task but MFA programs are a community endeavor. These years are a chance not only for me to hone my own voice as a future luminary, but also for me to gauge the work of those around me at every turn to confirm they aren’t succeeding ahead of me. And if they do, I have to assume it’s because they know someone at Ploughshares (3).

Any claims that the high tuition costs of some MFA programs propagate literary elitism and exploit unrealistic dreams are simply irrelevant to any discussion of the degree’s merit. Personally, I’ve found inherent writing ability exists in direct proportion to one’s ability to pay for an extended graduate education.

With every sip of whiskey and every click of my typewriter, I remind myself that the many struggles of an MFA will be worth it when my work is finally published and appreciated. Of course, if tempting the muse daily, constantly toiling to create something of artistic merit – something permanent that will echo through the generations and bring meaning to our meaningless existence – sounds like too much trouble for you, there’s always law school.

Footnotes

1) Both examples from my short story On The 4:11 Train From Nazareth

2) A Trystero muted post horn and “Through the machineries of greed, pettiness, and the abuse of power, love occurs.”

3) That’s the only possible explanation for how Tim R’s highly derivative story managed to get accepted for publication within Ploughshare’s once-esteemed pages.