What the MFA Does and Does Not Do for Aspiring Novelists

Today’s post is by MFA director Nancy Wayson Dinan.

I wrote my first novel mostly on vibes.

That’s not quite a fair statement. At the time, I had an MFA in fiction, and I was working on a creative writing PhD. I’d gone to graduate school because I wanted to write books, and I do believe that, in school, I got better at writing. [Editor’s note: Need a definition of MFA? Start here.]

What I didn’t get better at was understanding novel structure. And when it came time to query and later promote my book, I had no idea what I was trying to market. I liked the book, and I still do, but I think a lot about what I would do differently now.

In the first edition of The Business of Being a Writer, Jane Friedman states that “it’s not an exaggeration to say that an MFA could even be detrimental to a successful freelance career, because it trains you to be aware of how writing succeeds not on a commercial level, but only on an artistic one—which you may then need to be trained out of.” As the director of an MFA program, and as a working novelist, I find myself agreeing with this statement. One of the things I wrestle with as an instructor is how to make the MFA a more useful degree for aspiring commercial novelists. At the same time, I’m thinking about how to recreate the most useful parts of the MFA experience for novelists who can’t devote years to graduate school.

Now in my classes, we explore the differences between art’s success on a commercial level versus on an artistic level, and what those terms mean. We also look at what the MFA doesn’t usually do, which is the in-depth and explicit craft work that most aspiring novelists crave. We also talk about what the MFA does do—providing professionalization, feedback, and the opportunity to see and submit work in progress—and we discuss ways in which a novelist can learn those things without a graduate degree. I would argue, by the way, that all aspiring novelists should be doing these things, with or without the MFA.

Art’s Success on a Commercial Level Versus on an Artistic Level

When I first encountered Jane Friedman’s quote, it stopped me in my tracks. I felt I knew instinctively what it meant—in the MFA world, we often push back against the idea that MFA graduates’ work often sounds the same. I also know many MFA graduates who spend years writing their first novel, sell it (sometimes for a great deal of money), and then flounder writing the next one. Something about being overly invested in the artistic side of writing can really mess with your writing and selling of books.

But part of me, too, resists this idea. What could possibly be so wrong about learning how to write on an artistic level that MFA graduates must then “be trained out of?”

This is a tough question to answer, and I could actually write pages just trying to define my own stance here. Instead, however, I want to reference Robert McKee’s Story, which does a great job of discussing how artistic merit differs from commercial merit in the screenwriting industry. (By the way, I want to make a case that novelists can learn a lot from screenwriting texts!)

In Story, McKee argues that there is a classical design for storytelling, and here’s where the commercial side lies. Readers expect a chain of cause and effect, a closed ending, linear time, and an active protagonist, among other things. Language might not be the focus of a commercial novel, but that doesn’t mean the language is less skilled—it just means that the story is the focus of a commercial novel, and we expect that story to have some conventional structure.

McKee also discusses other forms of story, noting that, as we move away from that classical story structure, we encounter open endings, more internal conflicts, passive or multiple protagonists, nonlinear time, or inconsistent realities. In other words, something that pulls the reader away from that classical story structure, and here’s where the literary novel goes. It might focus on language or on invention or on a unique structure, but it departs from the expected beats of commercial structure. And this is not necessarily a bad thing—many readers love this sort of experimentation. What it does do, McKee warns, is that it shrinks the possible audience of the work, though the audience might now be more dedicated.

In MFA programs, we’re often encouraged to seek alternatives to traditional storytelling, to focus on character and not plot (though, for many reasons, I think this is a false dichotomy). We’re taught to value language and image more than a strong chain of cause and effect. It’s not that we’re actively told to avoid the traditional modes of storytelling, it’s just that other modes are privileged. And when we do see a genre piece in workshop, there’s often a palpable disdain (though this attitude is changing and not something that would ever happen in the program in which I teach).

If literary fiction is what you want to write, then that’s great—here’s where I might slightly disagree with Friedman’s point, because if that’s what you want, then you don’t need to be trained out of it. But if you want to write for a commercial audience, the MFA might not be the best place to learn to do that.

What the MFA Does DoProvides Professionalization

Unfortunately, this is an opaque industry, and it keeps its secrets well (though, thanks to resources like Jane Friedman’s blog, things are becoming more transparent all the time!). One of the things the MFA does do is teach you how to be a professional, but you have to be willing to learn.

You have opportunities to meet visiting writers, to attend conferences, and to learn how to handle being edited. You spend a lot of time reading writers that are part of the national conversation and being explicitly invited into conversations that discuss major issues in our field. At some point, you will likely have an opportunity to ask questions of a literary agent (usually done via zoom), and that agent will likely tell you about the querying and submission process. You might meet an editor in the same way. You will often have an opportunity to work on a literary journal, to peek behind the scenes. All of this access, though it doesn’t translate into you getting an editor or an agent or a publication, invites you into the industry in a very specific way.

How to find professionalization without an MFA program

Find writing organizations, and particularly genre groups: Several years ago, I recommended Romance Writers of America to nearly every writer who turned in a story with romantic elements. They were fantastic at professionalization, especially for novelists who were just starting out, but after some well-publicized issues, they seem to be in a rebuilding phase. For now, I recommend organizations like SCBWI (the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators), SFWA (Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association), WFWA (Women’s Fiction Writers Association), and MWA (Mystery Writers of America). If you can, go to a conference. Join a local chapter. Get involved in whatever way you can.Gives You Feedback and Allows You to Submit and to See Work in Progress

An MFA also gives you feedback on your work, both from your peers and from your instructors, who have hopefully published something in the field and have been professionally edited. Giving feedback is more important here than receiving feedback—you are not likely to publish anything you present in your first year or two of workshop, and you’re probably not even going to publish your thesis, though some writers do! Instead, what this process teaches you is to edit yourself, to see what you’re missing in story and language and motivation, to push a nascent draft into a more developed draft.

In fact, I think this is one of the biggest benefits of the MFA, this opportunity to submit and to see work in progress. You get to experience the development of fiction, not just the finished product, and this can be really helpful. Over the course of two years of workshop, you’ll submit maybe a dozen or so pieces, but you’ll read and respond to hundreds.

You also get to see creative attempts that never go any further. Seeing these false starts is so important for a writer—it takes some of the pressure off. The best writers try things, and sometimes, those new things don’t have legs. It’s okay, and a valuable lesson to learn. You’re almost always a better writer for having tried, because you taught yourself something.

How to give and get feedback outside of an MFA program

You’re going to have to find a critique group or partner, and preferably one who is just as serious as you are about craft. You’re going to need to learn to read unfinished work, and that’s harder to do with someone who’s at a more beginning level than you are. I recommend, again, the genre groups mentioned in the previous answer, as they often have matching programs. Your local library is often a good source—do they have resources for creative writers, including groups that meet? Can you take a class at your local university or extension, and then try to make connections with your classmates that will last beyond the semester? Can you join an online group?A more expensive but very personal option is a book coach. Having a book coach is like having a workshop every week, only your work is always the focus. You can learn a lot very quickly from a good book coach, but you also don’t get the chance to see other people’s work and to train your editorial eye.Be careful with your critique group. You want readers who encourage you, who make you excited to revise. You don’t want—and you never want to be—a reader who makes the writer want to quit writing. (Also, if this does happen to you, recognize that this is almost always coming from a place of insecurity.)Surrounds You with Writers

In your program, you’re surrounded by writers, and since you’re part of this community, you start thinking of yourself as a writer. You have conversations about writing, about POV, about what makes Lauren Groff or Jesmyn Ward so dang good. You learn to take yourself and your craft seriously.

But you also learn to deal with artistic jealousy, to handle a competitive feeling, to genuinely feel joy for somebody else’s success. To get excited when you see the publication of a piece that you saw in its very early stages. To marvel at how far your friend has come, and to realize she might be thinking the same thing about you.

Again, super valuable experience. You don’t have to do an MFA to find a writing community, but you enter the MFA with a cohort, people with whom you’re thrown together.

How to find community outside of a program

You probably already know what my first answer is going to be here: those genre writing groups. One of the most useful things about these communities is that everybody takes each other seriously. You’re rarely going to find a pereson who would ask you why you’re wasting your time with your little writing hobby when you have a family/job/significant other/etc. Social media seems to be good in this space, and Facebook is still one of the best, I find. These days, I only keep my Facebook account for writing, and I’m a member of AWP Community of Writers, WFWA Members-Only, Female Writers, Writers Helping Writers, Women Writers, Women’s Books, Creative Writing Pedagogy, Binders Full of Creative Nonfiction, alumni groups, conference groups, among many others. Find your spot out there—there are a lot of options!Find what your local community has. The library, again, is a great place to start, as are extension classes.Gives You a Credential to Teach in Higher Education

This is the only part of the MFA experience that you really can’t recreate. If you want to teach in higher ed, you will need at minimum a master’s degree, and even this is usually not enough for a tenure-track job. No amount of writing workshop or conference experience can duplicate this credential.

The unfortunate other side of this point, however, is that the MFA (or a creative writing PhD) does not guarantee you a job. In fact, there’s no way that it can—every year, programs graduate far more degreed writers than there are jobs available. Any university creative writing program will tell you about the hundreds of applicants for each job opening. That’s not to say that you can’t get a job teaching creative writing, but that the odds are against you, and you shouldn’t attend an MFA program just to get that teaching credential. However, many of our graduates teach K-12, and in many states, a master’s degree means an automatic bump in pay, so the MFA can definitely pay off in this way. (I also have thoughts about how to be much more competitive in the tenure-track professor job market, as well!)

What the MFA Does Not Usually DoIn-Depth and Explicit Craft Work

In an MFA program, you will read a lot and write a lot, and of course, these two activities are the most important craft work you will do. However, when I say that the MFA does not provide in-depth and explicit craft work, I mean that you are not going to encounter craft books that teach you how to do specific things with narrative. You’ll likely encounter craft essays, such as many by Flannery O’Connor or Richard Russo, that will advance a theory or aspect of fiction, but you won’t get instruction that says here’s what an audience expects after the inciting incident, or here are the usual components of a satisfying ending.

I still occasionally meet up via zoom with writers from my PhD program, and I find it interesting how we all went through the program without this type of instruction, but how we all found ourselves, unbeknownst to each other, finding the same craft books after the program was over. Writing a novel is like entering a wilderness, and it is really helpful to have signposts helping us to navigate. Craft books can provide these signposts. How do I tell a story? Robert McKee’s Story and John Yorke’s Into the Woods are fantastic resources (again, both screenwriting resources!). How do I develop a character? Lisa Cron’s Story Genius and Wired for Story are amazing. How do I approach structure (Save the Cat! Writes a Novel is a good basic place to start), navigate plot twists (Mastering Plot Twists by Jane Cleland), or develop my prose (Steering the Craft by Ursula K. LeGuin)? The point is that, even if you do get an MFA, there are times as writers when we’re out there on our own trying to get better. These craft books are a very good place to start, and I’m beginning to include these in my MFA coursework, as well.

Teach You How to Query an Agent

It just doesn’t happen, or at least, I’ve never seen it happen. Part of the issue is that, even after 3 years, most people don’t have a polished manuscript ready. You spend a year writing your thesis project, and that generally isn’t enough time to finish it and revise it. Most students leave their thesis defenses with a list of things they know they still need to work on.

But there’s also this sense that the MFA is to practice the writing side, not the business side. And I know this sentiment is changing, but you’re much more likely to find useful querying and publishing advice at a conference panel.

Plus, there are amazing resources out there: Jane Friedman’s blog, for example, has a ton of information about query letters. Literary agent Carly Watters used to host a super helpful blog, and now she is part of a podcast called The Shit No One Tells You About Writing. SFWA has a great example of a query letter on their site. Seek out quality advice and examples, and see how far you can get. And, again, those genre conferences are great—you can often sign up for a spot with an agent for a query critique.

Also, if you’re interested in the business of writing, selling, and launching a book, I highly recommend Courtney Maum’s Before and After the Book Deal.

Where I Am Now

I’m doing my best to have a foot in both worlds—both the academic creative writing world and the professional creative writing world—because I believe both arenas add value to aspiring novelists. But the truth is that Friedman is right: MFA programs do not teach writers how art succeeds on a commercial level. We live in a connected world, however, one in which industry insiders often put their expertise up for public consumption.

I still remember one day in my MFA program when a professor asked me what I was reading those days. “Oh, you know,” I said. “Some craft books.” The professor looked horrified, as if I’d confessed to somehow cheating. “Hmm,” she replied. “I hope they don’t mess you up too much.” After that remark, I didn’t touch a craft book for five years, and when I finally did, I felt like the act was somehow shameful. But it’s not—let’s take the expertise where we can, especially in a profession that is often frustratingly opaque.