Like daffodils in a William Wordsworth poem, like cheating spouses in a John Updike novel, like curse words in an “NYPD Blue” script, creative writing programs seem to be everywhere.
In the last decade, the number of creative writing programs at colleges and universities has nearly doubled, according to figures published by Associated Writing Programs, a non-profit organization based at George Mason University in Fairfax, Va.
In 1992 there were 55 master’s of fine arts graduate programs in creative writing in American colleges. Now there are 99. The number of universities offering creative writing degrees at the undergraduate and graduate level is 330, up from 175 a decade ago, reported David Fenza, Associated Writing Programs’ executive vice president.
Moreover, the vast majority of the nation’s 2,800 college English departments offer courses in writing fiction and poetry, he added.
Little wonder, then, that the dorms and quads are alive with the inspired clickclackclick of typing on computer keyboards–not to mention the gnashing of teeth, an inevitable byproduct of the search for the perfect adjective.
Why have students flocked to creative writing classes? And are the programs really such a good idea? In a so-so job market flooded by refugees from the dot-com debacle, just how valuable will a creative writing degree be? Do such programs–popular as they are–mislead students into thinking they’re a cinch to be the next Nora Ephron?
Perhaps the most significant question hovering over a creative writing program is this: Are writers born or made?
“Interest in writing is chronic and human. That’s what humans do. There’s nothing new about it,” said Jean Thompson, an English professor at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, which will initiate an MFA program in the fall. “But MFA programs provide a place for writers to be writers, a place where writers can be nurtured and developed.
“People who come to an MFA program already know how to write. What they hope for is time to concentrate on writing and a supportive community,” added Thompson, author of the recently published novel “Wide Blue Yonder.”
Mike Magnuson, who teaches in Southern Illinois University’s 6-year-old MFA program, said he’s not surprised at the surge of interest in creative writing.
“I believe we live in a bottom-line society. We’re supposed to grow up quick and get a job and be productive and contribute to the economy, and the consequence of that is that people, in the drive to succeed by society’s standards, lose their creative outlet,” said Magnuson, author of the novel “Lummox.”
“MFA programs provide that outlet, and my guess is that there’ll be more and more for many years–because the bottom line isn’t everything, is it?”
A suspicious idea
Things weren’t always so rosy for writing programs. When the University of Iowa began the nation’s first graduate creative writing program in 1936, plenty of eyebrows shot skyward, said Frank Conroy, director of the Iowa program.
“The concept was very radical at the time–the idea that you’d accept a thesis of creative writing for an academic degree. It’s commonplace now, but then it was viewed with much suspicion.”
The controversy arose in part from the mystery that has always encircled creativity. We think of creativity as something innate, as an inherent talent one either has or doesn’t have. You can learn to lay a straight line of bricks or cook a pot roast, this thinking goes, but you can’t learn to write a sonnet. You’re either born with the ability to write a sonnet or you’re out of luck. Creativity is ephemeral, mystical, a thing of light and shadow and nuance.
Conversely, the existence of a university is predicated on the conviction that things can be taught, that empty minds can be filled with the wisdom of preceding ages. Creativity is based on the unique, the unprecedented; scholarship is based on adding to the sum of knowledge that has gone before. The two concepts are as dissimilar as opera and soap opera.
“This goes back to the 1880s, when the first creative writing and composition programs began at Harvard,” said Fenza. “The scholars there had come out of the Germanic tradition that was retrospective. They didn’t have much interest in the prospective.”
A tough sell for some
While creative writing programs are booming, they’re still not always met with open arms by university administrators, Fenza said. “Even though creative writing is taught in most English departments in North America, there’s still resistance to the endeavor.” There’s still the old prejudice that it isn’t a “real” university subject, such as math or history.
Another point of contention has been the issue of evaluation. Professors know how to grade an exam in organic chemistry–the answer is right or it’s wrong–but how can they pass judgment on a sheaf of poems, the first chapter of a novel?
Writers have always served apprenticeships, learning techniques and gleaning ideas from other writers. Ezra Pound helped T.S. Eliot spruce up “The Waste Land”; Joseph Conrad shared trade secrets with Stephen Crane.
Typically, though, those exchanges were informal, taking place in salons or bars or coffeehouses, not in the sterile confines of a college classroom, complete with rows of desks all facing the same way. Making writing–traditionally a thing of feverish inspiration and midnight epiphanies–into an academic subject was a hotly disputed step.
Even into the 1970s, such programs still were considered a bit of a risk for universities, said John Schultz, professor emeritus and former chairman of the English department at Columbia College Chicago, which in 1969 offered one of the nation’s first undergraduate degree programs in creative writing and in 1982 established its MFA program.
“At first the University of Iowa and Stanford University were about it. Then in the early 1970s the University of Arkansas announced they were going to start one, and I remember people saying, `I just hope there will be enough students to go around,'” recalled Schultz with a chuckle.
They needn’t have worried: Creative writing programs are so popular that the best ones, such as Iowa’s, are highly competitive. Conroy said he typically has almost 700 applicants for 20 spots. “It’s harder to get in here than Harvard Law School,” he said.
A glut of programs?
Yet creative writing programs, Conroy added, may have become too successful for their own good. “I think there may be too many now. There are an awful lot I have doubts about. Many are counterproductive. There are people teaching writing who don’t know anything about it.”
Not all writing teachers agree–or agree with Iowa’s method of teaching writing, as it happens. The Iowa program is known for its intense “workshopping” of student creations, in which one student’s story or poem is the focus of the day’s class. The process can be somewhat brutal and emotionally devastating, Conroy acknowledged. “I’ve had students who fainted or who burst into tears and left the class. It gets competitive, sure. But life is competitive.”
That’s not how they do things at Columbia, said Randall Albers, chairman of the fiction writing MFA program. “Most programs start with the idea that you have it [writing talent] or you don’t. But we all possess storytelling abilities. We’ve been telling stories since we were 3.”
Columbia’s classes involve reading students’ stories and then recalling vivid moments from them–not critiquing a work, but exploring its most memorable aspects. Instead of feeling attacked, the student feels empowered.
The “Iowa method,” as Albers termed it, is “used by 90 percent of creative writing programs,” he acknowledged. “But we work with the whole process, from the first image through the writing.”
A degree in creative writing doesn’t have to be a luxury item, Albers said. “It can really enhance your job skills–your ability to read and write and listen–even if you don’t become the next Toni Morrison.”
Realistic expectations
Similarly, Magnuson said, SIU students aren’t misled into thinking an MFA is a one-way ticket to the best-seller list. Other creative writing teachers agreed: Students know the odds. By and large they enroll in creative writing programs for the experience of writing stories and having their work taken seriously, not for the expectation of fame and fortune.
“We’re really honest about the chances of failure in publishing,” Magnuson said. “Being in grad school for creative writing doesn’t mean you’re going to get a book contract. On the other hand, you’ll learn a lot about language and people. We feel this knowledge will be helpful to our graduates in whatever occupation they choose.”
And the route to being a successful writer doesn’t necessarily wind through a creative writing program, Thompson said. Hers did–she earned an MFA from Bowling Green State University in Ohio–as did the routes of writers such as Flannery O’Connor and John Irving, both of whom graduated from the Iowa program. But others, such as John Updike, never went near such programs.
“No one would argue that you need an MFA to be a writer,” Thompson said. “But people have found it useful to gather with other writers. Hemingway had Paris in the ’20s. Most writers don’t sit on a mountaintop and just emit prose. There’s some engagement with a receptive and sympathetic audience.”
Defending her choice
Lila Nagarajan enjoyed that engagement during her three years in Columbia’s MFA program, from which she recently graduated, she said. But she faced skepticism from friends and family. “I heard, `What are you going to do with your degree?’ But I loved doing it.”
Nagarajan, 25, who was born and raised in India and came to the United States in 1995, has an undergraduate degree in social work from Rockford College. What she learned in creative writing classes–the ability to listen to others and to craft a narrative–will help her as a social worker, she believes.
Most MFA programs in creative writing require students to submit a body of work for graduation: a collection of short stories or poems, or a novel or play. At the undergraduate level, most creative writing classes require the completion of one or two stories that have been extensively revised based on class and instructor feedback.
Stephanie Kuehnert, 22, an Oak Park native who expects to finish Columbia’s undergraduate program in creative writing in January, said she started out her college career as a sociology major at Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio, but “couldn’t resist the need to write.” So she transferred to Columbia–and has had a blast.
“It’s good to have other writers around to discuss your work with. I’ve had my writing improve by leaps and bounds,” said Kuehnert, who is working on two novels. “It’s invigorating to hear other people’s ideas. It’s helped me find my best voice.
“Now I can follow my dreams.”