Debatable: Do You Need an MFA?

How to Learn Your Craft—and Get Published—Without the Degree

Catherine McKenzie

I’ll admit I wasn’t aware of the MFA program debate until after I’d gotten a book deal. It’s not that I didn’t know about master’s degrees in writing—I had simply never considered getting one because writing a novel wasn’t on my radar. I’m often asked whether I’ve always been a writer, and my stock answer is: “I’ve always written.” I think that’s why the idea of a writing career never entered my thought process. I wrote—it was who I was, not what I was going to do.

Then I wrote a novel. I wouldn’t exactly say I did it by accident, though I certainly hadn’t meant to write one when I first sat down and began typing ten years ago. But that is what it became: a 90,000-word story that had a beginning, a (saggy) middle, and an end. I spent some time trying to fix it, realized I had put too much of me on the page, and eventually put that book in a drawer and started again.

Would that first novel have been better if I’d earned an MFA (or, in fact, taken any writing courses at all)? Undoubtedly, though this notion will only ever exist as a thought experiment. Absent the invention of a time machine, I’ll never know what I might or could have written if I’d chosen that path. Conversely, those who did choose to pursue a graduate degree in writing won’t ever know how their MFA program influenced what they might have written otherwise.

CONSIDER THE ARGUMENTS FOR AND AGAINST

MFA programs are often criticized for being too focused on literary fiction and producing a generation of voices that sound similar. I’ll admit that its bent toward the literary rather than the commercial has made the MFA feel exclusive. Would I even be admitted to a program? I’ve wondered, not because I don’t think my writing is good enough but because I’m not sure it’s the “right” kind of writing.

I do think there’s something to be said for the concerns about voice as well. Belonging to a group influences you both consciously and unconsciously. When I sat down to write, I didn’t think about whether it was fashionable to write in first-person present—I just did it. That was how my voice came out. And though that voice has shifted and, I hope, improved over the years, it is my voice. Would I have lost it with more formalized training? I will literally never know.

On the other hand, I can understand how those who did go through formal training might be frustrated with writers like me. You can’t become a lawyer, a doctor, or an architect without a degree. But the arts, for whatever reason, seem more accessible. Anyone with a pen or a computer can write the next great novel, or so they think. MFA programs act as a filter; you need some talent to get in, though being accepted is no guarantee of publication or success.

Does a formal writing education help you become a bestseller or win literary awards? Perhaps, although it’s unlikely that the three to four thousand MFA students who graduate each year (according to The New York Times1“Why Writers Love to Hate the M.F.A.” (www.nytimes.com/2015/04/12/education/edlife/12edl-12mfa.html?_r=0). ) publish the majority of the novels released.

And consider this: The first MFA program was established in Iowa in 1936, so every book written before that—from the worst to the best—was published without its benefit. Austen, Dickens, and Shakespeare were all self-taught.

LEARN YOUR CRAFT, AND PUT IN THE TIME

Of course, writers who choose not to pursue an MFA still need to study and train. I don’t know if Malcolm Gladwell’s ten thousand–hour theory (the idea that you must practice something for approximately ten thousand hours to master it) is true, but I’m fairly certain I’ve spent at least ten thousand hours reading, which I think is crucial for anyone who wants to write. And once I started writing novels, I started reading novels differently, trying to figure out the mechanics. I remember consciously doing this with Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn. I read it once for pleasure and then immediately went back to the beginning to figure out how the author had pulled it off. I’ve also read craft books, though I didn’t read my first craft book until I was in the middle of writing my fifth novel! (It said I was doing it right. Whew!)

Then, of course, you must do the writing itself: the hours and hours and hours of it. It usually takes me six months to produce the first draft of a novel by working, on average, an hour a day. That’s roughly 180 hours to a first draft—and that’s just my pace. It takes many writers far longer. By the time the book hits the bookshelf, it’s been through multiple drafts and edits and proofreading—another year’s worth of work, easily a thousand hours. That might be a bad billing year for a lawyer, but it’s a lot of time to spend on one project. And each step of the process focuses on improving it, making it faster paced, smoother, and more vivid and unexpected. I learn something with each book and set challenges for myself, too.

ASK YOURSELF A FEW KEY QUESTIONS

So should you do an MFA program? I didn’t, but it didn’t prevent me from becoming an author. Ultimately the choice is yours. Before you apply (or write it off) consider:

1. What do you expect to get out of the program?
2. Are you a self-starter or someone who needs prodding to get things done? If you are the latter, a more structured program might be right for you.
3. What kinds of stories do you want to write? Will you have the freedom to do that in the program you choose?

And remember: There is no right or wrong answer. Both formal and informal training can lead you to a successful career as a novelist. Pick the path that’s right for you.