The Work and Destiny of Writing Students

And life after the MFA

Hi y’all and welcome to new subscribers to Sitting in Silence. Welcome back to those who have been reading for a while. Today, I’ll talk a bit about the value of writing workshops and programs.

But first, I want to note a couple of very positive recent events. Last week, I participated in the One Book One New Orleans Kick-Off event at the historic African American bookstore, Community Book Center. One thing no one explained to me was all the cool things that happen when you publish a book. I never imagined that one of my books would be the centerpiece of my hometown literary program, but it is. The Ones Who Don’t Say They Love You will be featured at events all throughout the year. And, it will be distributed to hundreds of learners during that time.

Second, this past Sunday was the four-year anniversary of the publication of my debut novel, We Cast a Shadow. When I think back to the release event, I think about how that night almost everyone I cared about was in the same room at the same time (ex. It was Ma’s birthday, and she was there with two of her childhood friends, women I’ve known since I was small). I think about how during the Q&A session, I knew the name of everyone (about ten people) who asked questions, and I addressed them by their names from the stage. I think about how I was only able to write publish the book because of all the care and support my community gave me in my life.

I actually get choked up thinking about these aspects of my journey. How none of it was foretold, but it was all guaranteed.

And now for today’s topic with the obligatory reminder that you can follow this newsletter on the Substack app.

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When I was in grad school, I didn’t think much about life after my MFA. Before enrolling, I felt like I was wandering through a wasteland and there, behind a high wall, was an oasis full of ripe fruit and babbling brooks. I went to writing school to fall into myself. I kept my day job, typing bland legal documents while in a fugue. But at night I came to life. Being around others who were concerned with the way sentences could be welded to from a narrative. The relative benefits of first person versus third person POV. If, how, and when semi-colons, exclamation points, and m-dashes should be used. Who knew this level of word geekery existed on Earth? Who knew exposure to these discussions on cold nights at picnic tables outside of grimy bars would become some of the defining moments of my life? Who know there we so many others like me out there?

Having gotten degrees in English, psychology, and law, my experience is that the pursuit of a creative writing degree is a journey of the heart. Most writers in these programs are there to hone our art. We want to make pretty things, good things. We want to be heard and make a difference. But these programs don’t last forever. We all must reenter the wasteland and fend for ourselves at some point.

I’m writing this because of one of the lessons I learned during my grad school experience. It’s not a lesson that’s advertised, but it’s vital, I believe, to the success of every writer who goes through the process.

We enter grad school searching for guidance. It is the job of faculty to direct our efforts. MFA faculty are coaches, cheerleaders, guides, and mentors. But the transformation comes at the hands of the writer. In crass terms, I’m arguing that MFA students, myself included, sometimes have an employee’s attitude. But, in truth, the writer is the boss. In my experience, most faculty who teach in these programs do so because they want to see other writers develop. We want to pay forward the advice and support that we received along the way. But the student has the ultimate responsibility for who they become once they transition from the garden and back into the world.

Personally, I had no plan as I rolled into my final semester a decade ago. I didn’t want to continue my law career, but I also didn’t want to teach. I come from a family of educators. Teaching almost felt like it would be too easy. It was in my genes, after all. The other most likely options were get a Ph.D. or go out and hustle doing whatever jobs came available. Let’s not even consider the childlike hope in the back of my mind: I might publish an international bestseller and live solely off my writing. (Dear reader, I’m still waiting for this to happen.)

Getting a Ph.D. didn’t seem like it was the best choice for me. Don’t get me wrong. I could live in school collecting knowledge for the rest of my life. And my nickname as a kid in my childhood home was “The Professor.” But by the time I was finishing grad school, I was already in my thirties and the thought of spending the better part of a decade in the pursuit of a doctorate made me queasy. Also, the job market for doctors of writing was getting worse, not better. So, I wanted to get into the action, now.

And picking up work in the world as say, a bartender or carpenter or on a fishing boat outside Delacroix, had a certain romance to it. Real world experience broadens the soul and feeds the writing. But I wasn’t going to kid myself. I’m not protagonist in a Bob Dylan song. I’d probably fall overboard on my first fishing run.

So I kept my day job. If patrons in the Middle Ages are the reason we have the Sistine Chapel, then my law firms could cover my mortgage and provide health care until I figured out what was next.

Somehow, it all worked out. I’ve been blessed to have faith and a wide support network. This meant I only really had to focus on one thing: writing the One Book.

This is how I saw the challenge: If I only get to publish One Book that I’d like to see in the world, what would it be? I spent the better part of the following decade figuring that out. The product of that journey was my first novel, We Cast a Shadow.

Ultimately, that faith paid off. It was a solid plan, even if I didn’t know it at the time.

That book did not make me wealthy, but the advance was good enough to tell me I was on the right track.

More importantly, it made clear to me how many opportunities are on the other side of the door for published authors. Along the way, I decided to give teaching a shot, but had no luck against better qualified candidates. Publishing the book changed that.

Suddenly, I was in contention for teaching jobs around the country. Suddenly, I was being asked to give paid presentations and readings in the most unusual circumstances. (Catch me in a bar after a few glasses of wine and I’ll tell you all about the time I did a reading in a mansion full of rich folks. The vibe was very much Get Out meets Eyes Wide Shut.) Suddenly, I was a public intellectual being hired to write think pieces.

Grad school doesn’t necessarily prepare students for the workplace. I don’t think this is a problem at any particular university. I think it’s wide-spread design flaw. An MFA gives you a license. That license gives you access. But your work gives you choice. Your work gives you options.

I didn’t expect that having a successful book would provide more work opportunities than a Ph.D. but that appears to be the case, at least for me. Which is just what I wanted. To write a book and see where that took me.

Once you publish your book, you join a sorority of writers. It’s not that writers are snobs, its just that publishing a book is a sign that you’re serious about the work. Many unpublished writers are serious, but almost all published writers are serious. In my experience.

So what’s the moral of all this?

There’s a world of opportunity in front of you, student. If you want to teach, you can. If you want to get a Ph.D., go for it. But remember that an education degree is probably a bit better if pedagogy is your thing. A creative writing MFA is for writing. And let’s not forget that countless successful writers have no grad degree at all.

Your job is to assess your needs and goals. There are even more people available to help you after your learning experience. Your job is to create a stable environment to produce your work. Tend to your mental garden, pay your taxes, be good to the people around you. Your job is to pursue your writing with the fervor of someone who is running out of time. But don’t panic. There’s almost always a little more time than you think.