Photo by hannamorris
Three years ago, I felt stuck. I’d been writing fiction seriously for several years. I’d had some publishing success: a couple of novels out with small presses, several essays and short stories collected in magazines and anthologies. I had a weekly critique group. I read a lot. I wrote a lot.
But while I could see improvement in the quality of my work over time, I’d hit a wall — and I couldn’t figure out how to break through it.
After yoga class one day, I confessed my frustrations to Julie Berry. She asked whether I’d ever considered an MFA. I hadn’t, since some words from Mark Helprin on the subject had stuck with me for many years. I can’t find the exact quote now, but he basically said to take the money you’d have spent on a writing program, instead rent a hotel room in Italy, and ultimately get more bang for your buck.
Perhaps it was a moment of post-yoga zen, but I suddenly realized Helprin’s words were inapplicable to my life. I have a husband and six kids; no one in this house is spending uninterrupted weeks in a Venetian palazzo anytime soon. My friend Julie, on the other hand, is also married and has four kids roughly my children’s ages. She’s a talented, hard-working writer who’s achieving the lofty goals she’s set for herself. I figured her suggestion was worth considering.
After a lot of research, I applied to and was accepted by Vermont College of Fine Arts. Its MFA programs are all low residency. This means that every semester (four in all) starts with a 10-day residency at VCFA’s lovely campus in Montpelier. At residency, amidst workshop, readings, and lectures, you choose a few advisors with whom you’d like to work, and you’re assigned one for the next five months.
Every month, working at home, you email a “packet” to that advisor, which consists of several chapters of creative writing, an annotated bibliography, and a couple of critical essays. Your advisor spends a few days carefully critiquing every aspect of your work and then sends detailed responses, pointing out strengths and suggesting changes where needed.
Those early critical essays prepare you for your third semester, when you write your critical thesis on the topic of your choice (while at the same time writing about 40 pages of new creative work every packet). My thesis was called “The Good Fear: The Case for Horror in Children’s Literature.”
Fourth semester, you write your creative thesis, which is a minimum of 80 pages of publication-worthy work. (Revision is the name of the game, and you’ve worked up to it.) Instead of critical work, you prepare a 45-minute lecture to be delivered at your fifth and final residency. (Most students lecture on the topic of their critical thesis, but that’s not mandatory.)
Ahh, the faculty — what a dream. Every semester, there are twenty writers teaching, all of whom have experienced significant critical and commercial success. My advisors were Uma Krishnaswami, Mark Karlins, Alan Cumyn, and Martha Brockenbrough.
My residency workshop leaders were Uma Krishnaswami and Nova Ren Suma; Shelley Tanaka and Liz Garton Scanlon; Will Alexander and Jane Kurtz; Tom Birdseye and Sharon Darrow; and A.S. King.
The above aren’t just gifted writers; they’re incredible teachers. Their lectures were insightful and their readings inspired me on many levels. Each advisor has a maximum of five students per semester, so the personalized attention is amazing. I will be rereading their long letters and extensive notes to glean additional wisdom for years to come.
Workshops average ten students and two advisors. My last workshop was even smaller — just the incredible A.S. (Amy) King and six lucky students — so again, the level of individualized feedback I got was unparalleled.
It wasn’t just the class time with the advisors; they constantly modeled humility and approachability. They’ll just come sit down next to you in the cafeteria or in the coffee shop and ask you about your writing, your life. One of my favorite memories of my first residency was chatting with Will Alexander over sandwiches about folk music, the concept of resonance, and common threads running through world mythology while secretly marveling, I’m sitting here geeking out with a National Book Award winner.
And then there were my peers. Twenty of us graduated together in January 2018, and we got tight over those two years of deadlines and writer’s block and breakthroughs and fear and exhilaration. About 110–120 students attend each residency. Assigned workshops always mix it up and have students from each class, “firsties” through grads. You can’t imagine the bliss of spending every waking hour talking about books and writing for days on end until you’ve experienced it.
Other benefits? The library access is a huge gift— one that keeps on giving for alumni. I got to spend one residency in Bath, England as part of a special exchange program with Bath Spa University. I could go on and on about the rich experiences I’ve had over the past two years.
What did I come away with, other than a fancy piece of paper with my name on it? Some people choose to work on one project over their two years, but I wanted to try a lot of different things. I ended up with two short stories (one went on to win second place in a fiction contest and be published in an anthology; the other was just accepted by another anthology); five picture books (two stories, two biographies, and one in verse); a complete draft of a contemporary fantasy novel; and solid, extensive beginnings to five other novels in a variety of genres (historical, science fiction, horror, fantasy, suspense). A month after graduating, I have clear direction, having made a plan to query agents with the projects I’ve completed and to finish the rest.
I also gained skill, confidence, and real connections with top-notch writers. I made time and gave myself permission to make writing and reading my top professional priorities — habits I plan to continue despite my busy family life. I have zero regrets about spending a lot of money on my degree (fully recognizing that I am very, very lucky that I was able to afford it in the first place). Will I ever make the money back? Who knows? What I do know is that I can’t put a price on the value of my graduate education and the way it changed my life.