How The Low-Res MFA Works (In The Word Cellar)

This is Part 4 of an "In The Word Cellar" mini-series about MFA in writing programs. You can read the other posts at the links listed below:

• Part 1: The Road to MFA-ville gives you a short introduction to the mini-series.
• Part 2: Why Get an MFA in Writing? chronicles my decision to apply to graduate school and explores what I was looking for in a program.
• Part 3: Researching & Choosing an MFA Program is a long, meaty post that details how I chose which programs to apply to. It also includes helpful resources and suggestions for anyone considering or applying to an MFA program.

In that last post, I offered an overview of how low-residency programs work and why I liked being in one. First, I'll reprint what I wrote about that, and then I'll get into more details about the logistics of low-res programs, including how the feedback process works and what "critical" work really means in the context of a creative writing program.

How low-res programs work...

Low-res programs usually take four semesters to complete. A semester is six months, so you're basically working on the degree for two years straight. Twice a year you spend about 10 days on campus. (This is the residency part.) During residencies you'll attend lectures, workshops, and readings with faculty members and other students. I found that residencies were like an alternate reality: total immersion in the world of writing. The "real world" of home and work fade away and seem quite distant very quickly. Frankly, it's pretty fantastic to be immersed in the world of writing and the company of other writers.

The rest of the semester is spent off-campus. So it's just you and your writing wherever you live. Each program may be a bit different, but most work like this: Once a month you send packets of writing to your faculty advisor, who will then respond with detailed feedback and recommendations.

A low-res program culminates in the completion of a creative thesis, just as in traditional programs. This is essentially a collection of creative writing you've done over the course of the program. Mine had to be at least 75 pages. It included a collection of essays that belong together plus one "random" essay that wasn't part of the same set. Your creative thesis could be part (or all) of a memoir, a novel, a collection of short stories, or a poetry collection. (The page count for poets is always much shorter, it seems.) My other graduation requirements included writing a critical thesis and writing and delivering a 45-minute lecture.

...and why I think they're great.

It's often said that the low-res model more closely mirrors a writer's life than does a traditional program, and I think that's true. Most of the time, being a writer means sitting down alone and writing. Then you might share your work and get feedback from an editor or your peers, and maybe get together with some fellow writers at a retreat or conference a few times a year. And then it's back to the page. This is how I spent my two years in a low-residency program, which seems to be good training for my post-grad writing life. I'm still working on writing consistently, but I'm so much better at it than I was before grad school. The experience of having monthly deadlines has helped me to become more consistent in my writing. It's also reinforced my need for external deadlines, which I now feed by making commitments with friends to swap work or deciding to send my work to lit journals.

And now for some new material. Please keep in mind that I'm writing from the perspective of my experience with Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA). There will be a lot of similarities with other low-res programs, but not all programs work exactly the same way. (If you've gone through a different low-res program, I invite you to leave a comment telling us how your experience was the same or different.)

The advisors
Each semester, a student works with one faculty member as an advisor. Students usually work with a different advisor each semester (for a total of four advisors), but occasionally students will petition the program and ask to work with the same advisor two semesters in a row (usually the last two semesters).

At VCFA, students get a say in who they work with, but it's not guaranteed that they'll work with any particular faculty member. You get more say as you progress through the semesters. As a first semester student you circle a certain number of names of faculty members, with no system for ranking your preference. For example, if there are eight faculty members who teach in your genre, you may be asked to circle six of them that you'd be willing to work with. Starting in your second semester you get to list faculty members by preference. Students in later semesters have more clout in this process, and by your final semester you usually get your first choice. I always ended up working with one of my top two choices for the semester.

The packets (and feedback)
As I mentioned above, each month I sent a packet of work to my advisor. Some advisors request that these be sent via regular mail, while others accept material via email. Either way, my packets consisted of a combination of creative and critical work. (More on what "critical" means below.)

A standard packet consists of 30 pages of writing (often a combination of new and revised material), plus a "cover letter." The term cover letter confuses a lot of people, and sounds like something you'd send with a resume. Not so. This letter to your advisor is an opportunity to ask them questions and to update them on how you're doing creatively. Think of it as a monthly check-in,  a written version of what you'd talk about if you met with your advisor during office hours. In return, your advisor will write you a letter, answering your questions, addressing your concerns, and offering writing and reading suggestions.

In addition to this letter, your advisor will provide detailed feedback on the work you submitted. Each advisor has his or her own way of doing this. Some will leave detailed line notes on your work. Others include the bulk of their comments in their main letter or in mini-letters at the end of each piece of writing. Some work electronically (using Word's "track changes" feature to leave comments and line edits on the electronic documents), some work on hard copies, and some may do a combination of both. I know of one faculty member who gives students feedback via audio recording, which sounds strange, but his students usually love it.

You can get a sense, in advance, of how faculty members work and what they like to focus on (which genres or subgenres; do they focus on "big picture" issues such as theme and structure or more detailed items such as language usage, grammar, and word choice). You learn this by reading their teaching statements, getting to know them through their lectures, talking to other students, and by talking directly with the faculty members during group "speed-dating" sessions.

A note about feedback
Just as every faculty member has a different process for giving feedback, each will have a unique perspective and opinion on your writing. This means that you sometimes receive conflicting advice. At first this can be frustrating and confusing, but in the end, I believe it's a gift and an invitation to find your own artistic vision. I've written a separate post on this called Dealing with Feedback.

The "critical" work
Let's talk about what critical work means in the context of a creative writing program.

First off, it's not nearly as dry, boring, or terrible as it sounds. Part of the MFA program is learning to read as a writer; to dive into another author's work and begin to figure out how she made the magic happen on the page. This is learning to look at creative work with a critical eye. Not critical in the sense of being harsh or belittling. Rather, this is about applying critical thinking skills to the craft of writing.

During my first two semesters, my critical work consisted of essays in which I examined how a particular writer or writers used a specific writing device or achieved a particular effect. I looked at a lot of different things in these pieces, including the following: how David Sedaris uses humor to convey deeper truths; how Annie Dillard uses poetic and rhetorical devices to create meaning and mood; and how various authors use details to create lyric intimacy. I also wrote a review of a published memoir, noting what worked and what didn't work in it.

These essays served as the training ground and warm-up for my third and fourth semesters, when I had to complete larger critical projects. In my third semester I wrote a critical thesis entitled "Spinning a Web of Wonder: Capturing and Conveying Awe on the Page," an in-depth examination of how several authors do this, and suggestions on general principles the rest of us can apply to achieve the same effect. For my final semester I had to write (and then present) a lecture. Mine was called "The Secret Life of Language" (description here).

Doing this kind of "critical" reading and writing is a huge part of why my writing improved so much during the program. It was completely different from the literature papers I wrote as an undergrad. It opened my creative eyes to the art and craft of writing. This way of seeing didn't come automatically; it felt awkward at first. But now that I have the hang of it, it's an indispensable skill.

Thankfully, it hasn't taken the joy out of reading at all. Many people -- including me -- tend to worry that this might happen when they start to read and think about writing in this new way. But for me, and the people I know, it's simply enhanced our experience of books. I can pretty much turn the critical faculty on and off as I need to.

Plus, I haven't lost access to the inspiration side of writing. When I write a first draft (and maybe the second and third drafts, too), I'm not usually thinking critically about it. I'm still tapped into the creative, intuitive side of things. But when I come up against a passage that's not working, I can apply this other way of thinking to it and see how I can solve the problem.

Of course, it's not really so bifurcated as this, either. As I learn more about the craft techniques of writing, they become part of my creative psyche, so a lot of the work begins to happen subconsciously as my creative mind applies the critical principles I've learned. It's actually really cool.

What else? 
If you'd like to read about low-res programs from the perspective of a faculty member, check out this article by David Jauss, an outstanding author and mentor who teaches at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock and in the low-res program at VCFA. (Note: The link above takes you to the VCFA site where you can request the article via email. The article, entitled "The Real Story Behind Low-Residency MFAs" was originally published in the February 2011 issue of Writer's Digest.)

I've tried to give you more than just a peek into how low-res programs work in general, and how the VCFA program works in particular. What have I missed?

Please chime-in below with your questions or observations about MFA in writing programs, either low-res or traditional.

***For future posts in this MFA mini-series, I'm considering offering a primer on how writing workshops function, and possible alternatives to the MFA program. Do those topics interest you? What else would you like me to address about writing, graduate programs, and the writing life? Let me know in the comments or by email, and I'll consider your questions for future In The Word Cellar columns.  

{See all In The Word Cellar posts here.}

How do I know if it's any good? (In The Word Cellar)

This week for "In The Word Cellar" I'm taking a short break from the MFA mini-series. I'll be back next time with more tips on choosing (or not) an MFA in creative writing.

** ** **

A few weeks ago a student in the current session of Alchemy: The Art & Craft of Writing asked me a question that froze me in my tracks:

I've been thinking about writing  a novel for a long time. But each time, I've pushed it out of my head because I didn't think I had the time or skill required for such a big project. I've come back to it recently because the urge to do it seems insistent. 

How can a writer gauge if his or her plot is any good?

Holy crap. It's a good question, right?

Substitute any number of words for "plot" and you have the crux of the writers' existential question: How do I know if my _______* is any good?

{*plot, idea, voice, essay, poem, story, novel, play, writing}

How do we know?

Hell if I know.

I read the question and sent her a quick note saying I'd be back with a full answer just as soon as I pulled together my thoughts on the topic. And then I put off answering her for more than a week -- because I was afraid to answer it.

Why afraid? Because it's a question I ask all the time about my own writing: How do I know if it's any good? 

But eventually I faced the question and offerd up the most honest answer I knew how to give. I think it's a question that many (most?) of us creative types struggle with, so I decided to share a slightly edited version of my answer here. Let's get the question (and the ways we can answer it) out into the open and talk about it. There's safety (and comfort) in numbers, especially when it comes to the burning questions of creative doubt and fear.

Earlier this year I asked one of my mentors that very same question: How do I know if what I've written is any good? Furthermore, I wondered to him why I couldn't answer that question for myself, especially at this stage in my writing life, when I've been at it for awhile now.

He answered me by quoting from W.S. Merwin's poem "Berryman," which recounts Merwin's experience of working with his mentor (John Berryman).

I had hardly begun to read
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can't

you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write

Isn't that wonderful and terrible?

Wonderful because even the great writers struggle with this question. So it's a natural question to have! It's also wonderful because it kind of lets us off the hook. It basically tells us: Just keep writing. Don't worry about the quality; just keep doing what you're called to do.

But it's also terrible, right? Because not being able to gauge your own work is frustrating. Plus, who wants to work at their craft their whole life without knowing if they're improving?

And so I still struggle with this question on a personal and a metaphysical level. How do we know if anything is any good?

Maybe we don't know.

Maybe we don't need to know. Maybe we're asking the wrong question. What would happen if we stopped wondering if our _________* is any good? What if we asked ourselves these questions instead:

• Is this a novel/article/book/story/essay/poem/play I want to write?
• Is this something I need to write?
• Is this something I'd want to read?
• Is this something I feel compelled to tell?
• What will I lose if I don't write this?

So I say: Write it. Writing it (whatever it is) is the only way to allow it to develop, to make sense of it, to figure out where it wants to go and what it wants to be.

On a practical note, I recommend reading and studying published works by respected authors to see how they do it. Learning to read like a writer has been the biggest thing to help me grow in my own writing. I learn so much by looking at the work of others to see how they do specific things with the craft.

Another practical thing to do, after you've written part or all of it, is to ask people you trust to read it. Ask other writers and ask people who love to read. Ask them to tell you the truth with love. Ask for specific feedback on whatever it is you need. Join a writing group, find a workshop, work with an editor or coach. Let your words out into the world at least a little bit, and see what happens.

The question of "good" is difficult when it comes to creative endeavors. It's murky water. On one hand, I don't believe it's possible (or even advisable) to directly compare and rank one piece of writing against another. Apples and oranges, so to speak. On the other hand, some apples do taste better than others. But here again, even that's not quite so simple. I prefer a very cold, crisp apple with a loud crunch and a balanced sweetness-to-tartness ratio. My husband prefers an apple with a softer bite and a sweeter taste. Which apple is better? It depends on who's eating it.

So it's all a matter of taste? No, not all. It's a matter of taste in part.

I told you the water is murky. Determining if something is "good" is subjective, and yet I do believe there are some objective standards by which we can sort (rank? judge? none of these words feel good) pieces of writing. I'm hesitant to make any sweeping claims on this right now because I need to think it through some more. (Chime in with your ideas in the comments if you'd like.)

So first and foremost, I say again: Write it. (Whatever it is.) It keeps coming back to you for a reason. I sometimes think that if we don't tend to the ideas that come our way, they'll eventually leave us and ask someone else to create them. And then we'll mourn the loss.

The only consistent way to learn to write something is to write it. Want to learn to write a novel? Write one. Ditto for essays, short stories, poems, plays. Writing is a practice of practice.

Again, how wonderful and how terrible.

I say all of this knowing that I'm preaching to/teaching myself.

What do you think?

** ** **

In The Word Cellar normally sometimes runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.

___________________________________________________________________________

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Researching & Choosing an MFA Program (In The Word Cellar)

sticker found on ground; iPhoneography

Last time in this column I told you the story of why I decided to pursue an MFA in writing. Since then, I read an interview that Susan Orlean gave to Lee Gutkind in the journal Creative Nonfiction. In it, she offers an interesting perspective on graduate writing programs. She says that she wasn't initially a big supporter of them because she "always wondered why you should pay for something to be edited when you could be out there in the world, writing and getting editing as part of it -- and being paid." But a few things happened to change her mind: "One, it's harder and harder to get those jobs; two, the reality of the good editing [not necessarily] being there for you...." After serving as writer-in-residence at a few MFA programs, she thought this:

"This is where this is happening now, the chance to get your work really read and edited.' In a perfect world, that wouldn't be the case, but I'm not sure you would still get the apprenticeship. The model I always looked toward was that apprenticeship model from the 1900s: When you work for a cobbler, you're actually fixing shoes, but he's right there, correcting your mistakes, and there's a customer who's waiting for his shoe. I'm not sure that exists much anymore, so I've softened my position on writing programs because I think they are filling a need that maybe isn't being served that way."

I like Orleans' ideas on apprenticeship. That's very much how my MFA program felt; I was an apprentice to working writers and editors. Even though I wasn't writing for immediate publication, I did have that end goal in mind. I'll talk more specificity about my kind of program (low-residency) in this column and the next, and perhaps more about my particular school (Vermont College of Fine Arts) in a later column.

** ** **

In this installment, I'll share some tips on how to research and choose an MFA in writing program. There's a lot of information in here, so you may want to get a cup of coffee or glass of wine and settle in. Or maybe buckle up. Or hang on to your hat. Some such clichéd metaphor.

(If you're not interested in MFA programs, I invite you to use your time more wisely and check out this visual history of literary references on "The Simpsons." Or you could browse past "In The Word Cellar" posts about other writing topics. )

Types of programs: Traditional vs. low-residency

First of all, there are two basic types of MFA programs: traditional and low-residency. Traditional programs are what most people think of when they imagine grad school. These degrees usually take two to three years to complete. During that time you attend on-campus classes and work toward a final creative thesis. One of the practical perks of traditional programs is that they often offer students significant financial aid through grants and teaching assistantships. If you're willing to move somewhere to attend grad school, traditional programs are a feasible option.

Since I wasn't able to move to a new city or state for a few years, I chose to go the low-residency route. The upside is that I didn't have to move, could keep working, and my program was amazing. The downside is that low-res programs don't offer the same kind of grants that traditional programs do. But student loans are definitely an option. (Just ask me how much of an option they are in January when my first payment is due. But I digress.)

How low-res programs work...

Low-res programs usually take four semesters to complete. A semester is six months, so you're basically working on the degree for two years straight. Twice a year you spend about 10 days on campus. (This is the residency part.) During residencies you'll attend lectures, workshops, and readings with faculty members and other students. I found that residencies were like an alternate reality: total immersion in the world of writing. The "real world" of home and work fade away and seem quite distant very quickly. Frankly, it's pretty fantastic to be immersed in the world of writing and the company of other writers.

The rest of the semester is spent off-campus. So it's just you and your writing wherever you live. Each program may be a bit different, but most work like this: Once a month you send packets of writing to your faculty advisor, who will then respond with detailed feedback and recommendations.

A low-res program culminates in the completion of a creative thesis, just as in traditional programs. This is essentially a collection of creative writing you've done over the course of the program. Mine had to be at least 75 pages. It included a collection of essays that belong together plus one "random" essay that wasn't part of the same set. Your creative thesis could be part (or all) of a memoir, a novel, a collection of short stories, or a poetry collection. (The page count for poets is always much shorter, it seems.) My other graduation requirements included writing a critical thesis and writing and delivering a 45-minute lecture.

...and why I think they're great.

It's often said that the low-res model more closely mirrors a writer's life than does a traditional program, and I think that's true. Most of the time, being a writer means sitting down alone and writing. Then you might share your work and get feedback from an editor or your peers, and maybe get together with some fellow writers at a retreat or conference a few times a year. And then it's back to the page. This is how I spent my two years in a low-residency program, which seems to be good training for my post-grad writing life. I'm still working on writing consistently, but I'm so much better at it than I was before grad school. The experience of having monthly deadlines has helped me to become more consistent in my writing. It's also reinforced my need for external deadlines, which I now feed by making commitments with friends to swap work or deciding to send my work to lit journals.

How to choose a program

Here are some things to consider whether you're looking at a traditional or low-residency program.

First, consider what genre you want to write in. While some cross-genre study is usually possible, you will usually focus on one main genre. Most MFA programs include tracks in fiction and poetry. Most also include a creative nonfiction (CNF) track, but not all do. (For example, Warren Wilson, a very well respected program, does not offer CNF as a genre. On the other hand, the also well-respected Goucher Collge offers only CNF.) Some programs offer other genres, such as writing for stage and screen or writing for children and young adults.

Another thing to consider is a program's faculty. Check out how many faculty members teach in your genre. If you can, try to get a feel for their work. I admit that I didn't do this due to a time crunch and a feeling of overwhelm. I started researching grad school right before the next round of applications were due. (Low-res programs usually accept applications twice a year.) Plus, I looked at a lot of schools. Trying to research that many faculty members and what they had written was impractical. But it's truly one of the best ways to choose a program. It's impossible to read everything every faculty member has written, but it's nice to get a general sense of their work. It's also nice to see how long they've been teaching -- and where. A great writer isn't necessarily a great mentor or teacher. (Side note: A lot of the faculty who teach in low-res programs also teach at other universities and traditional MFA programs.)

Talk to current students and alumni. Contact the schools that interest you and ask to be put in touch with students or graduates. This is very common, so don't feel weird about it. I talked to a number of current and past students from several of my favorite programs. Since graduating, I've volunteered to talk to prospective students. It's a great way to ask questions and get an insider's look at the program. I even requested to speak with a faculty member after I was accepted to a number of schools and was trying to choose a program.

Does the program have any special features? For example, the low-res program at Antioch University in Los Angeles has an emphasis on social justice. Queens University of Charlotte's low-res program has students participate in distance writing workshops (which means that you interact with other students to share and critique work even when you're not on campus for residency). Some schools have a strong  interdisciplinary approach, an emphasis on publishing, or extra certificates in areas such as translation, publishing, or teaching. One or two that I know of even dispense with the "critical" component of the MFA. (I'll talk more about creative and critical work in the next column.) I'm not in favor of this approach, even though it does sound appealing. (More on this next time.)

Consider practical things such as class load, graduation requirements, residency length, location, and dates (for low-res programs), and financial aid. (For low-res programs, also look at past residency schedules to compare the amount and quality of lectures, workshops, and other events.)

Consider reputation and ranking. These are tricky areas. By reputation I mean both the academic reputation and the general vibe of the place. Rankings (see below) can help you sort out a school's reputation, but they have their limitations. (There is currently a kerfuffle raging over the Poets & Writers' ranking system.) Talking to students and alumni can help to give you a feel for a program's culture: Do students get a say in what faculty members they work with? Are faculty known for being friendly and available or elitest? Is the atmosphere of the student body competitve or collaborative?

Resources

**The current issue of Poets & Writers (Sept./Oct. 2011) is devoted to MFA in writing programs. The cover story is titled "MFA Nation: Do You Want To Be A Part Of It?"

Here are some other resources to help you research schools and programs.

• Poets & Writers overview of MFA programs, including their 2012 rankings
• "Where Great Writers are Made" and "Writers in Training," older (2007) but useful articles from The Atlantic assessing the top MFA programs
• The Atlantic's rankings of MFA programs (Again, this is older, but it's still a good starting point.)
• The Creative Writing MFA Blog
• The creative writing programs section of NewPages.com (which is also a great website for researching literary journals)
• The AWP Official Guide to Writing Programs (AWP is the Association of Writers and Writing Programs)

This list isn't comprehensive, so please share anything I've missed in the comments.

How to apply

Every program will have its own application requirements, so be prepared to get organized, especially if you're applying to multiple schools. Most programs require some combination of the following: 

• application form;
• writing samples;
• entrance essay(s);
• undergrad transcripts; and
• letters of recommendation.

Traditional programs may require GRE scores, but low-res programs usually don't. Oh, and there's an application fee, usually around $50 per program.

You can probably use the same writing samples for most programs, but make sure you adhere to the requested page limits and formatting requirements. You may also be able to use some version of your entrance essay(s) for several schools, though you will want to tailor this to each specific request.

Traditional programs often accept students once a year, for enrollment in the fall. Low-res programs usually accept students twice a year, for enrollment in summer and winter. Pay attention to the deadlines.

To how many schools should you apply? That's up to you and your own style of madness. I have a Type A personality when it comes to these things. I also have a keen inability to gauge my own talent and skill level. I had absolutely no idea if I could get into an MFA program. So, to increase my odds, I decided to apply to seven (yes, 7) of them. (I had a very specific timeline in mind in my head, and I didn't want to risk having to reapply in another six months.) In the end, I applied to just (just!) six. I only skipped the last one because I found out I was accepted to my top choices before the final application was due. Most people I know don't undertake this kind of craziness. A lot of my MFA friends said they applied to two or three schools. Some took a chance and applied only to one.

Since I'm often asked where I applied, here's my list.

• Vermont College of Fine Arts
• Bennington
• Pacific University
• Stonecoast (at the University of Southern Maine)
• Lesley University
• Goucher College
• Queen's University of Charlotte

Okay! That's all for now. (If you've made it this far: Thank you.) I'll do at least one more installment in this MFA series of "In The Word Cellar." If you have questions about grad school, please let me know. And please feel free to ask general writing or creativity-related questions, too, as I'll be returning to those topics in future posts.

In The Word Cellar normally sometimes runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.

Why Get an MFA in Writing? (In The Word Cellar)

notes for my graduating lecture, "The Secret Life of Language"

Back in May I declared that I would revive the bi-monthly "In The Word Cellar" writing column with a mini-series on choosing an MFA program. But then for the rest of May and part of June I was frantically finishing up work for my degree. By mid-June I was scrambling to complete freelance projects and get ready to go to Vermont for my final on-campus residency and graduation, which took place at the beginning of July. And then I took a road trip with my husband to celebrate and -- phew! -- relax. I've been home for a month, but my creative spirit is just now starting to catch up with my body. I can't believe that nearly a whole season has passed since I promised you more "In The Word Cellar" posts, and I'm sorry for not fulfilling that offer. I'm not suggesting that you've been holding your collective breath, but I know that some of you have wanted me to address this topic for awhile. This blog is just about the only place that I miss "deadlines" (unless you count "laundry" and "dusting" as things with deadlines), but that needs to change. (Read more about my love-hate relationship with structure.) Thanks for sticking with me. I appreciate you being here.

Why get an MFA in writing?

First, a caveat: I don't believe that graduate school is a requisite for becoming a better writer. There are plenty of ways to do that, and an MFA program is just one way. It was the right choice for me, so I'll speak from my personal experience. Please know that I'm not trying to sell anyone on that option.

So the question really is: Why did I get an MFA in writing?

The short story

I was looking for the following three things:

• formal training and feedback to help me continue growing as a writer;
• community with other writers; and
• connection to the wider world of writers, writing, and publications.

The longer story

In November 2008 I spent five grim days in a beach house on the Jersey shore. A friend had invited me to join her and two other women for a writing retreat. The days were grim not for the company, but for the weather and fact that I had terrible writer's block. Inside, I stared mournfully at my laptop and checked my email obsessively. Outside, the sky hung flat and grey, the rain, drizzle, and fog erasing the sun all day every day. After a few days of this washout (weather-wise and creatively), my mood matched the sky: dreary.

Down in the house kitchen things were cheerier. Each night the four of us met to make dinner and to discuss writing. The other three had more formal training and creative writing experience than I did. One had even published a novel and was emailing her agent or editor about her second book while we were at the retreat. (Interesting side note: The published author had an MBA while the other two had MFA degrees.) Each evening, I was pleased to note that I could keep up with the conversation despite my relatively junior status. But I also realized that I was often trotting, perhaps even skipping, to keep up. These were my peers, yes; but they were several steps ahead of me. I let this bruise my ego until I realized that it was an opportunity to learn.

I wrote almost nothing during those five days, but several thoughts that had been bubbling under my mind's surface began to coalesce. For many months I'd felt like my writing has reached a plateau, and I didn't know how to move forward.

From "I suck" to "How do I improve?"

In my teens and twenties, it was easy to wrap myself in the insecurity blanket embroidered with the mantra, "I suck." But as I eased into my thirties, I'd learned to embrace my identity and skill as a writer. I finally believed that I was a good writer, but I knew that I could be so much better. This new stance was both empowering and bewildering. I knew I could improve, but I didn't know how.

For too long I'd been writing in a relative vacuum with limited feedback. I'd let the solitary nature of a writer's life edge out communion with other writers. I'd immersed myself in the practical side of freelance writing at the expense of living a "life of letters." I knew that literary journals existed, but I knew nothing about them. I didn't know what contemporary authors were publishing what. At the retreat I realized I didn't even know a lot of basic creative writing terms.

A decade earlier, as a senior in college, I'd considered graduate school. I looked at Master of Arts (MA) programs for literature studies, but they didn't feel quite right. I had no intention of pursuing a writing degree; just the thought terrified me. Back then, I didn't believe I could be a writer.

During the intervening ten years, I thought about grad school every so often, but no area of study appealed to me enough. I knew that if I went back to school I'd be getting the degree for the sake of having a masters degree; it would be an ego-driven decision, which wouldn't be worth the investment of time or money.

The obvious epiphany

Then one night, as I sat in that New Jersey beach house staring at my laptop, listening to the rain, and despairing, a little nugget of a hopeful and obliquely obvious idea crept up on me. What if I went to grad school for writing?

It seemed impossible, but the thought energized me. I had no idea where to go to school or even how to research programs. But the Internet is a magical place, and a few web searches later I would have a long list of possibilities.

Next time I'll tell you more about how I created and narrowed down that list of possibilities.

But right now, I want to jump back up to that list of reasons at the top of this post. I was looking for these three things:

• formal training and feedback to help me continue growing as a writer;
• community with other writers; and
• connection to the wider world of writers, writing, and publications.

I knew I could get all of those pieces outside of a graduate program. I could find online resources and travel to in-person workshops and seminars. I could reach out to my very small circle of writer friends (so small it was more like a semi-circle) for community as well as for recommendations on what to read and how to plug-in to the writing world.

In fact, I knew I could probably achieve all three of these things without dropping tens of thousands of dollars on a formal degree program. As I said in the last "In The Word Cellar" post, one good writer friend tried to talk me out of going back to school and touted the alternatives. She made some good points, but my gut was telling me that grad school was the right path for me.

I haven't always had an easy time listening to my intuition or making decisions, but the more I put the puzzle pieces together, the more I felt that an MFA was the best way for me to find everything I wanted. I liked that it would all come as a package deal. I liked that I wouldn't have to cobble together craft and community and connection by myself.

By the time I climbed into my car to drive the long diagonal line from the northern New Jersey Shore to my house in the southwestern corner of Pennsylvania, the sky was bright blue. And I knew that if I went back to school it wouldn't be just for my ego.

Next time: How I researched and chose an MFA program.

**Questions? Leave them in the comments and I'll reply there or address them in an upcoming column.**

In The Word Cellar normally runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.

Write as if...

"Write as if your blood is made of fire, as if your heart is a vessel to carry all of humanity." ~Shann Ray in the May/June 2011 issue of Poets & Writers