Insider Questions to Ask About a Creative Writing Program

If you’re considering formal writing instruction in an institution

Photo by Helena Lopes on Unsplash

I’m going to share this post, which I wrote for the audience on Medium some time ago.

I suspect even Unschoolers at times have a yen to try a program. I think most post-secondary institutions (and multiple other sources/directions) are doing a fine job of convincing us we need Further Education. It’s a business after all.

And writing is solitary, and there can be a desire for face-to-face community and camaraderie. There are reasons to want to take part in a program. But there have been many changes in programs in the past while—changes that are hard to see or know from afar. So knowing a few questions to ask might be useful.

Then again, perhaps you are quite happy writing and learning on your own, or with informal paths such as the usual here. In which case, IGNORE THIS POST!

Of course, share questions and thoughts.

From an Insider

I taught in a program for fourteen years, and walked away two years ago. I’ve sat through many faculty meetings, and seen the push and pull of program “growth.” I’ve seen students find joy and be dashed with disappointment. I’ve been part of a program that was a thriving community, believed to be #1 in my country, and then it became a place of misery.

There are good programs out there. But how can you find what you’re looking for? What questions should you ask beyond the obvious of “how many students in each workshop?” “how long is the program?” “how much academic work do I need to do in addition to writing?”

Be smart. You might be about to spend a lot of money, time, and energy, on something potentially heart-breaking. Or something that will be a major stepping-off point. Or merely a lot of money and a nice experience.

What is an MFA — a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing?

MFA programs are now ubiquitous. They are points of pride for many institutions, bringing prestige and status. Some programs have even managed to find ways around small workshop-class sizes to bring in serious funds. The program I worked within had enormous under-grad lecture classes, often with several TAs — teaching assistants — for grading, and these classes effectively funded the grad program and more. They were tough to teach. I was utterly disembodied from the class — even pre-covid — and rarely set eyes on the writing that was happening (unless someone complained). Sometimes the TAs (often under-trained) didn’t understand the forms they were grading, and didn’t have the knowledge-base.

At last count, there were no less than 45 instructors, tenured, tenure-track, and contract in the program. This is too large, to my mind. Size rarely is a sign of quality. Of course, some low-res programs might have a VERY small instructor-student ratio, and many people hired for a minimal work-load, with their writing being the major focus for them — which makes sense. (So if looking at numbers alone, you might miss this! In spite of all my words here, keep an open mind about the WHY behind the numbers.)

Programs that pride themselves on staying very small, and keeping to those small workshop groups, do — to my mind — stand a better chance of keeping on the side of “the writing counts most.” They can be accused of being elitist. But sometimes having high standards is simply… having high standards. The two years that is the usual MFA time goes very quickly. Be wise in how you spend it.

You have to ask yourself WHY you want this. Is it about your writing? Or is it about something else? If you’re going to an MFA program so that you too can teach in one of these institutions, then I’d suggest you go buy a lottery ticket instead.

But if you want to write, and you want to learn within a program, know that there is someone you can ask questions of, and that person is usually a grad advisor. Often admin people won’t have the answers. (Even if they sound as if they do or tell you they do.) Research before you begin! Ask to be given a copy of the program handbook; that should answer many of these questions.

Then prepare to talk directly with the grad advisor, and know what questions you want answers to. Read on…

A note: reputations are always in flux

Know this — keep it in mind: every two or three years, an MFA program has a new “generation.” Such generations can swing wildly. Keep this in mind as you read on.

How long are the courses? 3 credit/one term, or 6 credit and the full year?

When I started teaching, our grad workshops began in September, took off in the most wonderfully creative and challenging ways in the month of December, resumed in January, and completed in April. Real growth happened in these months — entire novels were written in my workshops, or exploration of multiple genres. (I taught “writing for children and young people,” with many genres included if one wanted.)

In 3 credit/one term classes, you’re lucky to have more than two submissions. There is serious corner-cutting happening in programs; many teachers do not commit to more work than absolutely necessary (this is NOT the result of laziness; it is about too much administrative BS, too much teaching, all sorts of unnecessary bits, too many students…) Even students do not want to do more than the minimum. Why? Often because they are overloaded with teaching demands themselves, or simply don’t see the relevance in putting in the work of offering solid feedback to other writers. Be aware of this! And in yourself: go into a program knowing that the more you put in, the more you will get out of all of it. Invest in your peers.

How many courses are you allowed to take?

When I did an MFA, we needed 36 credits for a complete, but if courses were offered in the summer, we could take extras. I graduated with 48, same tuition fees, and an entire novel received feedback over and above. It was a gift, and I knew it and valued it. Then the Faculty of Arts decided this could no longer happen. Fair enough, but it does speak to some sense of generosity that used to exist.

One-on-one directed studies, or small group

At the time, too, we were able to work one-on-one with faculty who agreed, in “Directed Studies” course — which meant that we could explore areas of interest and pursue them one-on-one. Later, when I taught in the program, I did a lot of this work, and it moved forward to opening new pedagogical areas, too. This type of work indicates a thriving program and enlivened teaching! But we’re not seeing so much of this now.

Do you get to choose your thesis advisor? Who makes this decision?

This is key. Ideally, you should have done some course-work with this person before, or at least spoken to them about how they work/process. You want to know how you work together. But for some programs, in the name of some expediency, you are often not given the option of choice. Then it becomes like arranged marriage — sometimes, those who make these choices for you are wise, and you are paired with a mentor from whom you have much to learn; other times, it’s not a good learning choice at all.

What steps are taken to create community in the program?

Back in the day — not so long ago, really—there would be the post-workshop pub time. Not good for those who don’t drink, surely. And not something I was able to take advantage of when I was a grad student, as I was also a mother of very young children. But I was always aware that I was — in too many ways — missing half the program by not being there.

So the hallway took the place of the pub. The hallway that connected the classrooms and profs’ offices was always filled with the best conversations. Again, as much was learned there as in the workshops and consultations.

With program growth, those few classrooms became offices for adjuncts, and the classes began to be held in odd rooms scattered across the campus, and reassigned each term. This sent students scurrying in all directions, saw instructors walking with armloads of books… and the hallway emptied. The “program” became a ghost-town.

Of course, when you are inquiring about “community” in a program, to discover that such devolution has occurred is almost impossible; no one is going to spell this out for you (they might not even be aware of it themselves! My colleagues seemed utterly immune to the fall-out from the decisions to move beyond the floor of the building we were in. It was all about “growth.”)

But ask about how/where students meet and gather. Where does instructor/student contact happen outside of the classroom? How are graduations and launches celebrated? What opportunities exist for readings and sharing? What is the physical space of the program? Within a building? Spread out? Does it make a difference? Imagine a home in which the kitchen is set all by itself at the far reaches of the back yard…

What are the publishing credits of the faculty?

Sometimes, this really doesn’t mean a thing. So do your research.

Sometimes, for any number or type of reason, a faculty person hasn’t been able to find a home for their writing — maybe it’s too off the wall, or its time simply hasn’t come (and that can be content or form, or within the rhythm of that individual’s career). OR perhaps this particular member of faculty really digs deeply with students, and you’ll learn more from this person than you will from the selfish faculty member who writes prolifically and publishes well… but gives nothing to students. (And they are out there.)

DO read the published works of a prospective teacher; know something of what they’re about. Read to know if you’ll connect in any way.

And honestly? Just for professional courtesy. I was always amazed by how many students I had who could never be bothered to read anything I’ve published. You don’t have to be a sycophant; God save us from the sycophants. But for your own knowledge and potential points of growth… read.

Are you going to be WRITING? Or teaching something (that you may not be ready to teach?)

There is even more of a focus now on being a TA… as if every MFA-holder is going to become faculty in an institution.

Even though writers are notoriously bad at math, do sit with a few numbers: how many programs, how many students, how many positions that pay real livable earnings… and you’ll realize that a graduate writing degree should be more about writing than teaching. (The lottery ticket… and your odds… unless you’ve won a major prize or two, or have had a surprising best-seller. That’ll up your odds incrementally.)

So: in a writing program WRITE. Maybe be a TA for one term, for the experience. That one term will net you the same space on your CV as four terms. And you need this time to WRITE and to glean everything you can from all the writers around you at this point in your life. (This might be the only time in your life when you family looks the other way as you write. True.) If you are TA’ing for the funding, don’t. Just don’t.

Never TA more than one class at a time! (I’m throwing that in for those of you who willfully ignored everything in that paragraph.)

What is the atmosphere? Has the program/department/school been in the news? Or worse, Twitter? What is the real reputation? Can you contact recent grads and ask?

Bizarre stuff is happening more and more in the post-secondary world. Admin folks and grad advisors are not going to answer such questions; you’ll have to do your own collecting and sorting of the trash.

Tenured folks or contract?

This has nothing to do with the instructors’ ability and knowledge from which to teach… but it speaks to the level of hierarchy in a program, the general sense of awareness, “health” in all its forms, and genuine human care: if a program is filled with contract people, the likelihood that REAL compassion is at work is, well, pretty minimal in my experience.

Look at their titles carefully. In Canada, phrases and words like “Adjunct Professor” is NOT a Professor, but a grossly underpaid bottom-rung contract person. Ditto “Sessional,” “Lecturer,” “Instructor.” Know what the words mean. Ask. If they’re cagey, move on to next-on-list...

Corner-cutting — how far do they go?

Do they cut corners — significant corners — such as accepting a “partial” — aka unfinished — thesis? And does the second reader, or committee, need to hand you written comments as well as any verbal in some form of oral “defense” process? These are “corners” that the program I worked within had cut, or were seriously considering cutting when I left. (An unfinished thesis even being considered as acceptable is appalling. Learning to complete a project, even if it needs serious revision, is a piece that cannot be shirked.) How can someone who has not completed this major piece of work possibly go on to teach anywhere else? Or on to write? Completion is a class-in-study all by itself, and a test — a fiery test we must all pass through if we are to be writers. Don’t accept a seat in a program that does not ask this of you.

Institutions and money

Really this unfinished thesis matter results from not having enough faculty to serve the apprenticing-writers; this is a matter of an institution wanting your tuition dollars without a fair exchange. Don’t be fooled: those “coveted” TA-ships — teaching/ training on-the-ground — make the institution a lot of income, and do very little for your actual writing.

Again: the odds of netting a tenure-track teaching job is akin to a lottery ticket. I suggest you buy the ticket, and write and win an award if you want to teach.

But if you want to write, be fussy about where and with whom you study. And if you can’t find a good fit, travel. READ. Write more. Travel more. Find a writing group. And write, write, write…

*Note: this piece is a step off the path from the usual Unschool for Writers piece, so do share with anyone who might find it useful!