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Is an MFA Program Right for You?

It’s a given: Doctors go to med school; lawyers, to law school. Your vet, your kid’s teacher, and probably your boss all have advanced degrees. Should we writers join in the graduate-school shuffle? After all, so often the literary names we admire—like Toni Morrison, John Irving, and Flannery O’Connor—are followed by three expensive letters: M.F.A.

Deciding whether to get a masters, however, is not so easy. A year’s tuition can reach $28,000. You face putting your work on hold, moving your home and possibly living away from your family. You start by setting yourself up for rejection—this time at a cost of $60 dollars a pop for application fees instead of a mere 37 cents for a query to a publisher.

Yet, as Leslie Epstein, director of the Creative Writing Program at Boston University, says, “Who can put a price tag on art?” The investment is worth it…if you get what you want.

In the end, the degree dilemma boils down to two issues: what an advanced degree provides that you can’t otherwise obtain, and whether you would benefit from the methods of a graduate program. The Writer has gathered advice from MFA faculty and graduates, as well as more skeptical, non-degreed writers—coming up with a few simple questions that can help you decide.

Do I want to be a better writer?

The first question is the obvious one—and the one to which almost anyone reading this article will jump up and yell, “Yes!”

“God knows everyone’s work can use some sort of improvement; I mean, experienced, published writers have editors…,” says Audrey Mandelbaum, program coordinator for the MFA in Creative Writing program at Antioch University in Los Angeles. “In the old days, there was more hand-holding from editors when people started publishing. The process of working with an editor was sort of akin to the process of being in a MFA program today, but a lot of agents and a lot of editors are looking for manuscripts that are almost book-ready… MFA programs like this one partially fulfill that role.”

It’s true that the editor’s role has changed. Profit margins are all-powerful, and the cost of tutoring an author in literature is harder to justify—at least in the publisher’s eyes. While some agents are qualified to help clients polish their styles, agents also realize that the money is in publication, not preparation.

And yet preparation—preparation that a graduate program provides—is what turns a manuscript into a published novel or, perhaps more appropriately, a writer into an author. Nicholas Delbanco, director of the MFA and writing at the University of Michigan, calls it taking the students “past that stage of prior competence to near-professional radiance.”

Those who’ve been there, done that, attest to the truth of this. It’s not just learning how to write better; it is as basic as learning how to write. Lloyd Suh, a New York City playwright and author of Masha No Home who received his MFA from the New School in 2001, says, “I think a lot of writers look at writing as this mystical process—you sit down, and it pours out of you. You don’t know where it comes from. If you sit around waiting for the muse to strike you, you’ll never get anything done. More than anything else, I found a way to work. Even when you don’t know what to write, you find a way to get things done.”

Of course, there are those that argue that writing can’t be taught—so what’s the point of a writing program? “If you look at magazines, there are all these cynical comments about how you can’t teach someone to be a writer; it requires practice,” Teresa Esser, author of The Venture Café: Secrets, Strategies, and Stories from America’s High-Tech Entrepreneurs, says of her decision against an advanced degree. “And it seemed like writers programs were all about motivation and competition with the other students. I felt like I could motivate myself and compete with writers that I read in magazines.”

In some ways, Esser is right. Talent can’t be taught—which is why the top requirement for admission (at least for the programs studied for this article) remains the writing sample.

“I can’t give [students] what God didn’t give them, but I can accelerate what might well happen anyway,” Epstein says. “Much in the way that Heifetz could teach a young violinist or Picasso a young painter, I think we can do much the same thing in writing. It’s not a question in art or music, and I think this is very similar. It’s just that everyone thinks they can write, but they know darn well they can’t play the piano.”

Am I ready for an MFA program?

Just having talent, however, isn’t enough to start sending off applications. Talent may earn acceptance letters, but it doesn’t guarantee a good fit. Ask yourself, am I ready for a masters program? Examine your motivation—to write in general and to enter the program in specific.

The motivation to write is crucial. Then again, as a writer, you must be motivated, regardless of a degree. Stephanie Seacord, a freelance writer and owner of Leading Edge in Newfields, NH, never bothered with—and never missed—an advanced degree. “I am convinced that talent, results, self-motivation, and a positive attitude are what earn success. A liberal arts education (undergraduate) is better formal preparation…because I think that gives you something to write about as well as depth, perspective and cross-fertilization for new ideas. You hone your skills on the job.”

While there are many valid reasons to enroll in a masters program, no one should enroll to determine self-motivation. Delbanco says the University of Michigan program is “really preaching to the congregation… I don’t think the MFA is a good idea for people who are trying to figure out if they do want to be a writer. It’s for those who already are committed.”

Remember, this commitment is long-term—just like those loan payments will be. “People who are interested in learning a few writing secrets so that they can succeed quickly will be disappointed,” adds Sheila Seifert, author of The Mystery of Crestwater Camp and 1988 MFA graduate from Northern Arizona University.

Do I want to teach?

Everyone agrees that if your motivation is to teach writing, the masters program is the way to go. The faculty lists at creative writing programs and university English departments read like a list of Who’s Who in the MFA World.

But remember, a diploma doesn’t mean program directors will start knocking on your door. Esser was interested in teaching, but “I heard that the Iowa program was the only program where you’d really be guaranteed a writing job—a professorship after you graduated.” She decided the risk wasn’t worth it.

Will an MFA help me make literary contacts?

While Lisa Page, a freelance writer who received her MFA in 1998 from George Mason University, teaches classes on and off, her appreciation is first and foremost for the connections: “The biggest advantage has been the literary network I found through the program that is very much a part of my life today. I am a member of the Board of Directors for the Pen/Faulkner Award for Fiction, have been a board member of the Hurston/Wright Foundation and am advisor of the Legacy Award for black literature. Many of the connections that led to these appointments were made in graduate school.”

If you’re looking for a route to a literary-related business such as agenting, you also make contacts via graduate school to explore those worlds. However, networking is never the primary goal of program directors, nor should it be yours.

“Someone might want to [pursue an MFA] simply because of the name recognition for the program and to make connections, and they don’t really have an interest in getting a new way of looking at things. I think you should be a little fresh, a little searching,” Suh adds. “I was pretty searching, and I got a lot of out of it. There were some writers who thought they had it all figured out, and they had a terrible time.”

Can I be open-minded about my writing and that of others?

Suh’s appreciation for new approaches is a cornerstone to a successful masters experience. Anyone who is looking solely for a network—or any other non-writing goal—won’t enjoy graduate school.

“Post-graduate programs take in all kinds of students with many different agendas,” Seifert explains. “To succeed, writers must have their goal firmly in mind, but be open to the ideas and interactions of others.”

Perhaps more difficult is relearning the entire writing process. Most students have been writing for years—decades, even. They’ve developed personal styles and habits…but not every routine is good.

A good creative writing program will most likely set you back at first. "And then you go forward again because you have to undo all the bad habits,” Epstein says. “Absolutely it will mar your style, it will give you a writers block, and it will make you very unhappy. But a year and a half later, a year and a half after you’re done, you’ll find you are a writer.”

Will I get what I want in return?

The willingness to put your writing (and yourself) on the line doesn’t come easily. You must believe the program’s worth justifies such vulnerability. So before you take on the faculty, make sure the faculty can take on your goals. Will they offer what you’re looking for?

For example, the Iowa Writers Workshop might be the biggest name in the business, but the preeminent names in experimental fiction are probably Brown University and the University of Colorado-Boulder. Likewise, if you want to be a playwright or study nonfiction, don’t go someplace that focuses on novels and short stories.

To find your masters soul mate, check out the school’s Web page and faculty list. Read the faculty member’s work. Can someone mentor you in your genre and style? Do you admire what they’ve done and said—and how they’ve said it? If not, keep looking.

Can I take criticism?

Even if you find a mentor with your exact style, you’ll still have to listen—and learn from—criticism. Epstein turns this into a simple question for all potential applicants: “Can I take and give criticism—honest criticism? We all want praise, me as much as my students, but if you really want just praise, you shouldn’t come to a creative writing program. You won’t learn anything; your ego won’t be stroked.”

And don’t try saying you don’t need criticism, Epstein continues. “How do [writers] know that they don’t need the skills? Are they such critical judges that they can judge themselves? Doubt is the air a true writer breathes. So when you tell me about someone who is so sure, I’d say he probably shouldn’t come; he’s probably not a good writer.”

In other words, if being critiqued sounds utterly abhorrent to you, don’t bother with the application fees. A writing program can only help those who want to be helped.

Am I at a place in my life where I can do this?

Every question up to this point determined your emotional and professional readiness for a masters program. Let’s face it though—even the most idealistic writer eventually has to face practicalities. Time for the bottom-line: Can I do this, based purely on cold, hard facts?

The first practical consideration is, no surprise, money. For Esser, cost was the final nix for her potential graduate school plans. “It would mean more debt when I got out. It would be borrowing time against the future,” she says. “And there was no guarantee that I would get a writing job when I got out. It was possible that I would get the same kind of job that I would get with my undergraduate degree, but I’d have more loans to pay off.”

Of course, not all programs expect you to pay your way. Teaching assistantships, scholarships, and fellowships often bear the brunt of the tuition burden. The University of Michigan, like many other schools, makes tuition assistance a priority. “I so completely believe that writing is a hard way to earn a living, so we have full fellowships for anybody we take,” Delbanco says. “It makes sense to go into debt for law school or medical school, but as a writer, you don’t know if you’ll be able to pay it back. I would be very wary of spending large amounts of cash for an MFA.”

Even if you have a great scholarship, you may not want to transplant your life. Not only must you be willing to move, you must be willing to live in the place you are moving to. Don’t like cold? Avoid New England. Want to be in a small town? Don’t go to New York.

Now what?

In the end, it’s up to you. And remember—a degree does not a writer make. If an advanced degree doesn’t fit into your life right now, never fear. There are alternatives. Many colleges offer evening classes. Magazines like The Writer publish reams of helpful advice for beginning and experienced writers. Online courses are burgeoning. These options come at a fraction of the price of a graduate school. Esser also suggests going to bookstores that offer free seminars with local authors, where inspiration and advice comes without any cost at all.

But if you are sure and you are ready, don’t be discouraged from two (or five) rejections. Try, try, and try again. “Spend the year [after you first apply] writing very, very hard—writing a whole lot and reading a whole lot," Epstein recommends. “We’ve taken people after the third try even. And plenty after the second try—including this year.”

By Abigail Mieko Vargus, editor at large and senior editor for American Book Publishing. A version of this article first appeared in the January 2003 issue of The Writer.