But now I have something to write about.
Come tomorrow—Monday, January 26th, 2015—I will begin my first creative writing class at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. This is a day I’ve been waiting for, working for, stumbling towards since I first pecked a cowboy chase scene from the walls of a desert canyon. I’ve been plotting my way into a well-regarded creative writing program since my sophomore year of high school. And it is finally happening.
Of course there have been doubts along the way. If you’re like me, standing at the threshold of a sizable, complex publishing industry that isn’t yet a sharp image, you’ve probably read some advice columns and writing blogs. One needn’t dig deep to uncover the ambivalence of published authors towards academic writing programs. Perhaps most disturbing, and discouraging to prospective scholars, is the less-than-restrained negativity of certain authors. Some even claim that the best way to avoid getting published is to take a creative writing class.
So why did I decide to ignore the internet?
It’s pretty simple: academic writers get published. Writing professors are published authors. Writing fellows are published authors. Writing graduate students frequently publish award-winning novels. No creative writing MFA can guarantee a birth in the New York Times, but neither can candles and a pintful of goat’s blood. An aspiring author needs resources, feedback, and an environment conducive to everyday writing. I believe that school is the best place to find those things, and I’ve invested a lot of effort and resources in that direction.
Let’s be honest. If you’re outside looking in, the ins-and-outs of publishing are a cosmic muck. But the same is true of any modern industry. Consider the world of beer: do you know every step from barley and water to a rich, brown brew? Can you diagram the chemical process of fermentation or expain the logistics of keg manufacture? Probably not, unless you’ve spent time in a specific, specialized industry. How about that pile of metal and rubber sitting in the garage? Someone knows how to sand the rust and treat the tires. And it’s not me.
Specialties are specialties for a reason. No self-help article or video can teach the precision and self-awareness that form over years of supervised practice. That’s obvious in medicine. No wholly sane individual would attempt a self-performed amputation. However, identical logic is often resisted in the arts. Many writers, myself included, value figuring out and doing things for our own damn selves, and thank you kindly.
But I still don’t know how to get published. I’m convinced that churning out short stories and blind-firing at publishers is not an effective solution. I’m willing to bet that the vast majority of self-taught writers don’t get published by submitting unedited drafts to an unfamiliar destination. I suspect that most writers find contacts in or around publishing, folk with the scoop on which magazines, editors, and agents might just care about their style. Or a good way to find out. Knowing where to go is a critical variable in the equation of a step. I believe that someone at the university can help me with that.
I need to be sure the product is good before I try to sell it. That’s where feedback comes in. Writing is composed to act on an audience, and feedback is the the only way to determine its effectiveness in that action. Feedback allows a writer to check the pulse of tension, gauge the current of persuasion, and read the density of atmosphere. Quality feedback is precious. It’s not easy to find someone who will read a five page story, let alone give a thoughtful opinion. Many readers are so impressed by the ability to create prose that they apply no critical filter. This is especially true of supportive family members and intimate friends. Less artistic readers often feel the need to proofread and find negative comments. Individuals who read carefully, consider the themes, and speak opinions assertively are hard find. A creative writing class seems like a good place to start. If nothing else, it will teach me to interact with a group of writers that don’t share my style or creative interests. I’ll learn to accept fair criticism, discard mediocre advice, and manage the pain of discarded paragraphs.
For bright though her eyes may sparkle, in feedback lurks a demon serpent and all her mewling children: Rage, spawn of superfluous complexity and the ubiquitous art of skimming. Shame, lurking in every sloppy synonym and ill-advised idiom. And Loathing, worst of all, a quiet, blue heat that touhes paper and ink alike—warping it all, melting it all, until the good runs with the bad into a mass of illegible, unreadable shite. Or so it can seem.
Creative writing class will expose me to those emotions in a safe environment. I hope that working through the darker moments of disappointment and frustration will help me improve. That’s my project this semester. I want to get better at using feedback to shape my work for an audience. My writing life won’t end when I graduate. By then, hopefully, I will have developed a circle of individuals I trust to give me kind, meaningful feedback. I’ll need to know how to reciprocate, and this workshop will also help with that.
So creative writing class will strengthen my feedback muscles, and I hope it will lead me to publishing resources. But is that worth peeling off the “self-taught” label?
I think so. It’s easy enough to explain the means and methods of creativity, but the particulars are impossible to codify. No book can make your leaf “crinkly” or “fibrous,” color it “veiny blue” or dapple it red. Writing is art. There are as many ways of arriving at colorful imagery with words as paint. And regardless of brush speed or paint preference, every artist needs practice.
For the better part of more than a year now, I simply haven’t had the time to write. In transferring to a four-year university, transitioning out of my stifling career, and moving closer to campus, I lost months of creative production. Then I started at the university. As it happens, a double major is not entirely compatible with leisure writing. Scholarly papers generally takes priority. Graded work is simply more urgent than a yeasty, half-fermented keg of concepts and characters.
That’s the main reason I’m taking this class. I have a lot of projects I want to work on this summer, but I’m no longer confident in my ability to write, rewrite, or polish a story adequately. I’m out of shape. A formalized course of study will force me to revisit the fundamentals, recall how to sit, balance, and pedal. It will also give me some much-needed practice with writing to a deadline.
So why did I ignore the internet?
I’m not taking a creative writing class to learn how to write. I’m taking it so I can write. I don’t want to quit studying history and literature. I love those things. But I came back to school to write, and this is the only way I can make sure that happens every day. Or most days, anyway.
No advice is universal. No shirt fits all wearers. Structured exposure to deadlines and feedback may not be the right environment for every aspiring novelist, but I think it will help me. I can’t say with absolute confidence that I’ve made the right decision. I might hate this class. I might find it less stimulating than I’d hoped. I’m sure this experience, like any, will have its share of imperfections.
I’ll try to chronicle them here. This blog will help me map my impressions as the semester goes along and provide an over-the-shoulder view of a creative writing class. I’ll discuss my favorite readings, share my favorite writings, and moan about the more…unnecessary…exercises.
I’m sure there’s some grind to be ground. But I’m too excited to care.