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Creative Writing Programs are Not a Waste of Time

Inspired after reading Dan Green's post

I've thought long and hard about this issue, after having attended a fairly well-known master's creative writing program. For me personally, it worked out tremendously well, though not for the reasons one might suspect.

It didn't help me at all for publication (though that might partially be my fault). Most of my fellow graduate students went on to other fields; there have been two or three books published; one student was nominated for an Oscar(!).

It didn't really open doors for me in academia, although ironically it opened doors for international teaching. I think one of my fellow grad students is teaching at a university (a fairly good one, btw). It didn't really happen as a result of her literary success but her savvy networking skills. Having a master's degree did have some marketability for technical writing (although having a master's is quickly becoming the norm now).

I was lucky because I went to grad school straight after undergrad. Much less personal disruption. At 21 my writing style was weak and flabby. My imagination (and literary experiments) were original, though my experience base was limited. Going through the workshop improved my editing skills and taught the value of taking your time when revising. None of the stories I wrote during my stay were particularly remarkable, though the stories I wrote immediately afterwards (IMHO!) were.

A writing degree gave me more realistic expectations about what constituted literary success. It also exposed me to the fact that writer/artist types have titan egos, and guess what--so do I. Writing workshops gave good experience about dealing with such types (and helped me to realize why others sometimes find ME annoying and stubborn). It also made me see how widely literary types differ. Your own personal background might strike you as prosaic, but it's actually quite different from people your age. What you view as ordinary others might regard as quirky. People sometimes complain about the cookie-cutter nature of workshop fiction, but that is a lie; once you are around other writers with similar talent, you see how distinctive (and messy) each person's rough drafts can be.

I assume by now MFA programs are emphasizing videogames, videos, and other web projects, while the dinosaurs who still read Flaubert and Ford Maddox Ford are probably viewed with polite tolerance. The dirty little secret of MFA programs is that you really don't NEED to be around tremendously gifted writers to grow your voice. You could easily find excellent feedback from community writer's groups, community college courses or (heaven forbid!) online forums. One reason in favor of using local resources instead of grad school is that you are more likely to come across a wider swath of writers (in terms of age, ethnicity and talent). In grad school, a certain amount of groupthink and oneupsmanship occurs, which is not particularly bad, but makes you a narrow-minded and boring person.

One other thing. A lot of people sign up for MFA programs for the contacts, especially the literary agents and publishers. At one time that might have made sense (especially in New York programs or in programs with a strong literary magazine). But quite frankly, publishing is changing so much and so quickly that I'm not sure an MFA program helps you with introductions or agents anymore. Ironically, the two most helpful learning experiences for me has been technical conferences aimed specifically at independent content producers. First, South by Southwest Interactive, (in Austin) provides lots of contacts and cross-fertilization in the New Media world. Lots of panels not directly related to literature, but with huge consequences upon it. The annual ACM Hypertext conference (held alternately in the US and Europe) has also been quite wonderful. I'm sure others can chime in with names of other conferences; the main draw of South by Southwest Interactive is that it's ridiculously cheap ($150 for early registration) and lasts 4 days. I met a lot of people with creative writing degrees at both conferences. I am a biased person, of course, but people with creative writing degrees are always interesting to talk to. Just don't marry them (joking, of course).

There is value in taking time off to do something like an MFA, but you have to consider opportunity costs. Your time and money might be better spent building up a savings account for that time when you can quit that job. Ironically, the academic environment of creative writing programs tends to stifle reading for pleasure or the "big projects." The main thing I learned from a creative writing degree is that I no longer needed an academic structure to force me to write. I could do it on my own. That's why many apply to creative writing programs; they believe external pressure is necessary to be productive. But for me the urge to write is a psychological motivator, not a social motivator. Yes, attending a writing program affords you extra time to write, but how much extra time? (and how much extra cost?) Couldn't you accomplish the same thing with a leave-of-absence or a job with flexible hours?

Although not a poet, I would imagine that poets have a totally different perspective on the subject. Poetry involves more formal training and feedback; you write poems weekly, and apparently youth works as an advantage. Poets are such rare lonely creatures that I guess they need excuses to be around one another. Also, poetry programs have different myths. In fiction, we have the myth of the great American novelist who lives happily ever after (the rest of us belong to the unwashed masses of the mediocre and unpublished). Poets have three myths: retreating into nature or retreating into addictive activities or retreating into suicidal despair. Ok, I'm simplifying, but poets never dream of being rich or famous (not in the conventional sense anyway). Novels still entertain the notion of such lavish rewards. Our ambition is what dooms us.

Literary Disclaimers 101

This page addresses the question of whether, when and how a blogger should disclose personal biases/relationships that might compromise his or her objectivity in reviewing creative works. (See this disclaimer).

4 Tips for Handling Disclaimers & Literary Conflicts of Interest

1. (Recommended)In the first or second sentence, the reviewer or blogger should include a parenthetical statement with a link to the disclaimer. This link should take the reader to a disclaimer at the bottom of the article which goes into detail about the nature of the personal connection. One sentence should suffice. This method allows the reader to see that there is a personal connection without calling undue attention to it.


2. (Alternative) A critic can start a piece with an italicized preface--usually in first person-- to mention personal connections or a anecdote with the artist, perhaps some charming detail about a first encounter. In the main body the critic can write in a more objective and judgmental manner. Alternatively, the two pieces can exist as separate articles on the same page. Richard Schickel, for example, will frequently write reviews of movies and feature stories about the filmmaker and include them on the same page. The feature story can be looser and more personal, while the review can be more formal.


3. (Another alternative): The review can write a first person "critical reaction" to a work, a sort of formless reader-response to the work. That way, the reader knows that the essay is not strictly critical but more a statement of the critic's relation to the text as seen through the prism of personal biography. Nicholson Baker's U and I is the best example of what I mean, although a reader response certainly doesn't need to be this exhaustive.


4. Pseudonymous self-reviewing of one's own works should err on the side of meanness. (more).

Discussion: After a rather interesting but pointless web argument about whether blogger Maud Newton should have disclosed her personal relationship with a writer she was publicizing in her blog, I feel compelled to write up a guide to address these concerns.

First, about the Maud Newton brouhaha. Don't read the above link; just scan it to see how much bloviating was done over nothing. Almost everybody had good points to make and were reasonably civil to one another, and even the main complainant wasn't accusing the blogger of high crimes, merely suggesting that the disclosure should have been mentioned more prominently. Even Maud, ( that conniving culprit caught red handed for having the gall to promote a friend!) was correct in pointing out that she wasn't trying to write criticism, just feature a writer she respected. That is after all, what bloggers do. Sam Munson (the complainant) said these disclosures needed to be made at the top of the post. Tweedledee, tweedledum.

First, let me acknowledge that failure to disclose conflicts of interest can be a serious problem, especially with a big media corporation that stands directly to benefit from promoting a work by one of its subsidiaries. CNN should not be having news stories by Brittany Spears; Time Magazine should be required to include a disclaimer in any story about mp3/piracy that Time/Warner stands directly to derive enormous financial benefit by inciting fear, uncertainty and dread in the hearts of teen downloaders.

That is not what we're talking about here. Here we are talking about two people who are basically unknown outside of esoteric blogging circles and not backed by a megacorporation's media megaphone. The questions raised here are: how fully and prominently should a writer disclose his or her relationship/connection with the content creator? Does this relationship/connection compromise the blogger's or reviewer's opinion and integrity? And is the reader hurt when a reviewer lets "personal biases" interfere with what he or she chooses to write about?

No literary critic can read everything, no music critic can hear everything, and no art or film critic can see everything. With fewer readers and less time to read, literary critics are coming in contact with a diminishing number of works. Despite the complaints about lowering standards, any given time period is apt to offer an abundance of high quality literature which no single critic is capable of digesting.

A critic has two duties to perform: publicize and filter. Because there are many competing standards for literary quality, and because a critic can be impatient about a work of unknown quality, critical assessments frequently miss things of value. Even the best reviewer or editor can miss something great or important about a work because of lack of time, perserverence or simply failure to recognize what makes a particular work interesting or innovative. One occasionally hears about pranksters who submit obscure stories by Hawthorne or poems by Shakespeare to litmags only to have them rejected soundly, and most critical introductions to newly branded classics delight in quoting dismissive reviews by critics now long since forgotten. Initial readers, aware that history might shout their assessments down, offer cautious opinions, preferring to give works the benefit of the doubt or treating them with "benign neglect," by simply ignoring them.

One is tempted to describe this kind of critic as second-rate or amateurish, but in fact many fine critics stick with analyzing works of the canon and ignoring the truly revolutionary. (And it must be admitted that certain writers delight in pissing off readers with conventional reading expectations). Familiarity with cultural references, engagement strategies and poetics of a text can make a critic more inclined to know how to read a literary work and how to extract meaning or enjoyment or a sense of the sublime. I never, for example, cared for Nabokov (except for Lolita), but David Lodge's essay on Nabokov's Pnin helped me to get what the book what striving to do and how one critic enjoyed it. There are many cases where readers may already know about a book or or poem but lack familiarity with the book's aim or strategy to know why to read it. Often a few clues or signposts (ie., Joyce was mimicking the journey of Odysseus) can suffice. Experience with a stylistic or narrative quirk in a previous work can make it easier to tolerate it in a more recent work. One reason I'd want to preserve the sense of an Author is because I think we need a sense of familiarity towards a body of previous works in order to appreciate how this specific example succeeds or fails. We can recognize repetitions of certain themes and how they evolve over an author's writing life. Not only does an an author's style evolves, but a reader's sympathy for the author's point of view can evolve as well. If I have read 10 other poems by Shakespeare, I am in a better position to appreciate the 11th (plus I have more practice in trying to do it). If I've enjoyed one story by an author before, I'm more inclined to want to stick it out for the author's latest story. Familiarity is a helpful precursor for literary enjoyment and understanding.

Now we come to the case of the poor critic whose friend has created a book or poem or painting or film or symphony. Chances are this friend is laboring in obscurity, and that the critic has a better idea of "what's going on" in this friend's work than a random critic. Making a disclosure is a good idea, but the problem is that the disclosure itself (especially if placed prominently in the review) calls into question the value of the review being written. Doing cheerleading for one's friends might seem inappropriate, but the alternative of entrusting the job of criticism to a clueless overworked critic seems even worse. More than anything, an unknown artist needs sympathetic critics to get the work out there in the public eye. And peers/friends and acquaintances are precisely the people to do this.

But doesn't the reviewer compromise critical values? Isn't the reviewer prejudiced towards giving a more favorable opinion than the work warrants? Even if this were so, I'm unsure whether the reader is hurt by undeserved praise or attention. Also, we need to distinguish between an "announcement" or feature story about the artist and criticial assessments of value. I can mention that Danielle Steele has a new book out, but that doesn't imply that I think it's great or worth reading.

The biggest danger (if you want to call it that) is the threat of reciprocity. (This also plays into blogging in general). If one blogger says wonderful things about another blogger and links frequently to this first blogger, the first blogger will eventually have to "acknowledge the peons" by throwing him or her a reciprocal hyperlink or two. It's a little like "grade inflation." This tendency toward reciprocation might result in all works being publicized, links galore and little filtering taking place. Yes, this is a danger, but it merely turns over the filtering duty to the reader. So what? If the goal of weblogging is simply to make readers aware of unknown things, there's no harm in this. We can't automatically assume that the filtering weblog is better than a link-crazy weblog. The filtering weblog is the result of one person's decision about what is valuable. It depends on exclusion. But I'm not sure that it's that easy to pin down where quality resides in literary works. Experimental and subversive artistic efforts will probably not "float to the top" of a filtering weblog. They are more likely to appear in an "agnostic" weblog that refrains from passing immediate judgment on a work's quality. After all, surfing through links is a relatively fast and easy task. Having 20 links a day instead of 8 to wade through is probably not going to slow the surfer down much and holds the possibility of striking gold. An agnostic blogger does not sacrifice much credibility by simply acknowledging something with a hyperlink.

The question about a reviewer's credibility misunderstands the demands made upon a critic's time. We have thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of works begging for our attention. To write about a next door neighbor's novel means losing the time to read the 15th century epic poem that had been sitting on his bookshelf for years. Choosing what to read and write about is not a task that critics perform lightly. I could sit down and make a list of a thousand books I'd like to read, a few hundred books I'd like to review, a few dozen books I'd like to write critical essays about. Occasionally I'll kick upstairs to my priority list a work by somebody I know personally, but if the work is not interesting or terrific, I won't finish it, much less write about it. There is just not enough time.

Ultimately, if a critic spends too much time reviewing works of middling quality, his or her reviews will cease to be interesting anyway. And if a critic thinks a friend's work is not interesting, he or should simply not write about it, citing a lack of time. When a critic is too close (such as when they are romantically involved or best of friends), the critic may in fact prefer not to review any of the friend's works (out of fear of damaging the friendship). Actually though, the more common case is for the critic/friend to like the work and give reasons why he or she thinks that work is important, only to have the enthusiasm fall upon deaf ears. It is so rare for novelists to find fans in this day and age (or even readers) that perhaps any time a critic has a positive reaction to any work (by a friend or anyone else), it should be immediately noted and celebrated.

One problem with reviewing commercial works of fiction or film is that the critic can comment only on artistic value, not consumer value. In other words, a critic may think a DVD collection is good, but is it worth spending $150 on? That's the crucial question for the audience--and one which the critic--who probably paid nothing for the review copy--is ill-equipped to answer. This problem becomes particularly acute if the critic makes additional money by selling review copies; there will be a builtin incentive to seek more expensive review copies over less expensive ones. In crude economic terms, the value to the consumer derives from the cost of purchasing the commercial product, minus the artistic benefit the consumer/reader derives from it. The critic's privileged access to review copies causes discrepencies between the critic's perception of value and the audience's perception of value. (Fortunately, this discrepency mitigates over time as expensive DVD or videogames become cheaper or accessible via libraries). Economics affect reviewers in other ways. Most journals depend to varying degrees on advertising, and a newspaper or journal that refuses to review commercial works in favor of noncommercial works may find it difficult to find advertisers. When considering personal biases, keep in mind that commercial interests may also influence a critic's judgement in a way not immediately apparent or beneficial to the audience. These sort of sticky situations and compromises occur; they are an inevitable fact of a critic's life, and we should be thankful that critics don't spend all their time trying to demonstrate their critical incorruptibility.

Finally there is the matter of pseudonymous reviews. An artist could write pseudonymous reviews of his or her own works. This actually does not seem as vile as it seems, and in fact a number of notable writers have resorted to this when their artistic creations fell on deaf ears. If a writer can write useful commentary on his or her own works, more power to him. (Indeed, as Kenneth Champeon recently pointed out, it is common for Japanese writers to compose Atogaki or "afterwards" to "to set forth (sometimes with remarkable honesty) the various flaws, fallacies, logical lapses, and factual lacunae in the book they've just written"). Although in Japan the writer composes his own atogaki, in fact this same feat could be performed by a pseudonymous critic (who may end up making overly harsh remarks to throw off suspicion). Some degree of pseudonymous self-promoting and self-analysis can in fact help the clueless reader/critic to get started. But a series of encomiums may backfire by convincing surfers that only idiots are reading this author.

Disclaimer: In fact, my main motive for writing this piece is to justify doing reviews of works by friends (and to hope they someday return the favor!).

Thoughts on how to write a sitcom

TV critics hooted at ''Gilligan's Island'' as gag-ridden corn. Audiences adored its far-out comedy. Writer-creator Sherwood Schwartz insisted that the show had social meaning along with the laughs: ''I knew that by assembling seven different people and forcing them to live together, the show would have great philosophical implications.' From a NYT Obituary of Bob Denver (who played Gilligan). '

I've been thinking long and hard about sitcoms recently (getting ready to write a series of scripts myself). I'm going to write 10-15 scripts myself and then try to encourage other people to contribute to the pool (a sort of open submission project). Unfortunately I couldn't dig up a link to a website cataloguing all of TV sitcom's cliches; I could only find wikipedia article of common sitcom plots.

Update: I could probably add a few things here. Check Sam and Jim Go to Hollywood, a great introduction to TV writing by working writers. They have more insights than I ever could.

Here's a list of "requirements" for a sitcom as evident from the history of previous sitcoms.

1. Every sitcom must have one full-fledged asshole. Totally negative, totally outrageous. He/she can be humanized eventually, but take your time. Enjoy it a little.


2. Two, maybe three settings. Sitcoms must not have unlimited budgets or ability to move around. Visually, sitcoms are static. All in the Family and Honeymooners are perfect examples of using small settings to your advantage.


3. Segue Scenes. Drew Carey Show has many examples of segue scenes which really make the show more interesting visually. The carpool scene and (later) the bus scenes are great changes in scenery. I just loved every minute of being in that cramped carpool! Similarly, I just love the chitchat in Arnold's bathroom in Happy Days and the taxi rides in Taxi.


4. Collisions of workspace/family space/recreational space. Drew Carey is the perfect example. Warsaw Tavern, department store, Drew's house.


5. Start with 5 or so primary characters, with the option to branch out into each of their stories. That's the main advantage of sitcoms at work or bars; they can always introduce family members or work buddies. One genius to the original Bob Newhart Show was the therapy sessions, which allowed 6-8 patients to become part of the story.


6. In and Out, then Goodbye. There needs to be a place where new characters (usually strangers) can be rotated in and out of the main story thread.


7. Families exist in pairs. Dick Van Dyke, Joey, Yes Dear, King of Queens, Honeymooners, I love Lucy.


8. As an aside, doesn't it seem as though all these sitcoms could practically write themselves? It's not simply good writing, but good narrative structure. This is not a show I love, but Gilligan's Island had some creative albeit brain-dead ideas to work with.


9. Sitcoms involve extended social networks above and beyond what ordinary people have. Yes, it's artificial, but it's a kind of foreshortening for the sake of TV.


10. In residential sitcoms, don't assume that all neighbors have to know one another. In Three's Company, the only neighbors who know each other are Jack, Janet & Chrissy and their landlord. That's all. That's more than enough to sustain several seasons of sitcoms. The same principle applies for work environments. In Bob Newhart, the dentist down the hallway and the common receptionist just made the show what it was. Number of people doesn't matter as much as a plausible premise for two unlike people having a reason to interact on a regular basis.


11. Routines. Sitcoms need repetitions of plot patterns, though it works better if they are the exception rather than the rule. Esther's entrance in Sanford & Son was never so frequent that one expected it; yet it happened often enough to make one joyful when she did arrive upon the scene. Same for the Big Giant Head's messages on 3rd Rock, George Jefferson's arrival in the Bunker household or "We were on a break!" On the other hand, Gilligan and even Three's Company overdid the routine. Once every three or four episodes is sufficient.


12. "Catchphrases" are overdone in the American sitcom. If a phrase happens to captivate an audience, let it ride, but don't force it. Actually though, everybody uses catchphrases. It's part of character. But we don't keep repeating ourselves, even the most brain dead. Avoid creating situations just to use the catchphrase. Just write normally and let the opportunities fall into place. "I asked you not to tell me that."


13. Don't become obsessed with making people laugh. People laugh some (not all) of the time. A good sitcom is more than slapstick.


14. Minor characters can play pivotal roles. Carlton the doorman. Third Rock's Secretary. Newman, Joey's agent (I love that dame!). We don't want to learn anything more about these characters. Good that the writers resisted the urge to plumb into their depths or even to put them in many scenes. In Friends, the "Oh......my.....god" girl with the nasal laugh just made the show. But luckily the writers put her in the show rarely. (Her romantic mix tape for Chandler was one of the funniest things I heard; if you don't know, Chandler "regifts" the mix tape to Monica only to find out during a cuddling scene that the "Oh my god" girl records a lovey-dovey message between each song especially for Chandler.


15. House or apartment? With a house, you're dealing with family comedy. With apartment, you're dealing with dates/wierd strangers/roommates.


16. Sitcoms need to be serious sometimes. With friends, the Ross-Rachel thing was a farce, then a drama, and then farce. Part of the comic effect derives from these mood changes. Ultimately, a few seasons of shows are going to make you want to vary the moods anyway.


17. The Larry Sanders show and King of the Hill demonstrated that laugh tracks and live audiences are totally unnecessary. Instead they should be afterthoughts for those shows that are already popular.


18. All in the Family is the ideal sitcom, followed by the Honeymooners. All in the Family had 4 regulars, and one or two guest stars. Interestingly, the guest star to "All in the Family" was the topical event of the day...Nixon, the Vietnam War, affirmative action, homosexuality. Both sitcoms had minimal sets, with minimal special effects. Contrast that with Drew Carey who threw in a lot of special effects, dance numbers, magical realism and farcical events.


19. Expect the show's center to shift over time. Fonzie became the show after a year. So did Earkle of Family Matters or Kramer of Seinfeld.


20. If a character succeeds, he stays. If he succeeds only moderately, get him out of there!


21. Sitcom Romance. Don't try unless you can live with the prospect of one of them permanently leaving the show.


22. I like two story houses. Consider three shows where you know the house intimately well. Brady Bunch, King of Queens, That Seventies Show. The genius of That Seventies Show is using the family basement as a hangout for the teenagers. We know that all the scenes there (especially the dope scenes) involve teenager stuff. Stuff at ground level involve parent-child stuff. Backyard/driveway is for traveling/arrivals. King of Queens, look at that. Bedroom banter. Garage for guy stuff. Living Room for parties, kitchen for getting ready to leave, and finally the basement for Arthur's tunnel vision. Whoever designed that set is a genius.


23. This wasn't always true, but contemporary audiences enjoy sitcoms that reference previous episodes. Mention, but don't dwell.


24. Nothing is wrong with jumping the shark. But you have to design your plots in a way so that you can extricate yourself from a bad plotline if necessary. Shark jumping was only a two part episode, and then it was over for good. Burning down Arnold's (on the other hand) or burning down Cheers was a major plot device with major consequences down the road. Do if it you really need a different direction. But have a few backup directions to go if you totally mess up the overall thrust of the show.


25. Audiences are tolerant about little outbursts of sentimentality, as long as they're balanced by some sort of smirky postscript.


26. Don't worry about curtain lines. Just end when time runs out. All in the Family was famous for just ending after the 23 mark without any real reason. With Friends and Seinfeld, commercial interruptions made plotlines so disconnected that it no longer mattered where you ended anymore.


27. Don't watch only American sitcoms. Watch Mexican and British sitcoms and anything else you can get your hand on. They have different conventions, different tricks which you can steal shamelessly. The Office is a perfect example. It would never occur to Americans to make a character so boorish. Oh yes, that Internet thing, it's supposed to get pretty big someday. Maybe somebody is producing new web-only sitcoms as we speak.


28. Don Quixote. Police Squad and Get Smart being the best example. Pop culture has genres that take themselves too seriously. Find some sancrosanct cultural institution, and then transform it into something silly. For example, grab a popular TV drama or video, remake it into something silly. Reality shows. CSI. West Wing. Talk Shows. Law and Order.


29. Fish out of Water. Good if one character is totally out of place or doesn't belong. Like the policeman brother in Everyone Loves Raymond. Why is he still living with Mom and Dad?


30. Comedies don't need continuities of action. Look at Twilight Zone. Self-contained stories, but the series content stayed consistent. (Hitchcock show was another). In Get a Life! Chris Eliot dies at the end of almost every show. But I digress.