Like-Lunatics and the Pursuit of an M.F.A.

by Stephanie Johnson Blomgren

I know enough about writing, about living the "writer's life," to simultaneously love it and hate it with most of my being. Which means I never hate writing enough to stop—only enough to foster that perpetual grinding of teeth. I also know enough about writing to know that none of this makes a fist-full of sense to anyone who doesn't write, who isn't compelled by some form of lunacy to write. Which is why I finally decided to seek out like-lunatics and get my Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing.

It took me eight years to muster enough courage and desire to pursue an M.F.A. in Creative Writing. More precisely, eight years to undo knotted motives and latent fears. Arguments against getting an M.F.A. are legion. It's too expensive. It's a waste of time. No one "learns" to write—writing is an inborn gift. Too much literary snobbery. You have to take tests. You have to move. You'll never be able to use your M.F.A. degree to teach, because the last two teaching jobs left were just filled by people with more experience than you.

In other words: What if I am the worst writer who ever lived?

Of course, this question did not occur to me right out of college. Right out of college, I was fairly certain that all I needed to become a better writer was just a little more experience. Maybe in publishing. As an intern. (Hint: Working for free is rarely a good idea.) That experience opened my eyes to the "slush" pile—hundreds of writers, just like me, writing their hearts out, sending their manuscripts and queries to editors and "shooting the moon." Hoping that someone (other than me) might see their manuscript, their heartfelt work, and publish it. How could anyone make a living this way, I thought as I packaged up another hopeful, albeit doomed manuscript and "returned-to-sender." Impossible.

Eventually, I settled for advertising. Not a bad way to go for the jaded creative type. And, through cunning and corporate savvy (read: luck), I even started writing copy. As my projects went to press and finally mailed, I considered the circulation—a substantial audience. My own readership of consumers. Hurrah! I am an Ad Wizard! Look at me! Watch me redirect my creative flow through the channels of commerce and fundraising. Watch me divert my creative mojo away from my own creative work.

Hmmm. Something isn't right here.

It's easy to tell when something isn't right. You feel a little "off," a little nagged, or overwrought. I was finishing work projects, snapping them off and sending them on their way. But I hadn't finished a personal writing project in years. My short stories made my gut drop and my poetry unduly depressed me. And, despite a continual stream of writing classes—screen writing, short stories, the novel—my "writer's life" languished.

When you lose something—and I've tried this, to varying degrees of success—it is wise to retrace your steps. With any luck, you will arrive at a place that triggers some memory, some fragment to remind you of what you've lost. Writergrrl Gail Hudson's class on the personal essay was that trigger for me. It reminded me of a "home voice" I had nearly forgotten I possessed. And it did one better: It reminded me of why I write in the first place. Not because I hope to make a killing some day as a writer. But because as much as I hate writing, I love it.

I started researching M.F.A. programs in October 2003. I was getting serious. I was pouring my time and energy into my passion. I was terrified.

When I started the process, I thought, I've got plenty of time. Well, not exactly. No, researching M.F.A. programs is serious business—M.F.A.'s have become businesses in themselves and their numbers increase every year. Sorting through all the information and deciding on any M.F.A. program is a daunting task. But finding the right one can seem, at times, absolutely hopeless.

Enter another Seattle Writergrrl, Angela Fountas. In November, I took Angela's survey on the nuts and bolts of getting an M.F.A. She asked important questions: What am I going to do with it; am I ready to move; can I afford to get an M.F.A.? She also introduced a new concept to me: The Low Residency M.F.A.

Low residency M.F.A.'s are designed with careers and families in mind. Most require just a week or two weeks on campus each year. Like traditional studio programs, students are still required to submit critical papers, do assigned reading and maintain a steady schedule of creative submissions. But, unlike studio programs, it can all be done from the relative quiet of home. Now, in principle, I didn't mind the idea of moving out-of-state to go to school. Now that I was ready to "shoot the moon" with my own writing, why not do it right? Only my husband wasn't too keen on the idea. I'm a "successful enough" freelance writer, but my husband is known as Sugar Daddy around the house. His job is dependable. Plus, our family lives in the Seattle area. My contacts, my friends, my favorite group of Seattle Writergrrls and our Thursday nights at Caffé Ladro. Maybe it didn't make sense to move. In a low residency program, I wouldn't have to.

Instantly, my search was narrowed. Which was a good thing.

Most early decision applications to M.F.A. programs are due in January, some in February. Submitting your application early won't guarantee you a spot in the program of your choice, but it might help. That gave me two months to gather recommendations, compile my samples and put together a "statement of purpose." (Whatever that was.) Oh, and study for the GRE exam. No problem. ("No problem" actually became my mantra over the next several months, to the extent that my voice started to crack and whistle every time I said it.)

I did my research—mostly web-based and haphazard. I leaned on my writing groups for support. I stayed up late and cursed my work and then crossed myself and prayed for forgiveness. I sent emails and story samples to professors I haven't spoken to in nearly 10 years. I mortified myself and opened a creative vein in the presence of my former creative director. I decided not to study for the GRE and narrowed my search again: M.F.A. programs that do not require standardized tests.

I embraced the obvious. Early admission wasn't going to happen. I'd be lucky to get it together by March.

It's true, applications are expensive. And, because I was mailing my applications at the last minute, even more so. On top of writing $35 to $50 submission checks, I was forking over $10 and $20 for overnight postage. Of course, that's a drop in the literary bucket when you consider the cost of an M.F.A.. Studio (or on campus) programs might offer you teaching positions or assistantships, something to defray the cost or cover it entirely. After two years in a low residency program, I figure I'll be out about twenty grand. Sweet!

But none of this seemed to matter to me on May 23rd, 2004. Sticky, hot, smiling in the North Carolina heat along with seventy other students from across the country, I felt like I'd come home. Finally deciding on Queens University of Charlotte wasn't easy. Nothing about the M.F.A. application process was. Even renting my car at the Charlotte airport—which I then nearly drove over the "do not exit" puncture grates—seemed like a Herculean effort. But here, surrounded by so many like-lunatics—of every age, at every stage of life and from wildly differing backgrounds—my "writer's life" took on a new hue, lit from within and glowing.

"Writing is an opportunity to be generous," one of my instructors told me. "It offers you a chance to come to the page as a better person. To be honest and to be generous. To be bigger than you are."

I finished my first essay submission last week. With the feedback I received, I'll revise it and then set it free to wander in the "slush" pile with many thousands of other submissions. Because that's what writers do. They do the impossible. And then they do it all over again.

Stephanie Johnson Blomgren understands that she will never make piles of money with an M.F.A. in Creative Non-Fiction. Fame would be nice, though.