Graduating

One of my resolutions for the New Year was to stop considering myself a student of writing, and to start calling myself a writer. I forced myself to write the sentence “I am a writer, not a graduate student” one hundred times. Did it work? Well…results won’t manifest themselves within a day. The exercise was like getting thumped at the back of the head one hundred times. There was a flicker of some larger epiphany, but I didn’t catch it in time. Maybe it will come bursting out in my dreams…
A friend of mine wrote to me a few months ago, sighing about how envious she was that I was here in vibrant New York City, earning an MFA in Creative Writing and specializing in children’s books to boot. I certainly am proud that I am in an MFA program, and yeah, in New York Fucking City, but I’ve come to realize that an MFA has more use for teaching rather than writing. The degree will help you secure a teaching job, but will not necessarily get you published, or become a better writer (shocking!).
Of course I came to this realization the expensive way.
The New School Writing Program is also a hellish disappointment. Well, let me take that back. I exaggerate. Last semester I was bowled over by the Incredibles: Frederic Tuten (who split my world open by introducing texts like Markson’s This is not a novel and Sorrentino’s Gold Fools), Susan Bell (who gracefully shared a more respectful and effective manner of offering workshop critiques), and Susan Van Metre (who taught us how mischievous, wicked characters are essential in children’s books. Oh villainy!).
The thing is, the NS Writing Program is daftly designed, and one has to instigate a nuclear war-sized protest before any improvement is made to the writing for children concentration. I’m pretty certain we place far behind other MFA programs (at Simmons, Hollins, Lesley, Union Institute, and Spalding; all programs except Simmons and the New School are low-residency) that specialize in writing for children because these other programs do not see children’s books as some lesser form of literature. These other institutions recognize the scope and complexity of children’s literature, so much so that they have isolated the study of texts for children from other genres. Their programs allow their students to dive deep into the history and criticism of children’s literature, and therefore they surface with a keener familiarity with the genre.
Here at the New School, we’re lumped in with folks majoring in the “higher arts” of fiction, poetry, and non-fiction, many of whom treat us with disdain. And why should they respect us? We’re purportedly writing easy, unimportant stuff. We’re all about cute bunnies and sunshine. We’re not at all encourage to create ties with the traditions of children’s literature – at most, we can take one seminar on children’s literature (because that’s all the program can “afford” to offer) called “Children’s Literature.” As if one course can explain it all (for context: prose and poetry literature seminars have titles such as “Nonlinearity and Structural Play in the Novel,” “Master Thieves of Poetry,” and “The Writer’s Presence”).
I agree that understanding different literary genres can only help strengthen a writer. But I feel like this strategy of taking courses outside our concentration does not work because our vision is not respected. We are made to see the world through the eyes of adults, and hardly allowed to share what we imagine children to see. The priority lies with the people who write for adults.
Not that getting an MA or MFA from schools other than the New School will afford one more respect. Amanda Cockrell, director of the Hollins program, likes to relate that the one question children’s book authors are always asked is, “So, when are you going to write a real book?” It’s heartbreaking, because the value of children’s literature cannot be rivaled by any other literature in the world. This is the literature that has the capacity to reveal the flaws of adult institutions in a most truthful manner, because it is spoken in childhood’s voice. Childhood is adulthood’s truest opposite, truest critic, truest enemy (the sad truth is, childhood can never win. It always transforms into adulthood. Either that, or it meets death. Perhaps it can fly away, like Peter Pan?).
The adults in the New School program refuse to hold our hands – but I can turn that into a good thing. In the world outside of graduate school, there is hardly any hand-holding. Fictionist Susan Choi offered this truth: an MFA program is not a factory that transforms would-be writers into full-fledged authors in two years. An MFA program is more of a long-term residency, giving a student of writing both the intense freedom and responsibility to write. So it’s all up to the student to turn an MFA program into a true learning experience…
Oh fuck. Being churned out by a factory is so much easier.


(Aside: Tuten was a friend of Hergé, yes, the Hergé who created Tintin comic book series. Tuten wrote a book called Tintin in the New World (the cover was illustrated by Roy Lichtenstein! Can you believe I came within one foot of a guy who has such social circles?), but he claims the only way he managed to write it was by getting permission from Hergé to use the comic book characters. Tuten and I went crazy one class discussing episodes from Tintin, and I was stunned to see my classmates’ blank expressions. They don’t even know who Tintin is! Why so? 1) Because they are Americans and 2) because they are into “serious” literature.)

Assignment:
Retrieve childhood memories of mischief or wickedness. Focus on three, and develop one into a story or poem.

Last Word:
And what is the use of a book without pictures or conversation?
Lewis Carroll
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland