Categories
Writing

A degree in Creative Writing?

Some people who read this are probably writers. Or are considering being writers. And a lot of people ask me about my MA in Creative Writing. Did I like it? Was it worth it?

The short answer: no.

Well, yes, I did like it, but no, it wasn’t worth it.

Unless you are absolutely financially secure (or you live in a magical place where university is free or cheap, and doesn’t cost over $20,000 a year) and know you don’t want to do anything else in the next year or two but write. Or if you don’t know what you want to do with your life because you haven’t sorted out what you want to be when you grow up (no matter what numerical age you are) and want a seeming-legitimate way to pass the time while you find out (and write). 

Even then, I wouldn’t recommend it.

I confess, that was me. All of the above. 

I have no doubt there are exceptional programs out there that have been a tremendous help to some. But I argue that you can take online classes at a fraction of the cost and inconvenience, join a writers group, and you will get a comparable experience. A better one, if your group is dedicated and consistent.

I adored my classmates. To this day we keep in touch and talk about writing. But I think I would have had just as good a time, if not better, if the twelve of us had just been in a critique group and cut the profs out of the process entirely.

The male profs were disinterested, though I had two lovely lady profs who seemed to actually care, and whose classes actually imparted some knowledge and creative challenge. But the leader of the programme and the other main lecturers were there not because they like encouraging writers or discussing the brilliance of all kinds of fiction, but because they could not make ends meet as a writer. 

No shame in that, of course. Most of us can’t. But to take our your bitterness on your students because you consider yourself an under-appreciated high-brow author and you have to critique a fantasy novel or “chic lit”. (The work in question wasn’t chic lit, but the student who wrote it was a woman and it included a female protagonist in a modern setting. But it was far from humorous or light-hearted. It was an intense and moving story about two women, one homeless, one lost and wanting to give her life meaning and she tries to do that by ‘helping’ the homeless woman. In the end, nothing changed.) Still, it was treated as unsubstantial ‘women’s writing’, and dismissed by staff.) I don’t need to say here, surely, that there is nothing at all the matter with chic-lit. (Misogyny and racism in publishing deserves it’s own post, so I won’t go on about that here, other than to say, yes, it certainly was an issue in my creative writing MA in the UK.)

But speaking of chic-lit, I have plans for a novella or three.  And I’m quite excited about them.

Fun fact: After completing my own creative writing programme, I wrote a long and complaining email to the head creative fiction prof (not about the programme. That, I had done in my end of term paper. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t like ‘An MA in Creative Whiting’ a treatise on how all the authors we studied were white, male, and usually dead).

No, it was a travel essay of sorts, on a topic he wrote a lot about, so I shared it with him

He responded (based on this one email) that apparently I was better at non-fiction. 

This coming from a man who had been reading my fiction all year.

Ouch. 

Not all courses will be like this, naturally. You may have interested teachers who are generous with their time and their commentary, who will do their best to advise you, who encourage genre-writing and exploring boundaries between instead of sticking to what is considered ‘high-brow’. But more than instruction and advice, one benefits most from reading reading reading, writing practice, and critique. And you can do that without a degree. 

In fact, I was so bludgeoned by my course that I didn’t write for a long time after that. Others from my MA and people who were enrolled in completely different programmes experienced the same thing, that it stole the joy from writing. The burn-out is real, and you come away knowing what good writing is, not yet able to achieve it, and too demoralised to continue trying. Quite a demotivating situation. Most writers I’ve talked to on average take a year or two to start writing again after their course.

Having a group, however, is wonderful and essential. People, or even just one other person, who will motivate you to keep writing when you don’t want to, or commiserate with you when you can’t seem to get through a section of your novel, or who will go on artist dates with you to a museum or a park, or just to a cafe to scribble. Someone who will give you honest feedback and who likes reading the kind of stuff you like writing. (I wish for the sake of a few friends that I enjoyed sci-fi, but I do not. I know this is a personal failing, not a shortcoming of the genre. But I am not the target audience for their work, so I’m not their ideal reader.)

So cultivate a connection with other creative people, be accountable to each other, and keep working. At your own pace, yes, but keep working. 

Categories
Travel Writing

Why I’ve been gone so long

DEPRESSION! 

That’s the short answer. But like most simple answers, it excludes a lot of important nuance. And the complicated truth is much more involved.

But yes, I stopped writing, I think, because I stopped travelling. Travelling and writing for me go hand in hand. If I’m travelling, I am writing. But in 2016 I went back to uni, getting a new undergrad degree in Economics. I could have made some time for travel (if I had the funds, but I didn’t) but I was trying to hurry through my course as quickly as possible, as I wasn’t getting any younger and gave zero fucks about the college experience. So I clocked an average 25 hours a semester, taking classes between terms, and taking classes at other nearby unis to transfer to my uni later (because my uni has a cap on how many classes you can take in a semester, even though I got special permission to take 21 hours, it still wasn’t enough to complete my degree in two years.)

Not to toot my own horn (who am I kidding, that’s exactly what I’m doing) I came out with an almost perfect GPA, ruined only by B in calculus….(grrrrr.) My confines to the ivory tower kept me in the United States, and worse a constraint was my time, which was given over completely to finishing the degree.

I continued immediately with a masters in economics, going to London for an MSc in Global Economic Governance and Policy. While I was there I did almost no travel. Only a day trip to France for my anniversary (just the ferry to Calais for crepes and walking along the beach) then back to London to take an exam the following day.  And throughout all this schooling, I was doing a lot of academic writing, but none creatively. 

Then, after I finished school I immediately landed a dream job. A wonderful opportunity with a promising future career! It was mostly WFH with a London based charity/think tank on a project to improve lifetime outcomes of girls in Africa and the Middle East. Exactly the kind of work I wanted to do. And I even got to travel for work. To Ethiopia and to Jordan, and the potential to travel to Rwanda and more! But those work trips were so busy that I didn’t have time to see Addis Ababa at all, nor Amman. Which… was fine. I still had a flexible enough schedule and was finally making enough money to be able to travel without extreme budgeting. (Ramen noodle meals and taking a piece of fruit and some bread from hostels’s breakfasts, putting it into a napkin and secreting it into my rucksack, to have for lunch.)

So, I was at a place where I had the time and the money to travel!

But… the pandemic…

I had been in Amaan for a month when the travel bans were announced and I decided to go back to the US. Where I stayed, stuck, to this very day.

The data collection stopped in Jordan the day I left, and without new incoming data, I didn’t have much of a job to do other than the most basic and mundane of tasks that grew painful to even contemplate. At one point I remember thinking, “If I were dead, I wouldn’t have to do this.”

I took that as a sign and left my job because I assumed that wasn’t a indication of excellent mental health. But appointments with psychologists were booked up for months, and leaving my job actually helped.

Turns out I have severe depression and ADHD and my brain in the pandemic was dangerously under-stimulated, made even worse by the tedium of what my job had become, which rapidly depleted what little dopamine I had until I had none left. Quitting was the right choice.

I rested.

I spent more time out of doors.

I started treatment.

I started to write again.  It was crap, but it was something.

I also took some online classes.

Because of a shoulder injury, I couldn’t do most forms of fun, so walking was the thing. I walked. I wrote. I read. 

I am still walking, and writing and reading.   

But now that I’ve been vaccinated, and it looks like the world might be opening up slightly, I mean to make my way through it. 

I have no doubt unrealistically ambitious plans about my writing from now on, but still, I have several projects and deadline goals and plan to pursue them. I won’t share them just yet.

But know I know my brain needs the stimulation of travel to thrive, and it isn’t just a quirk of my personality. So I shall travel and I shall write.

I’ll have to start small.

But that’s still a start.