The Getaway Car: A Practical Memoir About Writing and Life (Kindle Single) (3 page)

Based on my own experience, I believe the brain is as soft and malleable as bread dough when we’re young. I am grateful for every class trip to the symphony I went on and curse any night I was allowed to watch
The Brady Bunch
,
because all of it stuck. Conversely, I am now capable of forgetting entire novels that I’ve read, and I’ve been influenced not at all by books I passionately love and would kill to be influenced by. Think about this before you let your child have a Game Boy. 

* * *

IF THE GIFTS
I received as an undergraduate were of fairy-tale dimensions, that was not the case for me at the esteemed Iowa Writers’ Workshop, where I arrived at the age of twenty-one. I never had a class in graduate school that approached what I had had in college, but I chalk it up to the luck of the draw. (Luck, I’ve come to find out, works in both directions.) Had I been at Iowa two years later, or two years earlier, or had I merely signed up for a different roster of classes, I would have had an entirely different experience. The same, of course, would have been true at Sarah Lawrence. The ability to write and the ability to teach are not the same, and while I’ve known plenty of people who could do both, there are also plenty of people who can do only one or the other, and plenty who do both who should be doing neither. That’s why picking an MFA program is tricky. It may give you the opportunity to study with your hero, but your hero may prove a disappointment in the classroom. The best way to judge a program is to look at the person directing it. I once taught briefly at the University of California at Irvine, a small program that was run at the time by the wonderful writer Geoffrey Wolff. He controlled everything magnificently. He did a meticulous job choosing both the faculty and the students, oversaw a financial aid program that didn’t pit students against one another, and in general set a tone that was congenial and supportive. All MFA programs rely on visiting faculty, and most of them change from year to year (if not semester to semester), so don’t go by the prestige of a name or by someone else’s experience five years ago. It’s always a work in progress.

The answer to how important a master of fine arts degree is to becoming a fiction writer is, of course, not at all. The history of world literature is weighted heavily on the side of writers who put their masterpieces together without the benefit of two years of graduate school. Still, MFA programs have been part of the mix, at least in this country, for a long time now, and many writers attend them. Even though it was an imperfect experience for me, it was not without benefit: Spending two years devoting myself to writing was indisputably a good thing, as was meeting the other students who had come for the same reasons I had. We all had such good intentions, and most of us were eventually distracted from them. I remember complaining one night on the phone to my mother that we spent too much of our time worrying about love and money. “Think of it as research,” she said. “That’s what everybody writes about.”

Iowa was where I learned how to tune my ear to the usefulness and uselessness of other people’s opinions. An essential element of being a writer is learning whom to listen to and whom to ignore where your work is concerned. Every workshop was an explosion of judgment. A third of the class would love a story, a third would rip it to shreds, and a third would sit there staring off into space, no doubt wondering what they were going to have for dinner. Sometimes an entire class would say that something wasn’t working and they’d be wrong. I had to trust myself and keep doing whatever I was doing. Other times, one lone dissenter would point out a problem and the rest of the class would disagree, but that person was right. Had I given equal weight to everyone who had something to say, every story would have turned into a terrible game of Twister (left hand, yellow; right foot, blue; nose on green; and so on). On the other hand, had I listened to no one, or only to the people who liked me, the workshop would have been a waste of time.

One misconception about workshops is that you learn the most about how to be a better writer on the day your story is discussed. Not true. People are nervous, sometimes deathly so, when their story is being dissected, and there’s always a great deal of ego involved. But it’s when someone else has their turn at bat that you actually get to see what’s going on; the view is always clearer without all those emotional defenses in the way. This is where MFA programs are most valuable: You can learn more, and more quickly, from other people’s missteps than from their successes. If we could learn everything we needed to know about writing fiction by seeing it masterfully executed, we could just stay in bed and read Chekhov. But when you see someone putting in five pages of unnecessary descriptive detail in a twenty-page story, or not bothering to engage the reader’s interest until the seventh page, or writing dialogue that reads like a government wiretap transcription from a particularly boring conversation between a couple of fourteen-year-old girls, then you learn and learn fast. You may not always grasp what you need to do in order to make your own work better, but if you pay attention you’ll figure out what you need to avoid. It doesn’t take long to identify who the best critics in the class are, and those people become the ones you seek out. Making friends with other writers you respect is reason enough to go to graduate school. You’re not always going to have teachers, but if you’re lucky, you’ll always have a couple of tough, loving, forthright peers who have something to teach you.

The best thing I got out of my time at Iowa was that I learned how to teach. In my first year, my financial aid package entailed teaching an undergraduate Introduction to Literature class. Then, in my second year, I taught undergraduate fiction writing. The degree to which I was unqualified for this work was appalling. I was twenty-one years old and had never given teaching a thought. For the literature class, the teaching assistants were told to cover two novels (any two novels, any of them), two plays (one Shakespeare and one contemporary), some short stories, and a section on poetry. We were given two days of group instruction, a class schedule, and a room number, and that was it. We were on our own. It was terrifying, and I learned more from that experience than from all the writing and reading I had done in my life to date. Being the one to stand in front of the class and talk about a book for fifty minutes made me read at a whole new level. I was forced to think through every idea I had about a story, to support all of those ideas with examples from the text, and articulate my thoughts in a cogent manner. In short, I started to study how writers did what they did with a great deal more diligence, because I had to explain it to someone else. I’ve often wished there had been a way for me to teach before being a student—Teaching made me so much better at studying.

Education aside, my most emphatic piece of advice regarding whether or not to attend an MFA program has to do with money: No one should go into debt to study creative writing. It’s simply not worth it. Do not think of it as an investment in yourself that you’ll be able to recoup later on. This is not medical school. There are many more MFA programs turning out many more writers than the market can possibly bear; the law of averages dictates that a great percentage of graduates are never going to make anywhere close to a living practicing their craft. Every MFA program has some level of financial aid that is based on how talented you are deemed to be, which is another way of saying how badly that program wants you. If you get into an MFA program without an offer of financial aid, sit out a year and then reapply. Who accepts you and how much money they give you is a capricious business, subject to who happens to be serving on the admissions panel (which in the early rounds is often composed of students). I applied to four MFA programs and I got into one—the one that was supposedly the most competitive—and I received financial aid. Would I have gone without financial aid? Probably, but only because I wouldn’t have known any better. At the time, I had no idea what I was buying. I will admit to being a profoundly practical person, especially where money is concerned, but unless you are independently wealthy, I urge you to listen to this. If you plan to roll the dice thinking,
Well, surely I’ll get a big book contract at the end of the two years that will cover the loan I’ve taken out,
there is an excellent chance it’s not going to happen.

And while we’re on the subject of writing programs, let me touch on summer programs as well. They can be a lot of fun, as long as you’re honest with yourself about what your goals are. If you want to make friends with other people who want to be writers, have a vacation with an opportunity to learn something, and have the chance to listen for a week or two to the wisdom of a writer you respect—and you can do it all within your budget—then summer programs are great. But if you think you’ll find an agent who will take on your novel, or the writer you love will love you in return and will mentor you beyond the parameters of the summer schedule, forget it. I stopped teaching in summer programs a long time ago, because I felt uncomfortable with the promises that were being sold. Those programs can be a lifesaving connection for people who are toiling away by themselves month after month with no one to share work with. Like an MFA program writ in miniature, it’s the chance to find friends and reliable critics among classmates. I imagine that every now and then a book is picked up by a prestigious New York agent and sold to a prestigious New York publisher, but it is statistically akin to finding a four-leaf clover. On the banks of the Dead Sea. In July.

After finishing at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, I got a job as the writer-in-residence at a small college in Pennsylvania. Two days before my second year of employment was set to begin, I left my husband, left the job, and very quickly left the state. I moved back to Tennessee and in with my mother. Having burned my last employers so badly, I had pretty much no chance of finding another teaching job, so I wound up getting a job as a waitress. I was twenty-five years old. It wasn’t the best time in my life, but at least I wasn’t mailing in a percentage of my tip money to pay down student loans for my MFA. 

I had a lot of time to think about stories in those days. I found I was capable of taking orders, serving meals, and picking up dirty plates while dreaming up plots, but I had a hard time writing them down. My hands were always full, and in the few moments they weren’t, I fell asleep in about thirty seconds. Up until that point, there had never been any reason to doubt that my life was going to work out exactly according to script. I had thought I was a writer when I was a student, but would I still be a writer now that I was also a waitress? It was a test of love: How long would I stick around once things were no longer going my way? (Illustrative anecdote: Many years later, I was in London interviewing Ralph Fiennes for
GQ
magazine. While we were at lunch, the waiter approached to tell Fiennes how much he admired his work. “I’m an actor, too,” the waiter said as he held out a piece of paper for an autograph. Later I asked Fiennes how long he would have been willing to be a waiter who struggled to be an actor. Things had gone well for him pretty much right off the bat, but let’s say for the sake of argument that they hadn’t and he had to pick up dirty plates and sweep up the crushed saltines of children. How much resilience had there been in his dream, and how far would he have slogged on without any signs of success? The actor shook his head. “I couldn’t have done it,” he said.)

There were things I learned about writing while working as a waitress that I hadn’t come to during my student years, and the first was my own level of commitment. As the months went by, I knew that I wrote because it was my joy, and if I kept on being a waitress forever, writing would still be my joy. But that didn’t mean I didn’t have plans to use writing as a means of escape. I had been unwaveringly loyal to my talent, and now that the chips were down, I expected it to be loyal to me. With so much time for thinking and so little time for writing, I learned how to work in my head. Between pilfering croutons off salad plates and microwaving fudge sauce for the sundaes, I decided I was going to make up a novel, and that the novel was going to get me out of the restaurant. The novel was going to be my getaway car.

From the moment I walked into Allan Gurganus’s class, I had been utterly devoted to the short story. When people asked me when I planned to write a novel, I would say,
If I were a violinist, would you ask me when I was going to play the viola, just because it’s bigger?
(Shake your head in pity here for the self-righteous undergraduate.) I still believe that, even though many writers work in both the long and short forms of fiction, you can always spot the ones who are really short story writers, in the same way you know who is truly a novelist. Very few people—John Updike being one notable exception—are equally gifted. I was a short story writer. I was sure of it. But I had gotten myself into a novel-size hole, and I knew it was going to take a lot more than a story to save me. The problem was that I had received a massive and expensive education in how to write short stories and not so much as a correspondence course in how to write a novel. (I realize now that this is largely a matter of time, logistics, and to some degree patience. A teacher may be willing to read fifteen short stories a week, but no one can read rambling, lengthy, decontextualized segments of fifteen novels. There is also the fact that novel excerpts rarely benefit from group critique. It’s one thing to get all those opinions when you’ve finished, but when you’re still in the middle of a project, it’s like having fifteen people give you conflicting directions as to how best to get to the interstate.) And so, with a couple of cheeseburger platters balanced up my arm, I began to teach myself how to write a novel while being a waitress. 

* * *