I’m approaching the end of my year-long creative writing program, and as I reflect back on the past few months there have been some very stellar moments, and some very frustrating techniques. I am more easily frustrated in a classroom setting than I used to be. Perhaps this is because I expect more rigor from a graduate program. Perhaps it’s because I’ve grown older and wiser. Perhaps I am just easily frustrated. But in any case, here are my four top “don’ts” for professors in advanced writing programs.
Don’t assign busy work.
I have several texts on my reading list. I have a certain number of pages to read before each class. In one class last semester, I read every word. In another, this semester, I haven’t even started.
I have not been doing my reading in the recent class because a. I won’t be tested on it, b. the reading takes away from time I would rather spend writing, and c. I don’t need to do my reading in order to take on the lessons of the class. I am often assigned short stories, usually because they demonstrate a certain kind of story structure.
I do not, at this point, need another example of these story structures. I should point out that these are very simple ideas. For me, being initially grounded in a simple idea (such as an “outsider” story structure) does not require four examples or a long discussion.
I find it more useful to reference these stories, and read them in my own time when I encounter a problem with the specified structure. This is the difference between being initially grounded in an idea and exploring how an idea applies to myself.
Don’t read aloud.
Sometimes we are given handouts in class, or asked to reference from one of our textbooks. While I think it can be helpful to read out a sentence or short paragraph before discussing it, if the text is any longer than this I find reading aloud to be a waste of time.
I know that reading aloud gives people who do not read quickly a chance to absorb the information being presented. And I know that reading slowly and dramatically can be good fun. But when some of your students read 4x faster than you speak, these long monologues will do nothing but stall your class’s energy. This is a perfect example of dumbing the class down to meet the lowest level of student. Classes should rise to the highest students; that way, everyone tries harder, everyone is more engaged, everyone gets more value. And I stay awake.
Don’t avoid peer critique.
I know critique is hard. I have mentioned before how much I get tangled in my own work, and how devastating a bad critique can be. But how am I expected to write professionally if I can’t take a tough critique?
One of my fiction classes has sworn off critique entirely, under the (absolutely true) justification that bad critiques can crush blossoming writers. And yes, they can. But not getting peer critique can stunt more developed writers. Being able to give and get constructive feedback on my work and the work of others like me was one of the core reasons I joined this program.
Don’t make every student take the basic classes.
This is really the culmination of the above three points. Every one of my criticisms is springing primarily from a single class. And although it’s been a nice class, and I have gotten some good moments out of it, on the whole it has been my weakest experience in this program. It is a beginning fiction class.
I shouldn’t have to take this class. I will not say I wouldn’t benefit from a really fast-paced, focused, quickly developing fiction class targeted to beginners. I have not written that much fiction. But I’ve realised in this class that my concerns as a writer are not my classmates’ concerns. I want to talk and learn about novel structures, work processes, fine editing, complex themes, honing my language like a laser beam. Instead, I hear about the rudiments of dialogue and the question of what kind of writing is “appropriate” for authors. I didn’t know what a headache I was getting into when I signed up.
I wish I could have tested out of this class somehow, but I don’t think I could have. There is no structure in place in my program to sort candidates into skill levels. And because writing is a creative activity without clearly designated, widely recognized levels of skill, people get the idea that no matter what level one is at, one can always gain something from a class, a story, a lesson.
In a small way, that’s true. But it’s not true enough to make this class worth my time.
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