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Workshop: A Rant Against Creative Writing Classes

4. ME, I’M A BASTARD

Still, one of the things that makes me a good teacher, I’m convinced, is that I’m a real bastard—which is much luckier than being a whore. I’m easily bored, I want what I want when I want it, and I don’t believe that anyone knows my business better than me. Now, the good angels of my personality do a fair job of keeping that bastard in check, but he’s always there, willing to throw his weight around, willing to stomp on toes if it helps him to improve the work that’s on the table before him.

I’m a bastard, actually, from a tradition of bastards. I never had a better creative writing teacher than Leonard Michaels. He was a bastard because he (a) never prepared for class, (b) didn’t apparently care much for his students, and (c) used no filter whatsoever on his opinions. What I learned from Michaels—what, apparently, many people learned from Michaels—was to jealously love literature itself. He cared so deeply about what he read, even that miserable story of yours, that he could not be moved to lie about it. He could not be moved to blunt the force of his delight that you had delighted him or his anger that you had failed him. Nothing personal: He just cared more about the writing than anything else.

I don’t teach like Michaels. It would be hard to keep a job if I did. He read our stories aloud until the moment he didn’t care anymore. Then he would stop reading and ask us why he didn’t care anymore. Sometimes this took only two sentences.

Those were the days, of course, when the average student was granted no divine right to take a creative writing course. A guy like Michaels was at the top of a pyramid of writers, most of who couldn’t find teaching jobs, and most of the students who applied to get into creative writing workshops were rejected. And the fact that you’d been rejected four times didn’t mean squat on that fifth try. To my students, this seems like prehistory. I’m not saying we should go back to the old way, but the old way had advantages.

One advantage: You understood very clearly that no one needed to read your writing. It was a swift kick in the face every time you entered the workshop. It was worse than a kick to the face when you found out that you hadn’t been accepted into the workshop. But, for some of us, it was also bracing. Although I have never been a good scholar, I was a great writing student. The tussle and stumble and bark of those strange courses inspired me: I wrote draft upon draft upon draft. I would get mofos like Leonard Michaels to read one of my stories all the way through if it was the last thing I did.

And yet, as I write this now, I can hear my colleagues braying: “Is that really how we should teach creative writing? As though it were a blood sport?” “What about the tender spirits of our undergrads?” “What about that terribly sensitive project of literature itself?” “Do you really think anyone’s going to write anything worth reading while they’re fighting each other to the death?”

I’m not heartless. I know how much rejection and criticism absolutely suck. I’m sitting here right now, my guts still twisting from what some ex-Stanford grad student/wannabe editor just e-mailed me, her blithe and patronizing rejection of five years of my life.

But either I want to do this thing or I don’t. Either a guy like Leonard Michaels can help me or he can’t. It doesn’t matter if he’s arrogant or his neck looks like a penis (that’s what one friend said about Michaels). If these are things that stop you from writing…well, I’m sure that other things would have stopped you eventually. Still, don’t we all wish that the most important skills could just be downloaded into our hands and hearts? Unfortunately, I’m sorry to report, real progress most often comes out of struggle and—let’s face it—pain.

Reader Comments

  • haikuowl says...

    I never thought of it that way. I had always believed the importance of writing classes is the encouragement of students and networking. However, I get where you're coming from when you propose that writing, like anything, is more perspiration than anything else. I just recently got my BFA from Brooklyn College and even though my writing was praised there, I am still very insecure about my work. However, I know writing is something I definitely want to do and I am realistic about the whole thing. I don't go out there expecting to be the next Rimbaud. Your article has made me think a little more.

     

  • heavy hedonist says...

    Once I took an advanced fiction workshop with Professor Feldman at UB. Not easy to warm up to, this teacher or his approach. Not given to false kindness. He held the class tight, reining it in whenever it got too gentle, too complacent. He knew who was serious, who wasn't, who was writing to grind some personal axe and who might have a chance at writing for publication.He was fairly brutal, in many ways.There were no corners to hide in, with him at the end of the table, either in your writing or your critique. It was one of the best courses I ever took, an excellent example of what workshops can be but usually aren't.
    As I shift from writing group to writing group now, looking for guts and gashing, people who know how to give useful feedback or even at what point it should be given,I dream of workshops that are more than just "supportive." And after spending 10 years studying CW in two universities, I've seen damn few of them.

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Workshop: A Rant Against Creative Writing Classes (March/April 2008)
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