You can get a Master of Fine Arts in anything. Even trombone. Or stage design. Or organically-raised vegetable canning. Okay, I made that last one up. But you get the idea.
Most artists I know are writers and they equate, with good reason, an MFA with writing. The MFA is is a graduate degree in the writing of poetry, fiction, or non-fiction. Like all graduate programs it costs some money, from ten thousand dollars to an astounding fifty thousand dollars, if I’m not being lied to. But then college is expensive. You don’t get valuable things without buying them, and the bigger the price tag, the more valuable. I think.
The Writing MFA is an admired and ubiquitous program. I’m not exactly sure what ubiquitous means. You be with us or you quit. Or something like that.
There are newly-minted MFA programs every year. Some have gone online, saving the student money. But this defeats the purpose, from what I can see. From what I can see the purpose is to lay around, flirt, and talk big. Don’t think I’m against this. Anyone reading my column knows laying around, flirting, and talking big are my major recreational pursuits.
The latest development is the “low residency” MFA. This is designed to be less expensive, and you get to meet your fellow graduate candidates now and then. You keep your regular job and go to one or two night classes per week. Low residency students tend to be a bit older. They are more serious. There is more is riding on their work, they just can’t goof around like a bunch of kids, hanging out in student bars and flopping into one another’s arms. I’m not sure, all of this is very hazy. I know a half-dozen current or former MFA students, but no one is talking, or not very much.
“Why do you want to know?” Emily demanded the other day. I bumped into her coming from the library. We are both big library users.
“I’m just curious,” I told her.
“No you’re not.” Her dark eyes flashed. She is the opposite of feisty, and I love it when she gets excited. “You just want to make fun of MFA programs. You don’t think it’s worthwhile. Admit it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You think it. And you make fun of the professors.”
“I do?”
“You said Dr. Freeman is a fake.”
This wasn’t true. Freeman, who I know, wears Red Wing boots and a scarf. He carries a Pony Express satchel over one shoulder and has a ponytail. He looks like he’s been called up from general casting by the director of a romantic comedy. Quick, get me a writer. “I said he looks the part,” I told her. “I didn’t insult him.”
“That is an insult.”
“I just want to know how it all works.”
“Well, I’m not telling you. And I’m late.”
“For what?”
“For something.” She swept past and headed for her car.
Emily has me all wrong. If anything, I’m jealous. A chance to read and write all you want? What’s not to like? If I could get away with it, I would enroll full-time in the nearest MFA program. In a heartbeat. The only thing stopping me is time. And money. Other than that, I’m good to go.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com