And this one is my all-time favorite.  The letters drawn on a steamed-up mirror capture the spirit of this quote.  After all, it’s a mirror but it doesn’t reflect (or distorts the reflection at the very least) so while the person asking the question may be confronting himself in the mirror, it’s not really himself, but a blurred reflection.  Bonus points to anyone who  can tell me what teen novel uses this quote and in what context.

I begin with a challenge: Caroline Star Rose of Caroline By Line has initiated a Verse Novel Challenge and I’m going to do it!

Here’s how it works:  Go to Caroline’s blog and leave a comment on her post “Verse Novel Challenge” so she knows you’re participating.  Then start reading verse novels.  If you make it to 5, you get entered in a drawing for a ARC of her upcoming book May B.

I haven’t decided which books I’m going to read yet, but I have narrowed down the list:

• Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse
• Witness by Karen Hesse
• Foreign Exchange: a mystery in poems by Mel Glenn
• Heartbeat by Sharon Creech
• Realm Of Possibility by David Levithan
• Fearless Fernie by Gary Soto
• Stop Pretending: What Happened When my Big Sister Went Crazy by Sonya Sones

Notice that there’s no Virginia Euwer Wolff on the list.  It may seem odd–especially since I loved True Believer and have been meaning to read Make Lemonade for some time–but there is a reason.

Apparently Wolff considers her writing not as verse but as “prose with line breaks.”  In an interview with The Horn Book (2001), Virginia Euwer Wolff said: “Writing my prose in funny-shaped lines does not render it poetry. And there’s nobody more aware of that than I.”

Which leads me to the central question of this post: if an author does not consider his/her work as verse, can we the readers appropriate it as such?

My gut response is no.  If an author says his/her work is prose, then I will read it and accept it as prose, even if there are line breaks and it looks like verse.  Certainly, poetry is more than just prose rearranged with breaks in funny places.  Poetry has an element of surprise and a musicality that differs from prose.  In my mind, prose emphasizes character and story before language whereas poetry puts language first.  The line breaks in poetry serve as parallels to breath and rhythm, whereas prose with line breaks must focus first on telling the story.

For this reason, much as I would love to put True Believer and Make Lemonade on my list of verse novels to read, I can’t in good conscience bring myself to do it.  I’ll probably read Make Lemonade anyway, and maybe reread True Believer for good measure and for fun.

My rant for today starts with a story.

Last Thursday was the MFA student reading at The New School, which happened to be coupled with a reception for prospective students.  The reading went well.  I read and didn’t get too nervous.  Blah, blah, blah.  But the real fun began during the reception.

At one point, I was pulled aside by a prospective student who wanted to know if I thought going to The New School was going to help me get published.  I told her to slow down and then gave her my twenty-five-cent standard response:

“Going to The New School–or any MFA program–has nothing to do with getting published.  I came here because I wanted to be the best writer I can be, and this program did that for me.  If I happen to get published as a side-effect of becoming a better writer, great.”

She gave me this look like I had just stolen her golden ticket.  I tried to do some damage control:

“Seriously, if your only goal is to get published: go home, sit yourself at your workspace and write the book.  If you think getting an MFA will help motivate you or improve your writing, then it sounds like a good fit for you.  But if all you want is a ‘get-published’ card, then just go home and write the book.”

She went home.  And I felt like I had given the absolute worst pitch ever.

The truth is, this question of getting an MFA is one that seems especially pertinent this time of year.  As prospective students decide whether they will break open their piggy-banks and sacrifice valuable time and money for the laurels of scholarship, it’s important to remember why we choose to go to an MFA program in the first place.  In his recent article, Seth Abramson talks about the lack of attention given by literary communities to this important question.  And according to this account from The Rejectionist, an MFA beside an author’s name doesn’t indicate whether the writing is even publishable.

As someone who has taken the graduate school route, have come to the following conclusions about the benefits and drawbacks of the MFA.

1.  The MFA is not an MBA, MD or JD.  There is no series of steps you must go through that ultimately link you up with a job post-graduation.  There is no organized process.  It’s not like in law school and if you’re editor of Law Review, you’re practically guaranteed a job.  You could be the biggest hot-shot in your writing MFA program and still find yourself unemployed come graduation.  I know this seems unfair, but it’s the way of the world.  Let’s face it; our culture happens to place more value on business executives and doctors and lawyers than they do on artists or writers.  Why?  Because if a pediatrician sucks at her job, small children might die.  If a writer sucks at her job, it’s only the writing that suffers.
2. The MFA does not equal publication.  This sounds like a no-brainer, but I can’t tell you how many people seem to think that going to an MFA program automatically means you’ll get published when you leave.  The only thing that will lead to publication is improving one’s writing.  Unfortunately for many writers, the rate at which they write and improve is slower than the rate at which they age.  They either die or give up before they publish.  Sad, but true.  The only thing the MFA can do for you is speed up that learning curve a little, but if you don’t keep writing and learning, no MFA will help you.
3. Not all MFAs are created equal.  I am lucky enough to be graduating from the Writing For Children concentration that happens to have a pretty strong track-record when it comes to publishing.  Is it the MFA that grants this publishing know-how to its students?  Maybe.  Certainly, we’ve had countless agents and editors give lectures relating specifically to our genre.  Students participate in a mock-submission process and some even have editors as thesis advisers.  But could it also be that the group of people attending the program are self-selecting?  This may be the case.  After all, a program is only as strong as the students in it so in selecting an MFA I strongly recommend that prospectives speak to current students and alumni.
4. No MFA can replace BIC.  What’s BIC, you ask?  Butt.  In.  Chair.  And if you need me to tell you what I mean by that, then you’re not a writer.
5. What’s the Next Step?  Trying to build a life as a writer is not all that different from writing a story or novel.  Just as in writing, you always have to think about what comes next, so it is with life as a writer–whether you do an MFA or not.  This semester, though a thesis has loomed over my head, I’ve had to step back and ask myself: what’s next?  Because if I wait until “next” gets here, it’ll be too late.

In the end, the MFA question becomes moot.  It’s really a question of what writer wants out of his or her writing life.  If taken simply as a shortcut to publication, the MFA will be a waste of time.  But if the goal is to build a writing community, network with both established writers and professionals in the field or to improve one’s craft, then the MFA is a worthy challenge.

Recipe for a Writers’ Group

• 1 notebook
• 1 pen
• 5-6 fellow writers
• meeting space with good ambient noise level and coffee

Time required: 2 hrs.

Instructions:
     Begin with 10 minutes of catching up and group business.  Share your successes.  Give encouragement.  Mix in some writing exercises, maybe read a poem or two.  Discuss, then set aside.
     Separately, begin preparing the critique portion.  Always add positive feedback first, then constructive criticism.  Add a cup of supportive comments for every dash of the negative.  Then sprinkle in a pinch of suggestion and a teaspoon of creative problem-solving.
     Fold together with the original mixture.  Spread in a baking pan and let incubate for about a week.

Serves: 6-7 writers

To my fellow writing friends: your support and encouragement help me concoct my best literary feasts.  Thank you.