Why You Annoyed Every Girl in Your MFA Cohort

It was your first day of your fiction MFA and you knew this was it; the first day of the rest of your life. You made it. Through all the hardship of high school where no one understood you — and the horror of undergrad at the local state school where no one gave you a second glance just because you couldn’t throw a lousy football or run long. You made it. Out of the gutter and into the sunshine — where you belonged. Smooth sailing from here on out. All you had to do was get that piece of paper at the end of the stage and editors and agents would be throwing themselves at you. Hell, maybe sooner than that, if you played your cards right. It happened to Bret Easton Ellis, and after all, you were way better than him.

When you walked into your Short Story Workshop, no one applauded. Strange. That was okay though; they’d learn.

You sat across the long table from the professor. As she would soon learn, you had as much wisdom to share as she did, and students would gradually turn from her end of the room to yours, waiting to see what you would say.

Students filed in and chatted unnecessarily. Wasting words, wasting words. You sat there quietly in your tweed jacket, with your leather bound notebook and quill pen at the ready. Class began when the professor glided in — she was edging on fifty and grey-haired and tall with easy eyes. You’d read one of her short stories in The New Yorker six months ago and thought she had some things to learn. You wrote down some edits on a piece of parchment and planned on delivering them to her with your thesis at the end of your stay.

She looked around the room pleasantly and invited everyone to take turns introducing themselves. She started with the girl to her left; a lithe young thing who you could see yourself having a one-week bohemian affair with and then dumping when you saw her woefully minimalist writing style.

“I’m Ann,” she said, smiling. “I’m from Tampa originally, went to Florida State for undergrad, and I have three dogs. I love Netflix and dubstep.”

The room welcomed her. All but you. Your thoughts of the affair were instantly dashed. She hardly deserved your scorn.

The rest of the room proceeded in a similar fashion. No one listed their favorite author, their favorite book, their favorite review. TV, movies, streaming, games, stargazing — what oh what was the writing world coming to? You all but swooned in your chair at the state of this school’s MFA program if this is what they’d let in beside you. But you were given a fellowship, so at least you knew the committee had some sense. Surely these people had to pay their way in. They would not last long.

Finally, all eyes turned to you, as was your due.

“Greetings,” you said, relaxing your shoulders down. “I’m Craft McSentence Level. My nom de plume will be Crafterson, however, so please address me thuswise. I don’t have favorite authors, as I feel we all can improve, but those I most identify with are Jonathan Franzen and David Foster Wallace. My writing style has been described as torrid. I’m twenty-one years old and plan to be out of this program in a year and a half. My thesis will be an enlightening treatise on the unjust affairs of the middle east. I don’t like wasting time, as time is a finite resource, so I’ve copied some flash fiction pieces I worked on over the summer. I was hoping we’d have time to review them.”

You held up your stack of papers. Everyone looked at you wide-eyed, breathless. Surely even they could recognize it — the hot white flame of greatness. John Updike’s classmates must have felt similarly.

Class ended without any time given to your materials but that was okay with you, deep down. Best to space out the important stuff or else its importance might be lost. Your fellow classmates exited quickly, none looking at you. The poor things must have felt embarrassed to have given such paltry first impressions.

Before you left, the professor called out to you.

“Craft, that was—”

“Crafterson, please.”

She smiled wider. “Crafterson. That was quite an introduction.”

“Yes. Please expect more of the same from me.”

“I surely will.”

You left the room with your breast full, your mind at ease. You went home to check your email. An agent must have heard about you by now.

4 Tips for Receiving Criticism in the Fiction Workshop

I’ve been in many workshops – high end, low end, undergrad, graduate, fiction, poetry, with bestselling writers and unknowns. Ones in which it seemed everyone was a professional and capable of handling constructive critiques and ones in which people were giant titty-babies who couldn’t handle one negative point made.

I remember when someone cried.

She was younger than me, not by much. This was in undergrad where everyone was nervous, anxiously wanting to prove their capability. The concept of relaxation hadn’t yet worked its way into our skin.

She was obviously proud of her story; you could tell because she talked about it beforehand with us which is something of a faux pas. Do not discuss the work outside of the workshop, particularly with people you don’t know! Because chances are they don’t care. Something else you should know: s/he whose work is being discussed is not to speak during the discussion. S/he is not to defend, plead or bargain. ‘Take what you are given and expect no more’ kind of deal. She was breaking all kinds of unspoken rules.

As we were discussing (and at this point, you could tell this story was not a class favorite) she spoke up. The point being made currently: this part of the story is unrealistic for the kind of character we have thus far been shown. The girl said, “But this really happened! This happened to me and this is how I responded!”

Now, at this point, everyone was, one, annoyed at being interrupted and, two, inly rolling their eyes because this defense is as lame as they come. The “this really happened” line is a non-sequitur. Never is it appropriate in a fiction workshop. I don’t care if it did happen and neither does anyone else. Fiction is not real life and the two are not interchangeable. If we as an audience cannot believe it on the page, it needs to be changed, end of story. I said so. Others did too.

Then came the waterworks.

I went to LA for a screenwriting job.

The professor agreed with us and we hurried to get to the end of her workshop. I can still see her sitting across the circle from me: patchy red and soggy-faced, looking sullen and angry. I knew she wasn’t going to use any of the edits. I’ll never get back the breath I used that day.

Here’s how to accept and be one with critiques:

1. Be open.

Openness is something you have control over. Can you control how other people see your work? No. And I’m not heartless – I’m always the critiquer and the critiqued, so I know it’s frustrating when people divine nonsense from your work, when you’re dying to say, “That’s not what that means at all!” There’s no control there. There is control in how you respond to it. One of my grad profs said that during your workshop, when your story is being discussed, you are to sit on your throne and observe. This is some of the best advice you can get. Sit there, look regal, and nod and take in what people are saying. Don’t spend time scribbling notes; they won’t do you any good. Openness works in many ways. You are open to their opinions and readings. You are open to seeing your work through their eyes. You are open to change.

2. Be gracious.

Smile, goddammit. This isn’t wartime; it’s serious, yes, but this is your day! Your work is being looked upon, scrutinized. Do you know how lucky you are? Do you? So many wanna-be writing cadets would kill to have a proper workshop look at their work, to guide them towards publication, which is the real goal of any good workshop. People in these workshops have taken time to read, re-read and consider your work. To think about how best to give you their opinions. To show you there may be a better way to get across your point. You are so lucky.

3. Be faithful.

To you, to your work. You know where you wanted to go with this in the first place, don’t you? You know what you wanted to say, right? If the consensus among the workshop is that your point did not come across, look for how they suggest alternative routes. Take these routes. Use the workshop’s ideas – bridges, high roads, low roads – to get to your destination. Having a story critiqued does not mean giving up ownership. It means strengthening your claim and learning from your missteps.

4. Be discerning.

You can’t take everyone’s advice. That way lies ruin. It may take you some time, but you will learn by reading others who you share ideals with and whose writing you admire. Obviously always give particular consideration to the workshop head/professor, as they are the most experienced and will… probably not steer you wrongly, but on a second tier, look to the people in the workshop who you feel kinship with. If you admire their work and they give you a point to look at or advice on sentence structure, value theirs above someone who you aren’t sure about. You obviously wouldn’t say these things aloud, just keep it in mind and take everyone’s criticisms equally graciously.

The day of your workshop is a great day for you and your writing. There is no where else you will get this kind of treatment. I don’t care if you have a group of friends you trade stories with; I don’t care if you write fanfiction and someone gave you a good comment; no one looks at your work the way a coherent and serious workshop will. But this advice also extends to taking criticism from your editor or agent. The relationship between the critiquer and the critiqued is a constant and measured push and pull. Allow yourself and your writing to be taken care of.