Emily Barton

Advice for My Students

I began this page because many of my students and former students approach me for advice about how, where, and when to apply to graduate programs in creative writing, and for advice about how to begin getting their work published. Although all of these students are unique individuals with specific predilections, talents, and needs, my initial advice to them tends to be the same. So I decided to post a few short responses here on my website, in the hopes of helping both my own students and anyone else who’s considering applying to graduate school or who wishes to begin making forays into the world of publication. My experience thus far has been that the advice on this page has sparked more lively conversations: that if students still have questions, after having read it, those questions tend to be more specific than they might have been before. Reading this page before you come in for a conference on one of these questions can help make that conference more productive.

Since starting the page, I’ve also fielded a number of questions from students about how a young writer might support herself; so now, at the top of the page, there are a few posts on this topic. If you scroll down, you’ll get to the MFA advice, information about beginning to send out your work, and some basic thoughts on how to get an agent.

If you’re thinking about applying to grad school, I also recommend reading the posts about this topic on Koreanish, the blog of my writer friend Alexander Chee, who discusses the topic at greater length.

What’s a Good Job for a Young Writer?

I’m delighted that few of my writing students suffer from the romantic delusion that one could become a serious writer by working in dribs and drabs, or by waiting around for the Muse to show up, or by hoping it might happen. Most understand that writing is hard work: that success in the field (a kind of success on which no one can count) seems to depend about 80% on devoting oneself to the labor, 2% on native talent, and 18% on luck for which one can take no credit. Many do, however, seek advice about what kinds of jobs they might pursue in order to allow themselves to write. Most of the questions focus on the suitability of working in publishing.

Young writers tend to gravitate to publishing, I think, both because it’s a prestigious career (like medicine, architecture, or the law) and because it would mean being around books, writers, and a community of people who believe in the power of the written word. All of these are valid reasons to go into the business. But publishing seems like an odd choice of career for a writer. Writing takes up vast swaths of time and is, in general, non-remunerative. Publishing, likewise, demands long hours at low pay. These two factors together seem like a bad—perhaps even a self-defeating—combination. Add to this that most American publishing jobs are in New York City, one of the most expensive and distracting places to live, and I see even fewer reasons for a young writer to go into the industry.

How Would You Describe a Job That Would Work for a Young Writer?

To me, the ideal situation for a serious young writer would be to find work that pays well for reasonable hours. Since the real world often refuses to conform to ideals, a practical way to think about this might mean finding a job that fulfills one or the other of those conditions: either it pays well, or it doesn’t demand much of your time or mental energy.

When I asked my husband (also a writer) this question, he responded, “The search for a job that allows one the time to write is, to my mind, hard to extricate from the question of where to live. A modest office job in a small Western town will probably allow you time to write. A modest office job in New York City will mean you’re constantly worrying about how to pay the exorbitant rent on the three-foot-square bedbug-infested closet you share with four other people in the far reaches of Queens (and which is difficult to get back to from parties).” Being willing to live someplace besides New York City or San Francisco means your cost of living will be lower; and having to work fewer hours to make your rent means more time to write.

Though many young writers are tempted to find work that makes use of their writing skills, one good idea might be to find a job that exercises an entirely different part of your brain. That way, when you sit down at your desk at the beginning or end of the day, you haven’t squandered all your word-energy on a press release: Your creative mind is fresh and alert.

A corollary to this: Though of course the right job will be different for each person, I strongly recommend finding work that allows you to talk with and interact with people—ideally, with people of as many different kinds as possible, and at the very least, with people of diverse ages and backgrounds. The more kinds of people you get to know, the greater your store of life experience, and the more kinds of stories you’ll be able to write. (Not to mention that knowing more, and more diverse, people will enrich your life immeasurably.)

What’s Worked for You?

For me, teaching at the college and graduate levels has turned out to be an ideal form of work. I learn a great deal about writing from collaborating with my students; my paid job and my writing feed each other symbiotically; and it leaves me a few days a week free to write.

But to get a job teaching creative writing, you have to have published at least one book; so a young writer can’t start out in my job. One might be able to find work teaching at a preparatory school—a demanding job that, nonetheless, keeps the mind supple and leaves one’s summers free to write. And if you have a strong desire to teach, you might consider pursuing an MAT, an M.Ed. or a PhD; though each of these is demanding in its own right, and of course no guarantee of finding work upon completion.

Two of my favorite jobs along the way were working in independent bookstores, Iowa City’s Prairie Lights and New York’s Shakespeare & Company. I enjoyed the company of my coworkers, liked being on my feet all day and talking to people, was good at helping customers with reading suggestions; I even liked working the cash register and shelving new merchandise. If clerking at a bookstore paid better, I might still be doing it. I also enjoyed teaching yoga, which passed the “short, flexible hours,” “uses another part of your brain,” and “allows you to interact with many different kinds of people” tests with flying colors. (Also, I was allowed to take classes for free at the yoga studio, so the job helped keep me in good physical and mental shape.) I felt the same about interior house painting (which paid well and let me think quietly all day or talk with a friend), but not about doing linguistic coding for a software development company (which used up my whole thinking brain, hurt my eyes and hands, and left me unwilling to sit at a desk or computer once I got home).

These are just the things that have worked for me. There are a thousand other things a writer could do to support herself. Although I don’t know any writers who have gone into the trades, being a skilled mechanic or electrician could be a good choice: The work requires intelligence and skill and pays well. Of course, there would be a long apprenticeship, during which you’d have to work long hours; but down the line, I can see it paying off.

Did You Say “An Electrician?”

I did. And what practicing one of the trades has in common with working in a bookstore and teaching yoga is that to some people (perhaps including you, if you have attended a four-year college and are also considering becoming a writer), it isn’t prestigious. This, I think, is a dilemma you’ll have to face sooner or later. When I spoke about this essay with my friend George MacNaughton (a man who has had great success in business in part because of his hefty store of common sense), he said that for a young person, choosing to become a writer is, in a sense, to take a vow of poverty—without the assured pension he would have if he joined the clergy.

One of my friends from college has made partner in a white-shoe law firm; others have become psychiatrists, oncologists, architects, consultants, and owners of successful businesses. Many of these friends own beautiful houses, and they enjoy vacations my family of two writers simply cannot afford. But I don’t think any of them is getting to write and publish novels, which is the thing I most want to do with my life. So I remind myself to keep those other, secondary things in perspective. I would advise you to look honestly at your own aspirations and priorities. Can you be happy without being financially comfortable? Can you do this even if you don’t end up achieving what you’d define as success as a writer? (Because no matter how broadly you define it, success is not guaranteed.) There’s no shame in answering “no” to these questions, and a lot of happiness to be found in this world in things that aren’t writing.

Is It Necessarily a Choice Between Writing & Having Money?

Of course not. Some people do make a living writing, in some cases a fabulous living; but it’s important to remember how very, very few writers do, especially over the long term. An entirely different kind of path a young writer might take is to embark on one of the professions, squirrel money away, and retire early. This is a real possibility. And of course, there are doctors, lawyers, and advertising executives who manage to make time to write in their busy schedules; Chris Adrian is my favorite example. (And I can name a few gifted writers who also have successful careers in publishing: John Glusman, Colin Harrison, Paul Elie, David Ulin.)

What do these writers have in common? Among other things, they all have tremendous powers of self-discipline. They all know how to write at four in the morning, or on their lunch breaks or subway rides home, year after year after year, even when they’re tired or their children are sick or something more enticing than writing is going on. If you plan to follow in their footsteps, I advise you to cultivate the qualities of perseverance and diligence. But of course, I advise you to cultivate these qualities if you plan to be any kind of writer at all.

Links

Barbara Kingsolver’s wonderful advice to young writers: “It is harrowing for me to try to teach 20-year-old students, who earnestly want to improve their writing. The best I can think to tell them is: Quit smoking, and observe posted speed limits. This will improve your odds of getting old enough to be wise.” Barbara Kingsolver, quoted in the Writer’s Almanac, 8 April 2009.

“There Are So Many Experiences I Want To Write About Having Had,” The Onion, 29 September (that’s my birthday!) 2004.

“I want to write what I know, but all I know is writing workshops,” Barbara Smaller, The New Yorker, 19 November 2001.

When Should I Apply to MFA Programs?

In general, I find that my students wish to apply to graduate schools either during their senior year of college or directly after they graduate. I know of one student for whom this seemed a wise decision: someone who wished to go to medical school after earning an MFA. For this student, waiting would be impractical, because medical school, residency, and internship take up a lot of time, after which there will likely be a lot of debt to repay. In this instance, going to writing school right away seems like a fine choice.

In all other cases, I encourage my students to wait before applying. Often, they think I mean “a year or two,” and it is certainly the case that a year or two is better than no years; but I think three, or six, or ten would be even better. This is for a number of reasons:

1) It’s important for a writer to be able to write outside of an academic setting, without deadlines or structured encouragement. Most of the time, this is what an actual writer’s life is like. If you can only produce within the structure of a workshop, you may not develop the stamina to write books in the midst of life’s myriad other demands. (Which get more complex as you get older.)

2) Workshops are tremendously valuable—if I didn’t think this, I wouldn’t teach them—but equally valuable are a writer’s own instincts. It’s important to develop independent work habits so you can listen to your own internal editor more thoroughly.

3) A few years working in the vast world that’s not all that concerned with writing will leave you highly appreciative of the tiny world in which writing is the primary object of focus.

4) Maturity is an invaluable asset to both writers and members of workshops. The more mature you are when you enroll, the stronger will be the work that you bring to the table; the more intelligently you’ll be able to engage with your peers’ critiques; the more thoughtful, humane, and articulate critiques you’ll be able to offer them.

I like this article by Robin Black on Oprah.com about earning an MFA as an older student. And here’s an excellent piece by Michael Nye, managing editor of the Missouri Review, explaining why it would be a good idea to take a gap year or three (or twelve).

Why Should I Apply to an MFA Program?

I believe the reasons one should attend an MFA program are, in descending order of importance:

1) To have an opportunity to work on one’s work more or less interrupted for a period of a few years, and to receive feedback from established writers one admires and from creative, hardworking, dedicated peers.

2) To read more broadly and in greater depth than heretofore, from the perspective of an apprentice writer. Most programs will ask you to take one such seminar each semester, and some focus on this aspect of pedagogy quite intently. (Columbia’s program is exemplary and, to my knowledge, unique in this respect.) If you’re interested in learning more about what such reading entails, you might consider perusing Francine Prose’s Reading Like a Writer as a primer.

3) To befriend other young writers, so that you can offer encouragement to each other for the rest of your lives. I met two of my three first readers in graduate school, and am forever indebted to them for their insightful criticism and support; and I am equally grateful for the many good writer friends I made there. They enrich my life daily.

4) To find out if you might be interested in teaching writing, and to gain some experience through a teaching fellowship, if possible.

5) To have the imprimatur of the program on your vita. Attending a good program can help catch the attention of agents and publishers. (Though of course it’s important not to overestimate the importance of this final point. The main thing that catches someone’s eye is good writing.)

If these reasons don’t seem important to you, now probably isn’t the right time to apply. Do not feel that you “must” attend an MFA program.

To Which MFA Programs Should I Apply?

Here are the factors I believe you should weigh when considering which schools to apply to, again in descending order of importance:

1) Which programs will be most likely to nourish and encourage you as a writer, to help you grow in the direction in which you yourself wish to grow? By this I mean, you should research which programs foster a style of writing you’re interested in (some have a more realist or experimental bent than others). Find out who’s teaching where, and apply to programs where writers with whom you would sincerely like to study serve on the faculty. Consider whether you are interested in a program that focuses intently on one genre or allows you to experiment in others and encourages cross-genre work. Look at which programs consider workshop your primary focus and which place more emphasis on your education as a reader and thinker. Ask currently-enrolled or former students of the programs you’re interested in what the institutional culture is like. Consider which programs are in places in which you’d like to live. For one student, the literary scene of New York City is a great asset; another would prefer to study in a quirky small town where rent is cheap. These two students shouldn’t apply to the same places.

2) Consider your financial situation. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but writing literary fiction generally isn’t a way to make a fortune. For most writers, it isn’t a means to make much money at all. My husband has, thus far, placed thirteen stories in reputable literary journals; in total, he has earned less money from his fiction than a first-year associate, fresh out of law school, earns his first morning on the job. I learned recently that the toll collectors on the Thruway earn quite a bit more than I do in an average year. I’m sure they also get better benefits. This is okay, because I really love my twin jobs of writing and teaching; and because, like probably almost all writers, I’m not in this for the money, though I’m grateful to have a roof over my head and food on my kid’s plate. What I’m saying is, I think it’s wise to consider your finances. If you come from a working- or middle-class family, or if you have other siblings whose educations your parents will help support, I recommend not adding too much debt to your load. With that in mind, research which programs offer low tuition to start with, or tuition remission if you win a teaching fellowship, or overall good financial aid programs. It’s also worth researching cost of living in the locations of the various schools; tuition isn’t the only factor in the amount of debt you’ll accrue.

3) Consider which programs are actually worth attending. One school may have a very fancy pedigree. Another may reside at the University of East Podunk, but have a wonderful faculty and a dynamic, nurturing institutional culture. Both would be excellent kinds of programs to consider. But unlike applying to college, you don’t need to apply to any “safety schools;” I’ve never heard of anyone transferring, with grad school. So only apply to places to which you’d really like to go.

4) If you need a little initial guidance, Poets & Writers publishes an annual ranking of the MFA programs. This past year, there was a lot of concern in the writing community about how information for these listings was gathered and ranked; but I expect that, in future, the good people at the magazine will take these concerns into account, and I still believe their listings are a good place to gather very basic information for more exhaustive further research. (I also think Poets & Writers is, in a general way, a fine resource for young writers.) The Creative Writing MFA Handbook also maintains an exhaustive blog , which can serve as a resource for those considering or applying for MFAs. There is no substitute, of course, for doing good research on your own, but these listings may help you get an initial foothold.

If figuring all of this out seems like too much work is required, I would once again say that this year probably isn’t the right one for applying to graduate school.

How Do I Start Getting My Stories Published?

Read literary magazines. This is, as far as I can tell, the only way to know what’s being published where. There’s no better query to send to an editor than one in which you effuse intelligently about a story she’s recently published that bears something in common with your own work. Subscribe to a few, even. It’s wonderful to have them come to your door.

If you don’t yet read literary magazines, here are some ways to find out which you might be interested in:

1) Find out where authors you admire are publishing. You can find this out in the acknowledgments at the front of a story collection, or by looking on the author’s website.

2) Get a recent copy of Best American Short Stories, perhaps one edited by a writer you admire. After you read it and see which stories you like best, look to see where these were published. Also look in the back to see which magazines are mentioned in the honrable mentions. A few, no doubt, will stand out to you. Investigate.

3) Go spend a few hours in a book or magazine store or in a library that has a wide selection of literary journals. See what looks interesting to you. Trust your instincts.

4) Do the same thing online, where there are some incredibly online-only journals (and some print journals that maintain separate-but-related online presences).

After you’ve done your research, go to a magazine’s website to find out how they like to receive submissions and queries. Send yours in their preferred format and with a polite, friendly cover letter. My fingers are crossed for you!

In case the whole thing doesn’t start coming up roses immediately (as I hope it will for you, but as, realistically, it may not), here are some smart things the brilliant (not to mention handsome) Thomas Israel Hopkins has to say about rejection, among other topics; and here’s a hopeful post about why we do this anyway.

How Do I Get an Agent?

Finding an agent is, I think, basically the same process as finding a magazine to publish your story. What I’d do, if I were you, is wait until you have a solid third (or eighth) draft of a novel or story collection that you think might be ready to send out into the world. Go to a library or bookstore and look at the books of the five contemporary writers you most admire. (Having one or two be more established writers and three or four be younger writers might be a good tack to take.) Check the acknowledgments pages, as authors usually thank their agents there. Some also list their agents’ names on their websites. Visit the agent’s (or agency’s) website to determine how they like to receive queries. Send the most polite, thoughtful, and articulate query you can. Be specific about what you know about the agent and like about her clients. And once again, my fingers are crossed for you!