Community Learning
By Edward Hogan - February 10, 2011
More Posts by Edward Hogan
I recently read an article about creative writing courses,written by David Peace, author of the compelling Red Riding Quartet http://tinyurl.com/4d453jg. He implies that the main aim ofstudents on writing courses is to acquire industry contacts. He says they “pay £10,000 to meet and listen to flocking agents and publishers”. These agents and publishers, he says, go to meet such students because it’s easier than reading unsolicited manuscripts that “might actually require them to exercise their own judgment (which due to the twin evils of cocaine and post-modernism have rendered most publishing people incapable of arousing).” [sic]
It’s probably worth saying a few words, having actually taken such a course (I did the one at UEA, which Peace derides elsewhere), about why I found it helpful, and also to outline some of the very real problems with undertaking an MA in Creative Writing.
For me, the most important thing about doing the course was that it gave me a readership. That changed my focus completely. I had previously written huge amounts of material in the isolation of my bedroom. It was mainly massively pretentious and self-indulgent. My work, at that point, was about ‘the surface of language’(!) It was about finding words so beautifully obscure, so precise that nobody knew what they meant. The emphasis was on description. If I had a particular vision of what a tree looked like, then I felt that vision was important enough to deserve several pages of everybody’s time.
When I submitted pieces of my draft to the workshops I quickly found that readers in the real world wanted something different. They required some semblance of a story, along with the complexities of characters acting under pressure. Once I’d realised this, I felt my writing improve immeasurably. Most of my coursemates were proper, passionate readers of fiction, and they rarely talked about ‘the Biz.’
My work certainly became much more reader-centred at UEA. Near the end of the course I submitted a much sparer, more character-focussed extract. One of my fellow students said, ‘have you got any more of this?’ With those words, I knew I was on the right lines, and I went on to write a good chunk of Blackmoor, my first novel, on the course. Far from being a means to getting published, I often feel that I would like to take the MA now, and I’m about to start my fourth novel. The response of the other students was constructive in a way that publishers often don’t have time to be when they send out their rejections.
Another criticism often levelled at creative writing courses is that they somehow turn their students into drones, all writing the same thing in the same style. I’d argue that taking a new writer outof her/his bubble and exposing them to the influences and experience not only of other readers, but also of practising writers, can only broaden their scope. With the guidance of some excellent established novelists (including Moy McCrory, on my first degree), I was able to experiment, and to critically explore all areas of my craft, to see what other, more successful writers were doing, and see if I could learn from them. A good creative writing course can change what fiction you read, and can deepen how you read it. I went to UEA reading DeLillo, Auster, Ondaatje, and came out reading Alice Munro, Lorrie Moore, Annie Proulx, William Trevor and David Peace.
Of course there are problems. I’m not about to contribute to the marketing campaigns in which many universities invest so heavily. A degree should not be undertaken lightly, especially given the current costs. I survived on a writer’s bursary, a pot-wash job at Baguette Express, and with the support of my family. I like to think I worked hard and took it seriously. I would very much advise any young writer, before they take such a course, to spend a good deal of time trying to combine writing and paid work (it’s what they’ll probably have to do when they graduate) to make sure it’s a sustainable way of living, and to make sure it’s what they want to do.
There are issues around reconciling such a subjective art with the critical requirements of a degree. You may not see eye-to-eye with your tutor (who is also your marker), and you will have to complete theoretical and reflective analysis of your work, which is not everybody’s idea of useful. University courses also foster a good social environment, and whilst –in many ways – that’s what life’s all about, it doesn’t always provide the seclusion necessary for writing. I do know a few people who found the experience distracting and irritating. There’s no point doing a writing course if you’re not going to do any writing.
Writers have different motivations. Some want to connect with readers – and being published obviously helps with that. Others feel that exploring technique in an academic setting can help them to produce better novels. Many of the writers who graduated from UEA with me are quite realistic about the fact that the serious fiction they write is unlikely to bring huge financial reward.
I’m also yet to come across any coke-fuelled publishers or agents. Most of the people I’ve worked with put in long hours reading fiction well into the night, and painstakingly exercising their judgment upon it. But maybe I’m only saying that because I’m after a new contract.
It’s probably worth saying a few words, having actually taken such a course (I did the one at UEA, which Peace derides elsewhere), about why I found it helpful, and also to outline some of the very real problems with undertaking an MA in Creative Writing.
For me, the most important thing about doing the course was that it gave me a readership. That changed my focus completely. I had previously written huge amounts of material in the isolation of my bedroom. It was mainly massively pretentious and self-indulgent. My work, at that point, was about ‘the surface of language’(!) It was about finding words so beautifully obscure, so precise that nobody knew what they meant. The emphasis was on description. If I had a particular vision of what a tree looked like, then I felt that vision was important enough to deserve several pages of everybody’s time.
When I submitted pieces of my draft to the workshops I quickly found that readers in the real world wanted something different. They required some semblance of a story, along with the complexities of characters acting under pressure. Once I’d realised this, I felt my writing improve immeasurably. Most of my coursemates were proper, passionate readers of fiction, and they rarely talked about ‘the Biz.’
My work certainly became much more reader-centred at UEA. Near the end of the course I submitted a much sparer, more character-focussed extract. One of my fellow students said, ‘have you got any more of this?’ With those words, I knew I was on the right lines, and I went on to write a good chunk of Blackmoor, my first novel, on the course. Far from being a means to getting published, I often feel that I would like to take the MA now, and I’m about to start my fourth novel. The response of the other students was constructive in a way that publishers often don’t have time to be when they send out their rejections.
Another criticism often levelled at creative writing courses is that they somehow turn their students into drones, all writing the same thing in the same style. I’d argue that taking a new writer outof her/his bubble and exposing them to the influences and experience not only of other readers, but also of practising writers, can only broaden their scope. With the guidance of some excellent established novelists (including Moy McCrory, on my first degree), I was able to experiment, and to critically explore all areas of my craft, to see what other, more successful writers were doing, and see if I could learn from them. A good creative writing course can change what fiction you read, and can deepen how you read it. I went to UEA reading DeLillo, Auster, Ondaatje, and came out reading Alice Munro, Lorrie Moore, Annie Proulx, William Trevor and David Peace.
Of course there are problems. I’m not about to contribute to the marketing campaigns in which many universities invest so heavily. A degree should not be undertaken lightly, especially given the current costs. I survived on a writer’s bursary, a pot-wash job at Baguette Express, and with the support of my family. I like to think I worked hard and took it seriously. I would very much advise any young writer, before they take such a course, to spend a good deal of time trying to combine writing and paid work (it’s what they’ll probably have to do when they graduate) to make sure it’s a sustainable way of living, and to make sure it’s what they want to do.
There are issues around reconciling such a subjective art with the critical requirements of a degree. You may not see eye-to-eye with your tutor (who is also your marker), and you will have to complete theoretical and reflective analysis of your work, which is not everybody’s idea of useful. University courses also foster a good social environment, and whilst –in many ways – that’s what life’s all about, it doesn’t always provide the seclusion necessary for writing. I do know a few people who found the experience distracting and irritating. There’s no point doing a writing course if you’re not going to do any writing.
Writers have different motivations. Some want to connect with readers – and being published obviously helps with that. Others feel that exploring technique in an academic setting can help them to produce better novels. Many of the writers who graduated from UEA with me are quite realistic about the fact that the serious fiction they write is unlikely to bring huge financial reward.
I’m also yet to come across any coke-fuelled publishers or agents. Most of the people I’ve worked with put in long hours reading fiction well into the night, and painstakingly exercising their judgment upon it. But maybe I’m only saying that because I’m after a new contract.
