The Hinge is happy to present a discussion among graduates of four prominent low-residency MFA programs – Cliff Garstang (Queens – Charlotte), Laurie Saurborn Young (Warren Wilson), Cheryl Wilder (Vermont College of Fine Arts), and Whit Coppedge (Bennington). We’d also love to hear from graduates or current students of these or other programs. Please join us in the comments and we’ll try to address any questions or other views you may have.
Whit: The discussion about MFA programs and their value is showing itself to be something of a self-fueling machine, even spilling over into publications that don’t necessarily focus primarily on books or the act of writing. I think the attraction of being a contrarian in print has given us a steady stream of homogenous essays bemoaning the homogenization of new fiction and poetry by the workshop culture of writing programs.
But what I think needs to be clarified about these essays is that most of the arguments apply to residential programs. With that in mind, I’d like to defend the low-residency programs. I’ve asked three other writers who’ve graduated from low-residencies to join me in a discussion about our experiences, why they may or may not be a good fit, and what they think sets them apart from residential programs.
Okay everybody – the one refrain that’s often repeated is that one should not pay for an MFA. Although low-res programs may have some scholarships and other assistance available to students, they definitely won’t have the teaching opportunities available to the students of residential programs and my perception is that difference gets them disqualified right off the bat for a number of potential students. As far as money goes, if you have a job that allows you the time to attend a low-res program, you’re likely to be in better financial shape as a result, as opposed to surviving on a teaching stipend. But I also like to think that the low-res programs being filled with students who, for the most part, have spent time outside of school, many having careers and families, means that one’s fellow students in the program are more serious, less competitive, and arguably a more valuable environment for learning about your writing than a group you’d find at a residential program. One’s co-students are a factor I think is too often over-looked.
What do you think about paying for your MFA and do you think fellow students in low-res programs can be an advantage?
Cheryl: My peers at Vermont College of Fine Arts were an integral part of my experience in graduate school. One of the benefits of a low-residency program is the ten day residency where students and faculty reside together on campus. A certain camaraderie is created when day-to-day activities (meals, shared bathrooms, a busted water main) are mixed with the “work” of education (lectures, readings, workshop). Conversations then flow from one activity to another and fill every aspect of the day. It is truly an experience in living the so-called “writer’s life.”
Since graduation, many peers remain friends and a few are my first readers. I don’t live near these women, one lives as far as Italy, but once a week we participate in a Skype workshop group. I also maintain the “packet” structure from graduate school with another VCFA friend, where we submit a month’s worth of writing for critique accompanied by a detailed letter. The low-residency structure provided us the framework and experience for telecommuting, helping us sustain our commitment to writing in a professional community regardless of location.
I agree with the idea that most students in a low-residency program already have established careers and/or family. This was the case with VCFA, where the median age of my class was about forty-two. I say “was” since the recession changed the profile dynamics, with older adults not taking financial chances, and new undergrad graduates looked to prolong entering the work force.
Paying for my MFA was not a deterrent when I applied to graduate school. In regards to the benefits of a teaching stipend, I can see that some low-residency students are paying not to teach. Instead, the low-residency student is 100% a student of writing. Students at VCFA felt they were paying for an opportunity to work independently with writers they admired. More than that, each semester study plan was tailored to what the individual student needed to develop as a writer. Unless a lucky writer happens upon an apprenticeship, a low-residency program is the next best thing, and it’s worth tuition.
Cliff: Since I haven’t experienced an MFA program other than a low residency program, any comparisons I might make would be based on hearsay. (Hey, what can I say? I got a law degree a few decades ago.) I’ve heard that some MFA programs are competitive and cutthroat–Iowa certainly has that reputation–but I don’t really understand why that would necessarily be the case. At Iowa, student writers are competing for funding, or so I gather, and that would surely lend itself to the absence of collegiality. But I don’t think many programs work in the same way. Having said that, Fred Leebron, who designed and directs the Queens University of Charlotte MFA Program that I attended, envisioned it as a sort of “anti-Iowa.” That is, he wanted to avoid all of the features that made that program the unpleasant
experience that it was for him. And so, everyone is treated more or less the same, funding is exclusively through need-based loans (although I hear that may change in the future), instructors are expected to be constructive and encouraging (which they are, mostly), and students are given every reason and opportunity to develop mutually supportive camaraderie.
I would agree that this is partly the result of the demographics. Students in the program are generally not coming straight out of undergraduate school, although some do. The program is therefore not seen as a refuge from the real world–which, of course, is still there when students go home after each residency. Because they pay real money for the program, and because it generally occupies vacation time, I suspect that students take their work, and their obligations to their fellow students, quite seriously, whereas students in fulltime residency programs might be less inclined to do so. I’m also convinced that the real world experience that most low residency students have–both concurrent with the program and often for years or even decades before they begin the program–contributes to the atmosphere of the program. Arguably, such students would be more diligent and more professional, applying to their school work the same ethic that they employ in their professional lives. They may have read more widely. They may have experienced more of the world, which should color their own writing and their ability to relate to the topics that others write about. So, I think this different demographic is a very important factor.
The money question, though, is tough. I’m frankly not sure why any of us pay the tuition for a low residency MFA. You have to really want it, because I doubt that few are so deluded into thinking that they will score big with a book deal immediately upon graduation, or even that they’ll land a swanky teaching position. I did it because I knew I had a lot to learn and wanted to find a community of writers in which to do that. Which, frankly, is another overlooked benefit of low-residency programs. Usually, more writers cycle through the faculty, supplementing the core teachers, and the number of incoming students each semester is pretty large. That makes for a growing community and a greater number of useful contacts.
Interesting questions.
Whit: Our counsel Lionel Hutz, Esq. reminds us that hearsay and conjecture are *kinds* of evidence.
Laurie: Hi everyone. Thanks for including me in the discussion.
Like Cheryl, I found my cohort of students at Warren Wilson to be one of the most valuable parts of the program. Existing in the world as a writer can be difficult and lonely, even in the best of circumstances.
Stepping into a community of writers—of all ages and backgrounds—who were also willing to commit to this program, no matter how difficult it got, was invigorating. And comforting. It would have been
impossible for me to predict, or know ahead of time, whether a low-residency or residency program would have, ultimately, better met my needs in terms of the student population. I’ll confess that I
applied to both types of programs, and went with WW because of the strong and expansive faculty.
The residency portion of the program (WW as well has 10-day residencies at the start of each semester) was a place to step away from daily responsibilities and to immerse myself in my writing and in
developing my sense of self as a writer. But once back at home, I found that the meat of the semester—those packet exchanges of creative and critical work with my advisors—really forged my practice as a
writer. Cliff’s absolutely right—the low-res programs are very rigorous. There were no weekends off. I finished one packet, maybe took a day away from writing while I did everything else I had to, or
put off doing, for the last two weeks, and then I started again. How could I not have bonded with my fellow students? Over the phone and via email we cheered each other on, encouraged and challenged one
another, and kept writing. Every day, or most days, we wrote. Days and weeks passed, and suddenly, at a great geographical distances from one another, we had developed the habit of writing on our own.
Yes, the money question is tough. Teaching is one way a writer can support her- or himself, but it’s not the only path. Will a residency program that allows students the opportunity to teach composition, or
perhaps a creative writing workshop, better prepare them for finding a teaching job? Yes. Is there currently a wealth of creative-writing teaching jobs available? No. What I see my teacher friends doing—whether they attended a residency MFA or a low-residency MFA—is writing, publishing, and teaching not one, but several classes as adjuncts, in different programs.
Funding for the arts is short everywhere, both in and out of graduate school, be it low-res or res. We live in a culture that devalues art and creativity; that gives massive tax breaks to the super-rich and
oil company employees. After graduating from Warren Wilson, I attended UMASS Amherst for a semester. Many students had funding; many did not. As at WW, all were there because of their love of writing and interest in developing themselves as writers. Funding would cover tuition and
pay some salary (which the government taxes, by the way), but most students worked additional jobs in restaurants, etc, in order to pay rent and other costs of living.
Ideally, all education would be free. But in America there’s money to be made from loaning funds to students to pay tuition costs. I imagine the banks that give student loans make the largest profit, not the
low-residency MFA programs. If I were privy to the budget of WW—the administrative costs (I’m guessing that Vermont and Queens are, like Warren Wilson, never on summer vacation), multiple faculty salaries, contracts with the colleges in which they’re housed, insurance, etc—I would quickly understand the amount of those bills I received every semester. Personally, I took out loans, as did most of my friends in the program.
Whit: I was nervous for my first residency, and I’m sure everyone probably felt the same way. Before you arrive, and even for the first moments of moving in, you’re sure that you’re going to be humiliated and ostracized for the next two years because they obviously switched up the names on the writing samples by mistake and you don’t really belong. But once I met everyone there, I learned that no one (or few) really seemed to be there to be discovered. This freed me up a great deal and, because everyone’s there for shared reasons, I made some of the best friends of my life.
What I’m saying is, for me, the program held some surprises and rewards that I didn’t see going in. I didn’t realize how much I’d come to value the time at the residencies, away from regular life. The campus at Bennington was a reading/writing fantasy camp. There was a lot of work while sitting in hard hard seats, but I felt more like I belonged to something while I was there than at any other time in my life. And it’s short enough not to wear thin – you really want to come back for the next residency. It was downright swaddling at times, and Liam Rector always reminded students not to make any important life decisions while at residency – it’s an important part of one’s life, but it’s not the most important.
On the other hand, I hadn’t experienced extended Vermont January cold like that before either. Roof avalanches and static electricity so strong I felt my muscles grab. And if you lose your winter cap, don’t
ask whether anyone’s seen your “toboggan.”
One thing I envy about Warren Wilson is the structured alumni residencies. Or maybe Bennington has them but they’ve decided to keep them a secret from me.
The friends and residencies were surprises of scale for me going in but some parts were total opposites of what I expected. This was my first heavy humanities work and although I saw the analytical writing
and reading solely as unattractive but required parts of a program I was attracted to, I quickly came to understand the value of reading more widely and sometimes finishing up works that I might normally put down. There wasn’t a canon or accepted opinion on anything, but I learned to gain confidence in my own opinion and, consequently, my own work.
In that same vein, the one aspect that baffles a lot of people I talk to is the value in your instructors having widely different and especially conflicting views of your work. It’s terribly frustrating at times and
I’ve seen a number of writers brought to tears and despair by it in the short term, but my end experience is that, because of these contradictory takes, I actually gained confidence in my work and opinions and I came to take criticism less personally, both in terms of writing and life as a whole.
I was also happy to learn that you can stumble across a live skunk late at night without it going off.
What things did you take from your program that you didn’t see going in?
Cliff: I think the biggest thing I took from my program that was a surprise was the value of critiquing the work of peers. I had been in other workshops where the whole point seemed to be to receive criticism. But in our MFA program at Queens there was some emphasis placed on what to look for in evaluating work and how to deliver criticism. Now I realize that a significant part of the learning process is in that critical reading of the work of other people–recognizing tics and flaws that might exist in your own work. Having experienced them in someone else’s work, it’s easier to spot the same problem in your own.
I also was frustrated on occasion that the same work elicited widely divergent opinions both from student readers and faculty. What I realized from that is that taste is a much larger element of creative writing than I had imagined. Having worked for magazines now, and having published in many magazines, I understand that the same story will be hated (or, at least, rejected) by one editor and loved (or, at least, published) by another. I still have a little trouble grasping that, but it’s borne out all the time if you read reviews.
Laurie: I think the most important thing I learned (and have continued to learn) is that I’m writing because I want to, and that it’s vital to set really high standards for myself. While at WW I very quickly
found that one poem could garner a range of responses– some enthusiastic, some lukewarm, some very, ah, shall we say, not excited. It toughens you up when you present a piece that’s close to you and it
doesn’t receive the response you expected. Gradually, it can change the locus of your creative power: is it in the approval of others, or is it grounded in yourself? I’m not saying audience isn’t a consideration, whether in workshop or at a reading or through a journal. It is. But it’s impossible to predict who will be in any audience and what they will think of your work. Having the eyes of others on your story or poem can be incredibly helpful. But while at WW I came to see that opinion on literary work is like an MC Escher staircase– the loop never ends. It takes a couple rounds of: Faculty A says “Yay,” Faculty B says “Nay,” Faculty C says “Eh,” and your writer friends say, “What about . . .?” before it’s obvious there will
never be a point where everyone in the world stands up and says, “You are the most brilliant writer of all time, past, present and future. We will now burn our pens.” For me, writing had to become not about
pleasing people, but about creating something I feel strongly about, and if publication is desired, getting it into the hands of like-minded people. This can take a good long while. My work underwent a real change while I was in the program, and it continued after I graduated. I think the poems I was writing earlier in the program were more conservative than the ones I was writing later. That wasn’t a conscious choice, and at times was an uncomfortable evolution. I had to respect my own particular creative voice, regardless of what others thought. WW places a big emphasis on craft, and I think since I’ve graduated this has freed me in that I can focus on the elements I can control, while at the same time allow myself a massive creative generativity in terms of content.
And I agree that learning to critique the work of others is important to our own writing, in that it allows us as writers to experience both sides of the coin: conception and reception. Workshop at WW could be excruciatingly slow, and silent, but I think this was helpful in that the writer and the readers really had to SIT with a piece. There’s a level of attention there that is not generally present in our everyday lives as readers.
I also learned that just because I loved a writer’s work would not mean that I liked them as a person. Over the years since I’ve graduated, my equation has become: the work is not the poet is not the person. At the same time, at WW I saw that there are in this world people I want to emulate, who are creative, dedicated, concerned, empathetic, and curious about literature, writing, and life.
Cheryl: Since I received my BFA in Writing as well, I went into VCFA with both an understanding of how giving feedback helped my writing and that I would be subjected to differing opinions by people I admired (faculty and peers). (UNCW has a great undergraduate program that provides a stable foundation for graduate school.) What I was most surprised about in graduate school was how comfortable I felt amongst all the other writers, students and faculty. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t an overt confidence in my writing, but like Whit, it was a feeling that I finally found a place and people where I belonged. I didn’t feel so alone as a writer anymore. Which is something I didn’t find in undergrad. All the students at VCFA were engaged in their process, but also empathetic and supportive to the community. All the faculty were approachable and invested in the students. It was a very accepting environment. And I, too, found some of my best friends.
Since VCFA is on a hill, we called the tiny campus a “bubble” and once I left the “bubble” after residency it was similar to a time warp. That was a huge surprise my first residency. I couldn’t talk for a couple days after returning. It’s like going to camp and no one at home understands what you went through, from the intense workshops to the late night discussions about writing and life and meaning. After that first residency my (now) husband learned to allow me a few days to get my mind back.
Another thing I learned that I am currently surprised by, is that I can write anything I want. I studied poetry, but I can write creative nonfiction and fiction if I choose. For some reason the program allowed me to accept myself as a well-rounded writer. Writing is writing. Who knew?
Back to talking about feedback. One of the benefits, which I did mention earlier, is the workshop group I cultivated with fellow classmates. Since we all have a similar understanding on the value of giving and receiving feedback, our work continues to progress and a steady rate. The other advantage to working with the group is to see how another writer takes feedback and then revises. We get to see draft after draft. There’s no hard feelings if my suggestions are not considered for revision. It’s just a lesson in itself to see a story or poem or essay unfold.
As far as I know, most writers don’t stop writing and say, “I’ve finished this masterpiece.” Usually there is satisfaction in finishing, but a writer’s work is never done. I was told a story by Laure-Anne Bosselaar at the Sarah Lawrence Writer’s Week. She attended a festival and read the same night as Galway Kinnell. He sat there with his pulitzer prize winning book in one hand and a pencil in the other making changes before his turn to read. That story reminds me that not only will my work not be liked by everybody, I may not be the happiest with it either after it’s published.
Laurie: Out of curiousity, do Bennington, Queens or Vermont allow for course work in a second genre, and was publishing ever discussed in any formal way? At WW, each student focused on one genre, and publishing was rarely, if ever, mentioned. Personally, at the time I think I benefitted from this hermetic approach, as it allowed for, and protected, an intense focus. Publishing was an area I had started to
explore before starting the program, and I felt I would best be served by shelving that until after I graduated. Were you all publishing during your years in the program, and if so, in how many genres?
Do all the programs require a critical essay?
Are fiction & poetry the only genres taught at all our respective programs (this is the case at WW) or is non-fiction an option at Bennington, Queens, &/or Vermont?
Cliff: I’ll come back to the other question, but this one is easier. At Queens, one can study Fiction, Poetry, Creative Nonfiction, or Writing for Stage & Screen. (And, to begin responding to the earlier question, a writer can stay for an additional semester or two to study in a genre outside of the one admitted to, but I’m not sure that’s without some kind of evaluation. I don’t think they’d want me in their poetry workshops, for example.)
Cheryl: At Vermont the Writing program has Poetry, Fiction and Creative Nonfiction. A student can apply for two genres, and then will take three semesters in one genre and two semesters in another, instead of the four semesters in one genre. There is also a separate program with it’s own residency for Writing for Young Adults and Children, a Screen Writing Program with it’s own residency, and Visual Arts.
The workshop courses offered during residency are traditional genre workshops, but they also offer cross-genre workshops, as well as translation. I know of many fiction writers that took the Poetry for Fiction Writers workshop and said it was one of their best workshop experiences, not only because of the challenge of writing poetry but they realized as fiction writers they can also use the tools of poetry in their work. I took the translation workshop and it added a dimension to my writing that I couldn’t have found otherwise. (I don’t speak another language) So, depending on the student and their needs, there are options within the residency to experience other genres. But it was optional, so those who wanted to take the straight and more hermetic route could do just that.
The topic of publishing wasn’t pushed by the faculty. Of course students are always curious about publishing and would bring the topic up in discussion. But faculty would always bring the conversation back to the focus of writing, craft, and process. They also emphasized that students figure out their writing schedule and process before graduation so that it continued when the support and structure of the program was gone. I didn’t pursue publishing while in the program, but I know students who did and many of them succeeded.
Vermont does require a critical essay in the third semester. A lecture is also required during the last residency. Did anyone else have to give a lecture?
Whit: Bennington has non-fiction as well and I think it’s a pretty big draw.
There’s also an option for a third-semester switch to a different genre, but I think you really need to have that planned going into your first semester. When I was there, you made the request during the residency for your second semester, so you’re just getting used to the whole experience. I believe most of the switches are to and from poetry – I brought up trying non-fiction to my instructor (I’m fiction) and got a look that a lot of non-fiction writers probably wouldn’t be happy with. That said, I’m pretty certain there were some fiction/non-fiction swaps. [I also believe there was a screenwriting option one semester]
As far as publishing goes, there was usually a panel or two on publishing, but I believe the focus was more on getting your work house in order and the publishing will come. There were many people there, obviously, with a lot of experience in publishing and being published, so there was still a lot to learn informally. I’m a little leery of programs that promise publication, although there’s one in particular I’d still encourage people to look at as I see the approach being more about the reality of being a professional than fame and fortune.
As far as the critical essay goes, I did less than others since my first instructor let us do a rewrite instead, but, yes, there was a ten-pager for the first two semesters plus a number of short (mine were usually a page) annotations on the reading for each month. I think the twenty-pager was third semester. The fourth semester and fifth and final residency required each student to give a forty-minute lecture, usually on one of the last papers, although it could change if the student felt the need. The student lectures were often wonderful (when the student didn’t just stand and read) and had a great variety – there were some dry standards like “a sense of place” but there were also lectures on specific, often obscure writers and other, non-literary artists, hoaxes, and even teaching. If I ended up sleeping in, I’d invariably come to regret it after hearing the reaction from everyone else later that day. Of course, when it’s your last semester, you do everything you can to make it to your classmate’s lectures even though, in my last class’ case, that meant 31 of them in 9 or 10 days on top of faculty lectures, workshops, and faculty and student readings.
Cheryl: In the first two semesters we wrote small informal papers on books we read during the semester. Usually about two papers a packet, two pages a piece. But that varied by advisor. One aspect of the low-residency that appealed to me is the ability to tailor the semester to the individual student. That is something a traditional program does not readily accomplish. My first semester, my advisor just had us write a synopsis of the books within the letter. He was more informal than other advisors. My second semester, I asked my advisor for a more rigorous study, so he developed a personalized plan for my papers. Then the third semester is the critical thesis. And no paper is done in the fourth semester. The lecture is developed in the fourth semester and then the creative thesis is put together.
Laurie: WW also had class requirement, which we planned in the final semester and taught during the final residency. (Though it often built upon work the student had done throughout the program). I didn’t have any teaching experience, so it was more difficult for me in terms of organizing myself as a teacher. Like Whit, I really enjoyed attending the classes of my peers.
In regards to the critical component of the program, one semester–the third–is devoted to writing a 30-ish (though I knew a lot of students who wrote longer papers) page essay examining, in-depth, some issue of craft that the student felt pertained to their writing. In addition, every semester a certain amount of critical work was expected. As I remember it, I was writing 2 to 4 critical annotations (at 3-7 pages each) on some element(s) of craft I had come across in my reading (for a total of 12-13 a semester, excepting the essay semester).
In the fourth semester, we also put our theses together, a process I really enjoyed at the time. Once graduated I looked back on it as mostly an exercise, since as I continued to write I discarded nearly
all of the poems in that manuscript. I view it as documenting where I was, as at writer, at that particular time (as any piece of writing or manuscript is). We also continued to write and revise new poems, and
generate a substantial amount of critical writing (for me, 12 annotations of 3-7 pages each).
Reading lists were a large component of the semester’s work as well. During residency, students met one-on-one with their advisors to agree on a reading list (this could be added to during the semester), the
number of critical annotations per packet, and the general number of poems submitted with each packet’s work. Also included was a letter the student wrote, about their own thoughts on their readings and creative and critical work.
So it sounds like WW is the only program among the four that doesn’t offer a non-fiction concentration. I *think* there was an opportunity for students to take one workshop in their non-major genre, but I’m
checking to make sure. At the time of application and attendance, I wasn’t very interested in delving deeply into more than one genre (I had done non-fiction writing for smaller weekly magazines, before and during WW). But as I’ve continued to write, post-MFA, and found myself continuing to write poetry but also turning to non-fiction and fiction as well, my writing world has expanded. More options! I love the idea that poetry or fiction or non-fiction (or painting or photography or etc, etc) don’t exist in vacuums, but all intertwine and inform one another. That’s something I’ve begun to delight in over the past year or so. It’s quite liberating. And Cheryl, I’m jealous. A translation workshop would have been fabulous!!
Speaking of reading lists, did you all have to decide at the residency what you would read, or was that something that developed as the semesters unfolded?
Cheryl: Though I always went in with ideas about what I wanted to read, or thought I should read, my advisors generally had many additions with which I was unfamiliar. Though I read widely, my background was in psychology, not English, so I benefitted from the steering.
Reading lists were intact at the beginning of the semester, but always subject to change during the semester. VCFA had the idea that the “semester plan” made at the beginning was an outline. So, depending on how a student’s work progressed, the reading list could change. I, too, went in with a list of books I wanted to read. But I loved having advisors pick out books they felt I needed to read based on my work (strengths and weaknesses). Advisors, I would say, make about 80% of the list.
The graduate lecture was put on the schedule like faculty lectures, and students simply chose to attend whichever they liked. Some student’s lectures only had a few attendees, while others had dozens. It was a crap shoot depending on topic and time of day. Typically, a student’s lecture and critical thesis topics were very different. Ideally, the student would incorporate what they had been studying throughout the program. I thought about my lecture and critical thesis from the beginning. Some people steered me away from that, but I felt it was better to keep it in mind so I could gather ideas from my studies. It benefited me, and it is advice I give other VCFAers when I talk with them. It’s not something to dwell on, but just helpful to keep in mind.
The critical thesis was more an in-depth study on craft or theory. The lecture had more wiggle room as far as topics are concerned. In a sense, the lecture didn’t have to be as academic.
First semester students could not request to attend a workshop outside their genre. Since there were only a few “out of your genre” workshops, students were chosen by lottery. But, if you wanted a special workshop and didn’t get one, and it was your last semester, you could just tell the program director and she would make it happen. Since I attend a BFA program and spent many hours in workshops, I opted for the special workshops, and did the one in translation and one in short story. I benefited from both of those experiences, though translation was the best.
I do have my reading list. Anyone else? Shall we share?
[Ed: Reading lists from Cheryl, Laurie, and Whit can be found here.]
Cheryl: This is interesting since I had no idea low-res programs offered workshops throughout the semester. Is Cliff the only one who had this experience? I’m wondering how you liked it as part of the program. Like, Whit, I enjoyed the solitary aspect of the semester. But obviously, that’s all I know.
I know there’s an alumni online workshop group for VCFA that an alum started. It’s a first come first serve admission. I will look more into how they communicate within those groups. The group I work with talks on skype once a week (mostly) to workshop, and also email’s comments. Then we keep a group email thread going for thoughts or news or encouragement. We have all become good friends through this process so we do take time to catch up with one another personally. Last year we had our first retreat, which was wonderful. The next one will be in April!
Cliff: I liked it very much, but then I had no basis for comparison at the time. It made perfectly good sense and I was happy to have feedback from several readers, with one “professional” making comments to keep it real. And, of course, one of the benefits of workshop that sometimes gets overlooked is critiquing other people’s work. I generally learn a lot from examinging (good) writing so closely. I find mistakes that I make myself, or solutions to problems. And when the workshop leader points things out–good and bad–in a peer’s work, I’m certainly going to learn from that.
Speaking of the alumni experience, can we go there? I’m curious how other programs keep alums engaged. Queens has an alumni workshop weekend, currently planned for every other year. It’s part reunion and part serious business because we attend lectures and panels and also a workshop (besides the parties, of course). The nice wrinkle here is that the workshops are led not by the regular faculty, but by AGENTS and EDITORS. During the last workshop my group leader was an editor from Riverhead Books and I got valuable feedback. Other alums have found agents through contacts made at the weekend. It’s a little pricey, but most workshops/conferences are these days.
Laurie: I had no idea that the Queens format has the online element– one thing I really enjoyed about WW was the full-on communal intensity of the residencies, and then the very introspective, refractory period where it was mainly just me and the reading and the writing. Maybe it would have been helpful, though, to have some on-line element drawn into the semester, such as a peer-group exchange every two weeks or so. Having more frequent exposure to fellow students’ work would have bridged some of the psychological gap between Here and There. I would have liked to witness the evolution of the poems we ultimately shared in residency workshops.
WW does have an annual alumni retreat, at various locations– west coast or east, primarily. I haven’t been yet, but have heard many good reports of how amazing it is to re-connect with others from the program, in-person. To the best of my knowledge, there isn’t an agent-aspect, though there are panels, workshops, and parties. Also, alumni have the chance to teach a class, if their proposal is accepted beforehand.
A question about residencies: Do other programs offer bookshops during the residencies? We sent in our preferences (from a pre-determined list) for which book we’d like to read and discuss with a group (led by a faculty member). Annotations on some craft element were required. I found that that level of thinking about the text, beforehand, could really contribute to an instructive exchange over those days (two of my favorites: Betty Adcock led the bookshop on Robert Penn Warren’s Audubon, and Michael Collier on WCW’s Spring and All).
And: How are workshops structured? We had a set group of students, but different faculty pairs assigned to each meeting of the workshop. The upside was that as students, we got very familiar with one another’s work. The downside was, I think, that some opportunity of consistency was lost–or thwarted–when the faculty changed with every meeting. Cliff, were Queens students assigned to one workshop, with one faculty mentor, through the course of each semester?
Cliff: Yes, one faculty mentor for the small group for the whole semester. The workshop begins during the residency with daily meetings, and then continues for the semester with the same group (of 3 or 4 student writers). You have a different mentor and a different group each semester.
Whit: Bennington has had (and may still have) the Bennington Collective, which consists of email workshops. As for workshops, they consisted of two faculty members and whoever those two got as students for that semester – you ended up with a range of students from new to final semester.
I have to say that I envy the Warren Wilson alumni residencies – I use Bennington anniversaries and AWP for reunions, but I’d love a residency with workshops and lectures as well, especially if we could interact with the ongoing residencies without becoming a bothersome load on the current students and faculty (and campus resources).
Cliff: At Queens, the Alums lobbied to have the Alumni Workshop overlap with the regular residencies, but the Director decided (quite reasonably) that it would indeed overload the staff (and him) to make both happen at once. For our 10th Anniversary celebration in May, the two did dovetail–ours ended
just as the current students were arriving–and that was stressful enough for staff, as I understand it.
The Contributors:
Whit Coppedge’s fiction and other work have appeared in Ninth Letter, The Rumpus, The Tusculum Review, and The Dos Passos Review. He is a graduate of the Bennington Graduate Writing Seminars and lives in Chapel Hill, NC.
Clifford Garstang, a former international lawyer, earned his MFA from Queens University of Charlotte. His award-winning linked story collection, In an Uncharted Country, was published in 2009. A novel in stories, What the Zhang Boys Know, is forthcoming in 2012 from Press 53. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Blackbird, Bellevue Literary Review, Valparaiso Fiction Review, Tampa Review, and elsewhere. He is the Editor of Prime Number Magazine.
Cheryl Wilder’s poems, essays, and articles have appeared in Cream City Review, Connotation Press, Numero Cinq, Architects + Artisans, and Strong Verse. She lives with her family in a cozy bungalow in Raleigh, NC. Her MFA is from Vermont College of Fine Arts.
Laurie Saurborn Young holds an MFA from the low-residency program at Warren Wilson College. A poet, writer, and photographer, her first book of poems, Carnavoria, is forthcoming from H_NGM_N BKS. She lives in Austin, Texas.
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