Long essay by Elif Batuman on creative writing in the current LRB. I teach a little creative writing, occasionally, but still enough to recognise the truth of much of what she says, even if her focus is chiefly on the States. Among her more salient charges: the kind of writer produced by MFA programmes gives the appearance of having been ‘tragically and systematically deprived of access to the masterpieces of Western literature, or any other sustained literary tradition’; programmes are conducted in ‘a knowledge vacuum’; their culture of worthiness and identity politics replaces the ‘books I would want to read [with] rich, multifaceted explorations whose “amazing audacity” I’m supposed to admire in order not to be some kind of jerk’; they struggle with the inherently ‘elitist and impractical’ nature of literary writing, which ‘doesn’t directly cure disease, combat injustice, or make enough money, usually, to support philanthropic aims’ and appears ‘narcissistic and wasteful’; its identity politics are all-too-close to those of the comic website Stuff White People Like (Being an Expert on YOUR Culture, Being the Only White Person Around, Religions Their Parents Don’t Belong To – you get the idea); they fetishize creativity in an a-historical, post-Romantic way (to Dr Johnson God created and writers produced); they prize good at the expense of great writing (the good is the enemy of the great). She ends:
Not knowing something is one way to be independent of it – but knowing lots of things is a better way and makes you more independent. It’s exciting and important to reject the great books, but it’s equally exciting and important to be in a conversation with them. One isn’t stating conclusively that Father Knows Best, but who knows whether Father might not have learned a few useful things on the road of life, if only by accident? When ‘great literature’ is replaced by ‘excellent fiction’, that’s the real betrayal of higher education.
{Quotation ends}
Some random questions that occur to me from my own experience of teaching the subject:
How much literature (a teacher of creative writing might ask him or herself) do I teach? A lot/some/none? Is that my job? If not why not?
How comparatively interesting do I find canonical literature and creative writing?
How many books on my reading list are non-contemporary? How many are pre-1900?
Is the reading list for my short story/poetry/whatever module comprehensive/patchy/totally random?
How many students on this creative writing module about the short story/poetry/whatever could write an essay on the short story/poetry/whatever for the ‘straight’ academic module on that subject? How many would want to? How much of a problem is it if the answer to both these questions is ‘few’?
I wonder. What is the best defence or justification of creative writing teaching (if there is one)?
6 comments:
Michael Longley recently opined to me that, while you cannot teach creative writing, you can teach creative reading. (He had been giving writing classes, I assume, as part his Ireland Chair of Poetry.) What creative reading might be is another matter; presumably different from practical criticism, which was the core, Biblical discipline of English under Denis Donoghue at UCD.
At any one time, there is only ever likely to be a tiny amount of great writing, as distinct from good. Not a bad thing, you know.
My own autobiographia literaria is marked by moments when people indulged, listened, applauded, supported work of mine that I don't need to be reminded of any more. But that tolerance of the less-than-good is all part of the context which allows better writing to develop. Not every creative writing workshop will produce a stable of great writers, but no-one can object to the existence of spaces where people can read and comment on each others work. In any case, greatness (whatever that might be) is intrinsically something that can never be legislated for.
Good post. I especially like the quote:
'When ‘great literature’ is replaced by ‘excellent fiction’, that’s the real betrayal of higher education.'
And I know the attitude spoken of here; of dismissing 'Father'. But I agree it is much better to know and thus 'be in conversation'. When it comes to teaching creative writing I'm not sure what the best approach would be. I think teaching very practical processes of note-taking, data-collecting and then trying to harmonise ideas into a narrative/form is very important though. Teaching that it is hard work and not some flash of inspiration that creates things of value may be an odd notion in a society where everything is instant, but I think it is closer to the reality where consistent quality is concerned. Thing is, I honestly don't think you can teach taste, or control what people consume information wise; the world of information is too big now and it isn't gonna change. So making the best out of what they've got, I think is the best you can aim for.
In defence of teaching creative writing? I think the only defence it can ever offer is that it'll save those aspiring some time achieving what they have the potential to be. But I think that also depends on a lot. As a great Portuguese philosopher once said:
It's all about omelettes and eggs. No eggs, no omelette. And it depends on the quality of the eggs.
In the supermarket, you have eggs class one, class two, class three. Some are more expensive than others and some give you better omelettes. So when the class one eggs are in Waitrose and you cannot go there you have a problem.
–Jose Mourinho
;)
I first heard about this book that Batuman reviews, on the rise of the Creative Writing MFA by Mark McGurl (what a name, what a name), from Thomas Graves, aka Thomas Brady, who is the consigliere of Alan Cordle of Foetry fame, and a chap who singlehandedly caused the comment-field of the Poetry Foundation of America's blog, Harriet, to be closed, because of his rhetorical ability and debating skills which exposed the mmmm-y yummy blurbastic tweets that passed for critical literary debate between the AmPo regs there, for what it was.
Batuman, 33, one novel, Harvard and Stanford, a fantastically intelligent speciperson, struck me in this of being a bit awf with her glib and, frankly, smugly offensive assumptions that litter this review:
I should state up front that I am not a fan of programme fiction. Basically, I feel about it as towards new fiction from a developing nation with no literary tradition: I recognise that it has anthropological interest, and is compelling to those whose experience it describes, but I probably wouldn’t read it for fun. Moreover, if I wanted to read literature from the developing world, I would go ahead and read literature from the developing world. At least that way I’d learn something about some less privileged culture – about a less privileged culture that some people were actually born into, as opposed to one that they opted into by enrolling in an MFA programme.
She sounds like Eliot at his mid-thirties most twatish and plastic, issuing his maxims about guardians of Literate Civilizations needing a long literate history to have owt interestging to say, arrogating himself the role of Ard Ollamh and putting an intellectual gloss on the prejudice of early modern bumps on the head and 'breeding' talk: of how 'taste' is past on thru the body of our ancestors and not the product of a hefty and expensive education whose end goal os to sound like Edward 7 in his abdication speech.
She starts going boring a few paras in and then goes all Clive Jamesish, trying to yoke two half-baked opinions her taste alone creates, into some supposed logical whole.
McGurl treats this reinvention as the sign of a bright student. So it would be, in a schoolboy, or someone who grew up in a preliterate tribe.
Like, this boring academic doctor has real knowledge of pre-literate tribes, half Harvard half hanging with Amergin as he jumped off the boat.
~
There's an 'interesting' exchange on Claire Askews blog, One Night Stanzas, about this very thing Dave, in which the young undergrads are saying stuff about Tradition not being relevent to them personally, because of the net and blah blah blah. You'd hate it. It will really wind you up, young kids from the first gen to be like, totally, soo grr and hrrmmmm moi moi X factor pros.
Guess Who
I first heard about this book that Batuman reviews, on the rise of the Creative Writing MFA by Mark McGurl (what a name, what a name), from Thomas Graves, aka Thomas Brady, who is the consigliere of Alan Cordle of Foetry fame, and a chap who singlehandedly caused the comment-field of the Poetry Foundation of America's blog, Harriet, to be closed, because of his rhetorical ability and debating skills which exposed the mmmm-y yummy blurbastic tweets that passed for critical literary debate between the AmPo regs there, for what it was.
Batuman, 33, one novel, Harvard and Stanford, a fantastically intelligent speciperson, struck me in this of being a bit awf with her glib and, frankly, smugly offensive assumptions that litter this review:
I should state up front that I am not a fan of programme fiction. Basically, I feel about it as towards new fiction from a developing nation with no literary tradition: I recognise that it has anthropological interest, and is compelling to those whose experience it describes, but I probably wouldn’t read it for fun. Moreover, if I wanted to read literature from the developing world, I would go ahead and read literature from the developing world. At least that way I’d learn something about some less privileged culture – about a less privileged culture that some people were actually born into, as opposed to one that they opted into by enrolling in an MFA programme.
She sounds like Eliot at his mid-thirties most twatish and plastic, issuing his maxims about guardians of Literate Civilizations needing a long literate history to have owt interestging to say, arrogating himself the role of Ard Ollamh and putting an intellectual gloss on the prejudice of early modern bumps on the head and 'breeding' talk: of how 'taste' is past on thru the body of our ancestors and not the product of a hefty and expensive education whose end goal os to sound like Edward 7 in his abdication speech.
(oops, wrote it without realizing the character limit)
She starts going boring a few paras in and then goes all Clive Jamesish, trying to yoke two half-baked opinions her taste alone creates, into some supposed logical whole.
McGurl treats this reinvention as the sign of a bright student. So it would be, in a schoolboy, or someone who grew up in a preliterate tribe.
Like, this boring academic doctor has real knowledge of pre-literate tribes, half Harvard half hanging with Amergin as he jumped off the boat.
~
There's an 'interesting' exchange on Claire Askews blog, One Night Stanzas, about this very thing Dave, in which the young undergrads are saying stuff about Tradition not being relevent to them personally, because of the net and blah blah blah. You'd hate it. It will really wind you up, young kids from the first gen to be like, totally, soo grr and hrrmmmm moi moi X factor pros.
Sincerely
Guess Whosmond
('paradynyl' is word ver)
arghhh, the last two responses are a reiteration of the first Dave. If you could excise them, the reader wouldn't have to be bored twice.
Sincerely
Des
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