Teen Writers Bloc

This year has flown by, and I must echo many others on this site when I say that I’m not 100% sure what I expected going into the program. But I find myself still happy to be here.

I’m in complete disbelief that only one summer and two semesters now separate me from a New School MFA degree. Even though I am working on different projects and still need to delve further into the lives of my protagonists this summer, I am grateful for the feedback that I’ve received in workshops, and for the texts that I’ve had the opportunity to read in our seminars. It is very inspiring to be surrounded by people who are so focused on their craft, and who are dedicated to making their dreams become a reality.

Although a lot can be gained from looking back at the past year, I prefer to look forward instead. In the fall, we’ll be taking a seminar outside of our genre, which is exciting, at least for me. There’s something that can be learned from all genres of literature and I’m always interested in learning and reading something different. We’ll have a workshop with Sarah Weeks in the fall as well, which I am looking forward to after hearing many wonderful things from the Second Year WFC MFA students about the class.

Yes. There is a lot to look forward to this fall.

But this summer is actually much more enticing because that is when the real work begins.

No classes.

No homework.

No written critiques.

Instead, it’ll  just be me, my laptop, and a blossoming story…

Photo: Leap Year Publishing

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My theme for first semester? Much too much. Much too much work, much too much reading, much too much paper-writing, much too much time spent chasing after my baby. Colds, the flu, Levithan-worthy paper-induced stupors. Panels and workshops and readings, oh my. Much too much of everything.

And much too little time spent writing.

Don’t get me wrong. I loved every minute of it.

But as I do for everything, I had big expectations for first semester. Over-blown, over-ambitious, lofty goals. That is just my way. Big dreams, always. And fire, sure. But this time, I think, maybe I took on more than even I, in my typically Type A way, could manage.

A baby, for starters. A beautiful, exciting, enthralling and exhausting experience. She’s so fun, but boy does she take up a lot of energy. The fix: as much as it pains me, Kavi’s going to daycare fulltime. I honestly need the few extra hours a day she’ll be there to actually write. And the time that I spend with her can really be Kavi time. At the New School, I have this once-in-lifetime opportunity to really focus on this goal, this phantom thing I’ve been hopin’ and dreamin’ about for years. It’s now or never. I better make the most of it.

Work. To make a good dent in my apparently crippling grad school debt as I go along, I decided to amp it up. I’m about two years into building my own writing business, and happily, things are going well. But feast or famine is the nature of this beast. And so last semester, I took on a lot — too much — because I could. It hurt. So now it’s time to refocus here on working smarter, being more strategic, and learning, despite the pinch, to sometimes say no.

School. It’s been so energizing and enthralling, getting to know my classmates and their work, being focused on the craft of writing, delving into the canon of teen fiction under the wise tutelage of none other than David Levithan himself. But boy, did first semester kick my ass. Granted, it needed kicking. Still, one thing I most wanted out of my time at the New School — and didn’t give myself — was the concentrated writing time. As my New Year’s Writing Resolutions state, that all changes this semester. I can’t wait.

An education. Sure, I already said school. But between being involved with Teen Writers Bloc and all the readings and events we’ve been going to, I feel like I’ve learned a profound amount already about the way “writing as a career” actually works. Libba Bray. Rachel Cohn. Scott Westerfeld. Alumni like Coe Booth and Jenny Han. New York City is teeming with teen authors who are all about sharing their insights and experiences. There’s a real sense of community amongst them (and amongst us, already!). It’s overwhelming. And it’s awesome. And I can’t wait to be a part of it all.
Image courtesy Pink Sherbet Photography/Flickr

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I am where I always wanted to be.

I keep reminding myself. I started exploring MFA programs in 2004, six years before I actually set foot in a classroom. After years of researching just about every program in the country; keeping spreadsheets on application materials, acceptance rates, professors and rankings; writing and re-writing chapters and stories for application samples; and tweaking my personal statements repeatedly, I finally applied to eleven programs in 2009. Although I was accepted into many, after visiting several disappointing classrooms, I realized that I am going to get an MFA once; I didn’t want to rush into it. Instead, I went back to the drawing board and applied again in 2010, this time getting admitted to six out of eight programs and happily accepting a spot at The New School, my top choice.

So I am where I want to be. Right?

Finally, the first word that answers what I’m doing with my life is “writing.” I have broken out of the short story format that was stuck in my brain from undergraduate courses and completed a novel. I live in New York. I have met so many authors for teens it’s overwhelming. I understand this career as a business, instead of purely an art form. I am writing thousands of words every day. I have a group of talented peers invested in my career and open to allowing me to be invested in theirs. If you Google-search my name, the first hit you get is about writing for teens.

So, yes, I am where I want to be. But now I don’t want to be here anymore.

Now that I’ve written a novel, I want to know how to pitch it — how to make it sound as fresh as I hope it is.

Now that I’m in a serious MFA program, I want an agent.

Now that I’m writing everyday for several hours, I want to be able to give up the day job and just write.

There is no denying that I got somewhere this semester — a full draft of a novel, at least fifty books read, and, in a way, a re-shaping of my entire identity from “teacher” to “writer.” There is no denying that I’ve been happy, or that it was worth waiting the six years to take this step at the right time. But now I feel like I won’t really be satisfied until I get an agent. And then I won’t be satisfied until I sell a book. And then I won’t be satisfied until I sell a lot of books.

This semester, we heard a lot of people tell us not to write for the money, and I’m not. They say we have to write because it’s the only way to make us happy, and I am. But the stakes are higher than that. We need food on our tables and roofs over our heads and if our writing isn’t going to put them there, something else in our lives will be eating up our precious writing minutes and dominating our brain cells. I want writing to be my career so that I don’t have to fill up my days being something that I’m just not.

But for now, I’ll just keep writing for myself and reminding myself: I am where I want to be. And, hopefully, it won’t be another six years before I take the next step.

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I can’t believe we’re already starting our second semester. Our first semester went by more quickly than I could have imagined. We only have two semesters of classes left and then we’ll be in the throes of thesis-mode. Crazy. But time flies when you’re having fun, right?

By leaps and bounds, The New School Writing for Children program has exceeded my expectations. That could be because I really had no expectations going into it — I had never been part of a writing program or a workshop group before and I really had no clue what I was in for. But I’m glad I took the leap, because I’ve found a wonderful writing community, people I admire and trust to help me make my work as good as it can possibly be. Not only are these people great critiquers, they have such immense knowledge about children’s and teen literature, it’s inspiring just to have conversations about books. Outside of this program, I don’t know anyone who shares my love of YA literature nearly as much as these awesome peeps.

As far as for my own goals, I truly believe that I am already a better writer than when I first started the program, and I hope that will continue to be the case. My plan for this next semester is to write as much as I possibly can, and try (futile as it may be) to not let myself get too bogged down with class assignments so that I have no time to work on my own writing. That was my mistake in the first semester, but I’ve learned my lesson. In a writing program, the actual writing should take precedence!

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As a new contributor to Teen Writers Bloc, I’d like to let all the wonderful readers out there in on my life as an MFA student at The New School. I’m the only second year Bloc member, and therefore the only one with a bit of insight into the thesis semester. For those of you out there considering The New School’s Writing for Children MFA program (which, if you aren’t, you should be), the thesis semester is an independent construction by each individual student. You acquire a thesis advisor – either a professor in our program, or an outsider – you form a peer group and create your own schedule of what and when you want to submit. You can send in pages as often or as little as you want, as long as you meet your goal. (New School requires a minimum of seventy five pages in order to graduate.) I opted to search outside of the program for my advisor, and ended up with a wonderful editor from Penguin Books. I wanted a new, fresh set of eyes on my work, and I couldn’t be happier with my advisor. Seriously.

In fact, I submitted the first ninety seven pages of my YA novel to my advisor last week, and we had our first meeting this week. All I can say: the ideas are a-flowing! My creative juices are pumping, and I know exactly what my next step is.

However, my task at hand isn’t exactly a picnic in Central Park (by the way, planning a picnic in Central Park is actually harder then one would think). My advisor told me that my characters are really strong and wonderful and that she loved getting to view the world through their eyes. She said I have a very strong storyline and great themes, but I that basically have to change the ground they walk on and the backdrop around them.

There are two major problems:

1) They are too old. College is a tricky time for YA, and generally treads adult fiction territory.

2) There is too much time from start to end; I need to compress the time-span.

What totally sucks is that in the back of my mind I knew all of this before I even sent her the pages. Okay, well, maybe I didn’t explicitly know what needed to be changed. I just knew that something was off. Something major. But I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. And then I get my changes in an e-mail, and I knew right off the bat. Like the cliched old light bulb above my head, she had pulled the chain and suddenly it all made sense.

What’s even worse? That what she told me was what I had originally envisioned when I planned my preliminary notes on the novel and what I wanted it to be. Of course, when I started writing, my fingers and heart got the best of my brain and my notes, and set the whole thing in the winter, a whole year and a half from where I envisioned it.

It might seem like an easy enough task to switch from winter to summer, or to change a character’s age from 19 to 18, but let me tell you: it’s NOT. One might think it’s as effortless as changing “the slushy streets of New York” to “the glittering, sun-kissed streets of New York” or “piles of mountainous snow” to “piles of mountainous garbage,” but it’s not that simple. You have to think of clothing and catch every reference to a scarf or hat-and-gloves. You have to think of the temperature degree in the air and how it effects word choice. You have to think of the thematic schematics behind winter and summer and how it effects the overall arc of your story and its characters. In summation, it’s a bitch.

So what do I do?

I’ve already committed to making this the best thing I’ve ever written. So that means I have to get down to business, put my nose to the grindstone, get my hands dirty, employ every other clichéd sentiment to express hard work and get to work!

The good thing about all of this is that I have a clear vision of what needs to be done. I just know that it’s going to take my novel to the next level. And it doesn’t exactly hurt when an editor at a major publishing house tells you that she fell in love with your characters, especially the protagonist and his struggles. That’s just validation on top of a sort-of-half-cooked cake.

What’s next? I have to switch gears and change the setting from college to the summer between high school and college, picking up directly after graduation. That, and making sure I melt all the snow and heat up my pages. Hopefully the sticky, summer sun will spice things up and take them to that next level.

I have until February 11th to completely alter my characters’ world, make them a year younger, and finish the first (totally reworked) third of my novel. Excuse me while I wipe the sweat from my brow — and get to work.

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It’s interesting that in the fallout of the expose on James Frey’s fiction factory in New York Magazine last month, New York City MFA students are the ones who come off looking like fools.

That is, at least according to MFA guru Seth Abramson, author of The Creative Writing MFA Handbook, who wrote all about why we’re apparently idiots for the Huffington Post last week.

“In seeking out young authors to exploit, Frey has done as much as anyone in the United States to reveal the seedy side of unfunded MFA programs,” Abramson writes. “Indeed, research done into MFA programs since 2006 reveals that Columbia University and The New School, Frey’s top targets for young, desperate literary artists, are distinctive in only two respects: (1) they host the two largest MFA cohorts in fiction in the United States; and (2) their fiction alumni are believed to have the highest graduate student loan burden of any MFA graduates anywhere.”

The case he’s making is that students at the New School and Columbia (and no doubt NYU, too, by default) are so desperate to earn their way out of their MFA debt that they’ll sign any old contract, panting breathlessly at the very thought of actually being published. Because apparently we’re that hopeless.

In reality, I think the students that did sign on for Frey’s dastardly deal are simply hedging their bets. Some percentage of a million dollar deal is a hard thing to turn down. Especially when advances these days are often pitifully low. But that’s a whole other conversation.

Really, I’d rather address Abramson’s allegation that New York City-area MFA students are idiots. As a graduate student in the MFA program in creative writing at the New School: A) I’m not going into crippling debt to pursue this. Yes, it’s an expensive endeavor, but I (and many of my classmates) do have some funding. We’re in New York City, the heart of the publishing industry and the known world. Of course it’s expensive, but so are many programs in other parts of the nation. B) I don’t have the the luxury of packing up my life and my family and moving to Iowa or Nebraska to pursue a funded degree. I work. I have a family. I have family in the area. I want to be in New York City. C) I truly believe you get what you pay for. And to me, this degree and the creative community that comes with it are worth it.

But also, having spent a semester in the program thus far, I also see that my classmates are far from being idiots for taking on this purportedly life-altering debt for a degree, as Abramson put it in another HuffPost blog, that is “at base, a non-professional, largely-unmarketable art-school degree that can’t get anyone a full-time teaching job (at least not in the absence of significant in-genre publications) and is not designed to ‘network’ graduates into magazine or book publications.”

In fact, I’d argue that the Writing for Children program at the New School is designed to be pretty much exactly the opposite of what Abramson presents. The class of 2012 consists of 12 students, a small cohort that’s designed to create a close-knit writers’ community. (Hence this blog.) It’s one of fewer than a dozen programs in the nation with a writing for children concentration, so the odds are, it’s building up the next strong group of instructors in this very specialized field (and with YA markets booming, the need for instructors with expertise in this arena is no doubt growing). Its focus is on creativity and the canon, so we know all about where we’re going — and where we’re coming from. It’s a diverse, intelligent, creative group of writers who no doubt represent the future of publishing in this arena.

And even more significantly, the networking element is crucial and a key component of the way this program is built. Case in point: David Levithan. A force to be reckoned with in the children’s publishing industry, and a best-selling writer himself, Levithan hasn’t simply put his name on the program. He’s an integral part of it. For one thing, he teaches every year, unlike some of the brand name authors that serve as MFA ambassadors throughout the nation, pulling students into their fold only to depart on book tours or sabbaticals, rather than teach. And it’s an education only he could provide, given his multiple roles in the field and his careful, articulate examination of it. He also advises students, and even publishes some of them.

Secondly, David and the other instructors in the program — all of whom are working writers and/or editors — play up the networking aspect. Just this past week, David brought in a cadre of eight working writers to class to “talk shop,” as it were. Among these were best-selling YA goddess and Printz winner Libba Bray and National Book Award winner Judy Blundell. We got to ask them questions about their process, craft, publishing, the highs and lows of life as a writer.

Thirdly, given our locale in downtown Manhattan, we’re at the heart and the pulse of publishing every day. Another major part of our program — for all genres — is the writers’ colloquium, which mandates that we attend a minimum of eight author events and readings throughout the semester, either sponsored by the school (which offers a great line-up each year) or within the city. Of course, most students attend far more than eight, considering that New York boasts such readings and events on a daily basis with major names in publishing. One of the first such events I attended as a student was Salman Rushdie introducing new writer Tishani Doshi at the Brooklyn Book Festival, which was absolutely free. Another great one was one of David’s NYC Teen Author readings, featuring David and his Dash and Lily’s Book of Dares co-writer Rachel Cohn and YA icon Scott Westerfeld, amongst other teen lit all-stars.

And last, but certainly not least, are the alumni, who continue to support the program that brought them right into the heart of publishing. Next week, author and New School alum Coe Booth will be teaching our class — and teaching her books, Tyrell and Kendra (both published by David Levithan at his Scholastic imprint Push). She graduated from the New School in 2005, along with fellow published writers Jenny Han, Lisa Graff, Lisa Greenwald, Siobhan Vivian, Daphne Grab, Kathryne Alfred, and Caroline Hickey. (That’s right, the Longstockings.)Given the short history of the writing for children program, an astonishing number of its graduates are published and publishing. Not bad for a throwaway degree, huh?

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To MFA or not to MFA?

Honestly, I might not be the best person to answer that question. I arrived at this program through a sequence of events that developed so precariously, could have splintered into so many different paths, that it feels more like fate.

And I couldn’t be happier.

Am I accruing a ridiculous amount of debt? Yes. And did I ever plan on going to grad school, not just for writing but for anything? No. In fact, I never even intended to be a writer. Writing was a private form of expression for me. But when life offers unexpected opportunities, I’ve learned it’s best to take them.

Part of me was looking for structure when I applied to grad school — I’d written a book and had no idea what to do with it, no idea how to make it better. Part of me was looking for acceptance, to see if anyone out there who didn’t know me that could read a sample of my work and say, “Yes. We want you.” But mostly, I had no idea what I was getting into.

So, what have I gotten into? Classes that I look forward to every week. Teachers who challenge me and help shape who I am as a writer and as a reader. And, best of all, a group of emerging writers who have surprised me with their support and wisdom. I really thought there would be a serious amount of snobbery, this being a writing program and all, but there isn’t a single shred of posturing in my class.

You can’t write inside a vacuum, and you can’t do it all alone without going crazy. To have other writers willing to help outside as well as during class is essential — especially ones willing to listen as you detail the plot of a trilogy for over the course of an hour.

I can’t say unequivocally that an MFA is the way to go; so much is dependent on so many factors.  But so far, it’s working for me.

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I have been waiting to go back to school since I graduated five years ago. And though I had a brief flirtation with looking at social work programs, I have spent the better part of the last ten years looking at MFA programs.

I thought I would leave the city. Boyfriend break up. Tired of living in a closet sized apartment. Imagining myself hiking in Oregon or learning how to drive in some city that requires things like cars.

But: it turns out I wasn’t ready to leave the city. Getting an MFA for me was not so much about starting over as it was about enhancing what was there or continuing the path I was on. I don’t know that it’s necessary except that I am a believer in learning the rules before breaking them, on experiencing the freedom in structure.

Most importantly getting an MFA is about community. Writing is a solitary activity and I felt I had gotten as far as I could alone. I was right. Collaborating and talking through ideas and plot lines is the best part of being in a program. My book, a four narrator novel that I can’t stop wrestling with, now has more brains on it’s side. It is all the better for it — Dhonielle’s smart encouragement, Alyson’s thorough notes, Amy’s investment in pushing story, Caela’s articulate honesty… and on and on.

Really, this is a thank you letter and not a blog post at all.

Because who else has taken the time to look at my work and try to make it better? Sometimes, I can’t even count on myself for that.

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I know I don’t need an MFA. Nobody really does. After all, it’s one of those self-indulgent throwaway degrees that doesn’t really equate to much real-world value, right? At least that’s what the rest of the world thinks.

But even beyond that measure, even in writerly circles, where the pursuit of such a degree doesn’t seem like such a fruitless, even foolhardy (and decidedly expensive) endeavor — even by those standards, I really don’t need an MFA.

If we’re talking craft, well, I already have a Masters in screenwriting from NYU. That’s given me a solid grounding in both story and structure, and it actually ends up being quite relevant to fiction. And as long as I sell books, that degree is enough to get me teaching gigs, too.

If we’re talking connections, I’ve got a decade as an entertainment journalist behind me, working for big name magazines and interviewing A-listers, including authors, editors, and movie stars who’d be just right for the main character in the film adaptation of my bestseller. If platform is what sells, I’m hotcakes.

So what the hell am doing here? Well, here’s the thing. You can’t sell a novel unless you write a novel. And I’ve always fallen victim to that killer writers’ plague. That’s right. I am a master procrastinator.

I am that writer you all know. The one who has great ideas, solid writing, great connections. The one whose novel should sell itself. Except that I never finish the sucker. I have a half a dozen works-in-progress, all at some half-baked state of being. And if I ever want to finish them — any of them — well then, I need structure. I need deadlines. I need discipline. I need an MFA.

I need an MFA not so much for the degree itself, or the cache it holds (or not), or the credentials to teach. All of that stuff doesn’t matter so much. What I really need is the time, the space, the ability to be devoted to something as frivolous and as crucial as writing. I need some focused, structured time in a program that will force to get me out of my lazy habits, teach and enforce discipline, and introduce me to like-minded individuals who will take this as seriously as I will. Because for the next two years, I need to just be allowed to take this seriously. That’s why I need an MFA.

Once I’m done explaining all of that to people, the next inevitable question is why now?

Let’s be honest, the timing was hardly perfect. I was six-months pregnant when I started applying to MFA programs. And my daughter was all of six months old when I started the Writing for Children program at the New School. I’m giving up three nights a week and countless hours a day to pursue this goal, all while working full time and trying to learn how to be a good mama to my little Kavi. And given the cost, there will be a lot financial sacrifice along the way, too. Many would say I was crazy and call it a day. But I know myself. If I don’t do it now, I’ll never do it. And what is it they say about a dream deferred?

My husband, he’s a writer. And yes, he even has an MFA. So he’s the one who suggested that it’s time. It’s time to give myself the space to take this seriously. To take myself seriously. He’s the one who’s letting me carve out time (and the cash) to do this — time I could be working or spending with my daughter and him. So here I am, doing just that. Hopefully, at the end of two years, I’ll have something to show for myself. Something that will make all three of us proud.

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I always knew I wanted to get a graduate degree…I just didn’t know what I wanted to study. I received my B.A. in Psychology, but I knew I wasn’t interested finding a job in that field, so there would be no point in getting a Masters for that. I started to explore other options.

My first assumption was that I should choose something “practical,” i.e. a field where I could have a large income, so I took economics classes. I sat through a two semesters of economics, micro and macro, and, honestly, I hated it. Not only did I have to use my textbook from class, but I also had to reference Economics for Dummies to keep up. In the end, I received a high grade in that class, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to spend the rest of my life trying to guess economic trends and when the next big period of inflation will happen.

Around this time, one of my sisters entered law school. The other one was already a practicing lawyer. I thought maybe this was the path I should take. I took an Intro to Law class and I loved it. I took another legal class and I seriously started considering law school.  Then I started hearing the warnings: “Going to law school and actually being a lawyer are nothing alike.” “There are too many law students nowadays and it’ll be hard to find a job.” And that, “Tuition costs the same for all the schools so there’s no point in going if it’s not a top tier school.” I thought about it long and hard. And I realized if I couldn’t even bring myself to schedule a date to take the LSATs, then law school would not be a good choice.

Then I happened to notice a writing course offered by the New School, Writing for NYC Newspapers and Magazines,  taught by Susan Shapiro. The course description was intriguing: learn the secrets of breaking in and get your work published. I signed up. Not only did I totally enjoy the class (so much that I took it twice!), but it reminded me of my college days, when I would distract myself from boring classes by writing short stories. I remembered how much I loved writing.  I realized if I was going to invest two years of my life into a degree, it should be something I would enjoy.  That was when I knew I wanted an MFA in Creative Writing.

Why did I choose The New School? Susan Shapiro gave excellent feedback on my submissions. She not only instructed me on how to grammatically improve my writing, but she also showed me how to catch the reader’s interest. Also, my classmates were a mix of full time students and working professionals who all had the same goal: to improve our writing. This gave me a taste of what the classes would be like and I wanted to be a part of it. As I researched further, I found there were so many amazing and diverse writers who were instructors in the MFA program that I felt I’d lose out on a fantastic opportunity if I didn’t take advantage of it. Most importantly, this was one of the few schools in the New York City area that offered a concentration in Writing for Children. I loved writing fiction and I wanted to write children and young adult novels, so it only made sense that I should educate myself specifically in that area.

Getting an MFA is definitely helping my writing. Not only do I have a workshop class where other writers will read and critique my work, but it’s opened up a whole community of people who, just like me, have a love for writing! An MFA might not be for everyone, but I know it’s definitely for me.

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