“Is that, like, writing pretty?”
The above, coupled with an expression of utter bewilderment, is an actual response to my stating that I’d studied creative writing. And it isn’t an isolated incident. Perhaps most responses are slightly more eloquent, but they all share the bewilderment and a slightly suspicious attitude towards this clearly made-up discipline that I claim to have gained a Masters in. My standard reply, arrived at by necessity, after numerous vain attempts to give an accurate description of the content of an academic degree in creative writing, is now: ‘It’s learning to be a writer.’ Which, as you might imagine, generally gets me into even more trouble, by throwing me head first into the “But can writing actually be taught?” debate.
My dad is a poet, and I am a writer. Words run in the family, and I don’t believe it’s coincidental. I cannot do math to save my life, but I can write. And there’s something inherent in that, if not always hereditary. But talent is a very tricky term, which we nonetheless feel free to throw about, arbitrarily. There are genetic predispositions to certain diseases, genes that decide our gender and the colour of our skin, but we have yet to identify a gene for writing, painting, or doing simultaneous equations. And until we do, the concept of talent will remain an abstract one. But talent, nonetheless, however tentatively you use the term, is what you need to have, in order to actually be a writer. Everyone may well have a book in them, but it’s most probably a bad one. And if this sounds elitist, it’s because it is: not everyone can be a writer. Just like not everyone can be a scientist, an accountant or a builder.
But, if it all comes down to that elusive talent gene, what’s the use of an academic degree in writing? Steinbeck didn’t need one to write East of Eden; Dickens, Tolstoy and Kundera didn’t study creative writing. Correct. But Kazuo Ishiguro, Ian McEwan , and Tracy Chevalier did, while Malcolm Bradbury, Andrew Motion and Rose Tremain all taught on EUA’s Creative Writing MA. Even if you view education as a means to an end, rather than an end in itself, there is much to recommend a degree in creative writing. First of all, there is the sense of community that you immediately gain, something that writers are generally starved of. The reclusive author stereotype may be a cultural construction, to an extent, but it’s not that far from the truth: writing is a lonely occupation. And feedback is an important part of the writing process, as is reviewing, redrafting and editing – all of which you practice in the workshops that constitute the core of any course in creative writing. For the vast majority of aspiring authors, whose work has only ever been read by friends and family, gaining a readership of their peers and tutors, who will not offer blind praise but constructive criticism, is worth the tuition fees in itself. Writing courses encourage you to be creative, but also teach you how look at your creative output critically. You study the technical and formal elements of writing, so that you can then recognise, apply or subvert them in your own work. In the first year of my BA, I had a brilliant and very frightening writing tutor who was obsessed with spelling and punctuation, and took a liking to me because I could manage both. It may sound elementary, but you’d be surprised. There is so much more to writing than sitting down at your desk, invoking your muse of choice, and pouring your soul out. There are big things and little things and all the things in between, that may have never occurred to you outside that classroom. Just like scientists, accountants and builders, writers need training, too. Because talent may just as well translate into another unread manuscript on a publisher’s slush pile as into a literary masterpiece and, because the odds are skyscraper-high against the latter, we need all the help we can get.
So: can writing be taught? Perhaps not. You can teach the theory, all the bits and pieces that surround it, but perhaps you can never touch upon the core that is the ability to write. But there is something very valuable that a degree in creative writing can teach you: how to be a writer. This is the single most important thing I took away from the four years I studied creative writing. By turning what was previously an interest, a hobby, a thing you were “good at” into an academic pursuit, the object of your studies, by applying yourself to it daily and joining a community that recognises it as a valid occupation, by openly declaring your commitment to it and, yes, even by answering questions like ‘Is that, like, writing pretty?’, slowly, day by day, your perception of the act of writing and your own role in that process begins to shift. Slowly, you begin to think of yourself as a writer, to separate what you do from what you are. Slowly, you replace the phrase “I’m a barmaid/student/temp” with “I’m a writer”. I’m a writer. And the fact that I have a degree in it is neither here nor there, except, if I didn’t, I might still be there, serving pints of Carling and waiting for inspiration to strike so I could finish chapter one, rather than here, with a completed manuscript on my desk, composing letters to agents in my head and enjoying interesting conversations with people who think creative writing is the same as calligraphy.
And another thing: everything else aside, signing up for a degree in creative writing means a whole year (or three, in the case of a BA) of doing what you love. Isn’t that a little self-indulgent? You bet it is. And I, for one, would indulge again any time, without a moment’s hesitation.
(Copyright 2008 Daphne Kapsali)
Related links:
MA in Creative Writing at UEA
MA in Creative and Life Writing at Goldsmiths College, University of London
Undergraduate and postgraduate degrees in writing are offered by a number of UK universities. Information on undergraduate courses can be found through UCAS, while the National Association for Writers in Education has compiled a catalogue of writing courses offered by higher education institutions in the UK.
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