The Brutality of Creative Writing
Writing. I just wrote that word. And those. And those too. Over the last 2 years I have done a lot of writing. I have been plumbing my artistic depths in attempts to traverse a master’s degree in creative writing, and as of last week, I handed over my final assignment. Over the course, I have conjured a variety of characters. Perhaps the most bizarre was a sentient gun that was the narrator of its own story.
There were talking seagulls as well. Also, a particularly narcissistic assassin, a pair of bounty hunting cowboys, an abusive old man in a supermarket, several time travellers, and a mind-controlling shrub, to name but a sprinkling. There was also a creative nonfiction narrative where I wrote an account of the day my brother died. It’s been a long and winding road.
The big question is am I better writer now than when I set out? Perhaps. Yes. Definitely. No. I don’t know. In turn, it begs the question: are courses like mine a waste of time? Perhaps. Yes. Definitely. No. I don’t know. The obvious problem is how does one establish criteria for assessing any piece of work — produced in this arena — academically? Harry Potter is no intellectual leap toward the moon but millions around the world have been profoundly entertained by JK’s fantasy, and she has made a pretty buck off the back of it. If a piece of work were to be judged by how much dollar it brought in, Rowling would be the new Shakespeare. Renowned writer Hanish Kureishi — dubbed one of the greatest 50 British writers since the end of WWII by The Times — told the Guardian in 2006 that such courses are, indeed, a waste of time. Even Stephen King has admitted that great writers cannot be made.
I do feel that my writing has improved. One of the most profound awakenings I experienced on the course was that of showing and telling. This is where a writer either chooses to tell the reader what is happening in the story (such as saying ‘he was angry’) or decides to show the reader (‘his brow became a furrow and his glare intense’). Gaining a firm grasp of striking the right balance can make the entire narrative. Further than this, the process of editing — as anyone with a decent amount of writing experience will tell you — is utterly critical and never ending. For my part, when I first began the course, I had vague notions that editing was important. By the end — now — I have come to know the bone-wearying fact that if you EVER feel that your work is finished, you are wrong. Dead wrong. There is no end. There is only the choice to stop and let it be free.
Writing is a highly personal process. One digs deep into emotion, and then identifies and ensnares that which must be channelled beautifully, elegantly, awesomely, on to the page. The best writing is a snarling beast that one allows close to the surface, but then attaches a collar, teaches manners to, and takes to a professional to trim and shape. When the animal is placed on show, it looks sharp and controlled. Tamed even. But, the best writers seem to innately understand when to let the beast have the bit. When that happens, the reader can be consumed. Perhaps what is less intuitive is the fact that reading is as equally a personal process as the writing. Everyone carries their own angels and demons into each story, and it is those beings that shape it, even as the narrative is being manufactured by the writer.
Each year of my creative writing course was markedly different. And this was because of one element: my tutor (and assessor). At the beginning of the second year, it is standard practice at the institute at which I studied, to switch tutors. Rather casually I was asked if I wanted to change my tutor and equally casually I went with the norm. My tutelage was handed to someone else, and so my experience of the course was altered dramatically. At the end of my first year, I was on schedule to pass with a merit. What I didn’t appreciate at the time was the creative alignment my tutor and I had fostered. My confidence bloomed and I felt there was little I couldn’t attempt without at least some success. This is not to say my tutor didn’t analyse and critique my work thoroughly. I agreed with largely everything she highlighted and elements I was weak on became obvious. As a consequence, I believe I assimilated her guidance and my writing grew stronger.
By halfway through the second year, it became clear to me that getting the most basic pass was hanging in the balance (and still is as I wait for my final mark). My second tutor communicated her assessments not just opaquely a good deal of the time, but in gibberish on more than one occasion. She also held my work up against leading published authors of that genre (and not the criteria set out by the institute itself, as I would have expected). Ultimately, when the feedback wasn’t nonsensical, it seemed overly harsh and unjust. At this point I would anticipate anyone reading this to start entertaining notions of my frail ego generating feelings of injustice. Which is fair. I did. For a long time I wrestled with the reconfiguration of my perception of my abilities. After all, this woman was a tenured professor. Who was I to question such a deity in the creative writing field? My irresoluteness shifted however, when I completed a particular assignment. I’d given it to my wife and parents to read initially and they’re respective feedbacks were, predictably, quite positive. Upon submitting it to my tutor, I received some of the usual criticism that I felt wasn’t warranted — even if I had gotten used to it by that point — but the thing that struck a chord was that she didn’t understand what was happening in the story.
Where once I had been dithering and timid, I then became exasperated and irrefragable. How was it that my wife and both parents were able to perfectly understand the logical constructs and flow of the narrative, but a tenured professor wasn’t? I have not been able to answer this question satisfactorily even though I took it to the institution. They’re bottom line was that action could only be taken if I could prove some bias or discrimination against myself. They advised I increase my communication with her, to work more closely with her, to improve my working relationship with her. I tried. Long phone calls and extensive messaging later, neither my marks or her feedback improved and I resigned myself for the rest of the course to trying to specifically appeal to her literary taste (my efforts foundered here too). And so, now the course is over, and a promising final result has slumped into a twitchy possible failure. Sadly, I have not enjoyed my masters degree.
This brings my writing here in somewhat of a circle. Was the course worth it? I cannot say. Academically speaking, I’m not qualified to agree or disagree with Messrs King or Kureishi. I may or may not fail my degree and I could expound upon my many gripes at length. But I won’t. What I do know is that the course forced me to expose my writing to critical eyes and I believe I have been able to refine my technique accordingly. Some might argue I could have achieved the same by posting my work on to the wider web. Some might even say that that would be preferable since folk tend to be a lot less forgiving out in the open ether. I have arrived at the final conclusion that my first tutor liked the subject matter and style of my work and that my second tutor — irrespective of her sometimes unfathomable and bizarre feedback — did not. To talk about fairness in such a subjective field then, seems like a waste of time. My wife makes a hopeful point though: that no one really cares about the mark at the postgraduate level, just that you passed or not. This gives me some consolation. I’m going to go and cross my fingers, retreat, and regroup, and acclimatise to the fact that working in the creative racket can be brutal. Time to grow a thicker skin and learn to take my lumps…
