Here’s your answer: yes, creative writing can be taught. Kind of. Except when it can’t.
I’ve asked myself whether or not writing can be taught many times over the years. I asked it when I was an undergraduate English major and couldn’t figure out how in the world to get my pioneer novel off the ground. (It was called Exodus, my friends. I’m not kidding. And no, it never did arrive at the promised land.) I asked it when I started teaching high school English and wondered how in the world to grade the heartfelt and mostly terrible poems that landed in my assignment basket. I asked it when I enrolled in a graduate creative writing program, full of crippling self-doubt mixed with the tiniest flicker of hope that I might someday write a short story that came to some sort of satisfying conclusion instead of wandering off to curl up in a corner and die. And I asked it again when I was hired to teach creative writing to the bright and motivated students at Brigham Young University.
After all that asking, I still don’t have a satisfying answer to the question. But it makes me feel better that so many famous and experienced writers have a tough time with it too. (This article by Francine Prose in The Atlantic is a fascinating rumination on the topic.)
I’m not as smart as Francine Prose (obviously!), but I have come up with my own take on the question, one that clears it up a little, at least in my own mind. And so I ask you . . .
Can gymnastics be taught?
Oh, of course gymnastics can be taught, you say. Like me, you might have shelled out $40 a month for the express privilege of having gymnastics taught to your hyperactive five-year-old, mainly as a socially acceptable way to allow him to ricochet around a padded room. Like me, you might have shelled out that $40 a month for a year or two, but as it became apparent that your child was becoming more emotionally balanced but, regrettably, remained physically off-kilter, you decided your money might be better spent elsewhere. It seemed your seven-year-old was probably destined to grow up tall and lanky and (blame it on your husband’s genes, it’s okay) a little less than graceful. In short . . . not gymnastics material.
I have a friend whose child is an excellent gymnast. She has spent countless hours in the gym with a dedicated coach, perfecting her craft. For this little girl, gymnastics can and has been taught. But no amount of coaching would have turned my child into a gold medalist. Wasn’t. Gonna. Happen.
The trouble with writing is that identifying a person with a talent for it is much more elusive than in gymnastics. It’s easy to take one look at a gangly, clumsy kid and say, “Ummmm . . . nope. Not for you.” But writing can be trickier. First of all, we all do it at least sometimes. Even if it’s just an assignment for school or a yearly Christmas letter, most of us write. You don’t have to have money to write, or go buy special equipment, or take a class to learn any secret method. Most people who have a knack for writing just, well, do it.
A champion gymnast has a number of physical and emotional characteristics: a compact, muscular body; flexibility; grace; determination; a certain fearlessness. A person with those qualities then benefits from a dedicated coach. An effective poet or memoirist or novelist also possesses a certain set of qualities: a way with words; a keen eye; creativity; compassion (had to throw that in); and like the gymnast, determination and a certain fearlessness.
For a writer, though, a “coach” doesn’t have to be a living, breathing human being. One writer’s coach might have been Shakespeare, another’s might have been Virginia Woolf. For while it isn’t necessary for a writer to take a class or join a writer’s group (although it can be very helpful), it is absolutely imperative that a writer reads and reads and reads some more. Books are always a writer’s greatest teacher.
But here again, the question: Can creative writing be taught? And not by reading literature, but by a teacher in a classroom or a workshop or a writer’s group? And to that I offer a qualified yes. If you take a person who possesses some of the raw elementals (the way with words, the gift for observation, the creativity), I firmly believe a good teacher can take this person from one level to the next. In the writing classes I took, I learned about pacing, point of view, writing dialogue, how to construct a scene. Unlike some writers, I hadn’t quite picked up how to do those things well by reading alone, but when a good teacher sat me down and taught me . . . I learned. Will I ever be a writing genius? No. Some people (Marilynne Robinson, Michael Cunningham, Toni Morrison) are probably born with their astonishing talent, although I’m certain learning the fundamentals of their craft burnished that genius into a high sheen. But taking writing classes helped me evolve from a writer with a little bit of talent who mostly dabbled into a published author. I can’t deny it.
I know there are many of you who’d define yourselves in much the same way as I did: a writer with a little bit of talent who mostly dabbles. And although taking a class or reading a book about writing isn’t necessary for everyone, I think it’s helpful for the majority of those who want to improve. Can a poor writer become a good writer after taking a writing course? Probably not. Can a mediocre writer become a great writer? I wouldn’t count on it. Can a great writer morph into a genius? No. But I do believe a mediocre writer can become a good one, and a good one can become great.
So, if you’re mediocre angling for good, or good angling for great, I believe it’s worth a shot to see what you can learn about the craft. Join a writer’s group. Read a book about writing (I’ll provide a list at the end of this post). Take a class (for those of you in the SLC area, I’ll be teaching an intro to creative writing class at the BYU Salt Lake Center next semester, Thursday nights from 7:30-10:00, and you don’t have to be a matriculated BYU student to attend.) And always, always read great writers, and try to do it with a writer’s eye. Pay attention to what they’re doing and how they do it. That alone will teach you more than you think.
I’d love to hear what you all think about learning to write. (Especially those of you who disagree with me and think writing texts and classes often do more harm than good. William at A Motley Vision . . . that means you! And Orson Scott Card. Do you think there’s any way we can get Orson Scott Card to comment on Segullah?? :-)).
And here’s your list of books . . .
A Short List of Writing Texts:
Mostly Inspirational (with a little technical thrown in):
Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott
Writing Down the Bones and Wild Mind by Natalie Goldberg
On Writing by Stephen King
Mostly Technical (with a little inspirational thrown in):
Imaginative Writing by Janet Burroway
Writing Fiction by Janet Burroway
A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver
The Art of Fiction by John Gardner
On Writing Well by William K. Zinsser
And Just Plain Interesting:
Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose
How Fiction Works by James Wood
Related posts:
I love the comparison to gymnastics. That’s brilliant.
I thought your fourth “it” was referring to your novel. Then I got it. Ha ha. Here’s my response to if creative writing can be taught:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8UKjV6H2sdE
(Mostly, I think it can improve with personal practice, but others can’t really tell you what to improve, just where it doesn’t flow, etc.)
You can teach people mechanics, and that has definite value, but you can’t teach them how to be interesting.
They either are, or they aren’t.
Thank you for the book recommendations. Today I started writing for the Segullah essay contest (frightening), I think there is a place in the corner reserved for when it wanders off and dies.
Interestingly enough I posted on my blog today about words. I’d be lost without them. Somewhere I once read that all readers secretly yearn to be writers. If you could get an honest answer from bookgroup attendees I think you’d find this is true.
Good post, reminds me of all the discussions I’ve had with people about visual art being a talent you can learn. I think it is, Drawing On The Right Side of the Brain is a good place to start.
I absolutely agree with the core process, Angela. I just think that it’s work that would probably be better done outside the setting of the academy — with editors, peers, schools/circles/salons, mentors and lots and lots of reading.
In addition, I’m not incredibly fond of the particular forms/styles of writing that many creative writing programs privilege.
Of course, I also disagree with Orson Scott Card. In throwing off the literary and embracing the genre, I think he misses a lot of value. And I don’t like his insistence on transparent prose, disagree with much of what he has to say about point of view and think that his writing is best when it takes on a stronger voice and pushes more against the constraints of genre.
Have you read “On Writing” by Stephen King? It’s actually a very good book on creative writing.
I think that a certain amount of creative writing can be taught, but some of it is just inherent — like being a gymnast or an artist or a musician. I think that one can spend a lot of money taking lessons in any of these pursuits, as well as spend a lot of time writing, but for some of us (myself included) you reach a plateau of ability.
I love this post.
About 18 months ago, I told the world I was a writer (well, all twelve people who read my blog, if you can consider that the world) and I have endeavored to learn more and improve my writing. I have tried to finish novels as I collect rejection letters for my picture books. To be honest, the journey really hasn’t been excrutiatingly disappointing since I know I probably have years to go before something will finally click. It’s also probably too early to tell if I have what it takes (since I’m doing it so slowly), but for some reason the idea of trying and never succeeding doesn’t cause panic.
Your gymnastics analogy reminded me of my piano students. There are many with a natural talent for musical ability, but there are just as many with no natural ability. The students with no natural talent CAN be taught to play, though! They can! After 12 years of piano lessons, my sister can play some hymns and practice most of them. However, for me, after 13 years of lessons, I was competing and performing Beethoven and Kabalevsky; I had mastered the hymns at 14 years of age.
Perhaps this is my lot? I will be a mediocre writer but a stellar pianist (although I’m already losing THAT by not practicing as I should)? Maybe it is too much to want both?
Hmmm…maybe I’ll have to join your class, Angela…
Sue, you’re right. You can’t teach people how to be interesting. I think that applies in so many areas, too–modeling, architecture, even business management. There’s a certain ineffable quality to so many different types of success that can’t be learned. And Jendoop, books like _Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain_ can be helpful in all sorts of creative endeavors, I agree.
And William! Good to hear from you. I understand there are certain kinds of stories (some people call them “New Yorker-style stories”) that end up being written in many creative writing programs. But you know what? As much as I agree that homogeneity is never a good thing, I wonder if creative writing programs (and The New Yorker) get a bad rap. If the idea that there’s all this boringly similar stuff being churned out is more myth than reality. People did all sorts of writing in my MFA program. Genre stuff, crazy academic stuff, as well as New Yorker style stuff. I don’t even think “New Yorker-style fiction” is a fair moniker (and I realize you weren’t using it, William.) I subscribe to The New Yorker and I think they publish a wide variety of styles.
I also understand wanting to resist institutionalizing writing instruction. Having creative writing be a part of “the Academy” might be distasteful to some. But again, practically speaking, I don’t know how I would have gained access to some of the mentors I learned from (like the novelist Sheila O’Connor) *without* the academy. She was my teacher and became my mentor.
Perhaps there are a few stray geniuses whose independent spirit is quashed by the academy (or the workshop setting). They could have written something brilliant and new but were cowed into conforming. For the most part, though, I think the majority of writers who possess a mixture of confidence and open mindedness can benefit from instruction and a workshop setting, even if it occurs in an “official” classroom. Not everybody will benefit. But lots of people will.
And Andrea, yes I’ve read King’s _On Writing_ and really enjoyed it. (That’s why it’s on my list :-). I think King is a great example of a writer who produces successful genre fiction but isn’t so afraid of (or disdainful toward) those who write literary fiction that he cuts himself off from that type of writing.
As a matter of fact, Stephen King has been published in The New Yorker. Lots.
And Cheryl, I’d be glad to have you!
What you said.
The seed of talent has to be there, for sure. I don’t think desire is enough. I’ve seen plenty of wannabe writers who don’t have it and almost certainly could never be taught it. Personally, I know I’m a much better writer than I was six or seven years ago, and I attribute much of that to conferences, my critique group, books about writing, and so forth–in other words, learning the craft.
That said, my one university creative writing class was the single most depressing and useless writing experience of my life, but I think it was just the teacher.
“But again, practically speaking, I don’t know how I would have gained access to some of the mentors I learned from (like the novelist Sheila O’Connor) *without* the academy.”
And to gain that access you had to pay a lot of money and spend a lot of time. Not everyone has that luxury. I think that we — both Mormons in particular and Americans in general — need to get back to (or more likely reinvent) the idea of craftsmanship and amateurism.
Granted, this starts getting in to all sorts of issues related to how creative work is rewarded and supported and published and marketed in this country. But I think we’re entering a DIY/localism era and a de-professionalization of certain skills and knowledge that previously were only held in the hands of a few. This actually relates to what MoJO recently posted about how literary agents can no longer tell if a writer is any good or not based on their query letter. [See this Publisher's Weekly article].
“People did all sorts of writing in my MFA program.”
What happened to that writing? What were the expectations of the other students for both the writing the produced in the MFA program and their future careers?
Oh, Annette, I’ve had some bad creative writing classes, too. Truly useless. But I’ve had others that were extraordinarily helpful.
William, you’re right about the money and the time. I feel blessed that I was able to take the courses I did, because so many people can’t take a class, even if they want to.
But writing is great because you don’t *have to* take a class or spend a lot of money in order to do it. Scrapbooking can be inordinately more expensive. There are thousands of talented writers who have found success without taking a class.
What I don’t understand, though, is the idea that taking a college writing course is a bad idea. If someone does have the money and time and inclination, it seems to me that learning the craft inside “the Academy” shouldn’t be seen as altogether wrongheaded. If this is the best way for a writer to gain access to experts in his or her field then I don’t see any shame in taking that route. Unless, I guess, you’re arguing that all the people taking creative writing courses are making it harder for those who don’t to get published and are therefore rigging the system. But I don’t buy that. Talent and skill usually win out, no matter the path a person chooses.
As far as what happened to the writing of the students in my classes, I haven’t kept in touch with very many of my former classmates, but I do know that for the most part talent has won out. A few of my fellow students have had novels published, a couple of children’s books, a play. There was a guy who wrote noirish detective fiction who I think has been published in some small magazines. And, of course, a number of people have been published in lit mags, some prestigious, some fringey. I would say a good half of the students in my class probably haven’t had anything published, though, and probably never will, because they weren’t that good. (Or that dedicated, or whatever). Just because they were enrolled in a course didn’t mean they would end up a published author—because writing can be taught, but only kinda.
I find myself in a bit of a quandary, as I have a rather odd view of what constitutes good writing. I think much of it depends on what the writer is trying to do.
IMO the etherial quality (or one of them) we’re talking about is the connection between your emotions and your brain. Do you let yourself feel? Do you allow your emotions, good and bad, to roll through you, pluck them out and give them a good once or twice over? Then have the ability to translate those perceptions into something understandable to another human being? If you are missing that quality I don’t see how you can ever connect with others through writing, unless you’re into writing math textbooks.
I’m going to put Bird by Bird on my Christmas wish list.
(I may have mentioned this before, but I’m a creative writing class drop out–twice.)
Dalene! Not a drop out.
Some classes should be dropped, though. Although, even the “bad” classes I took made me produce, which is always helpful.
Angela,
Thank you for the wonderful post. I do believe that if a writer/student is teachable and willing to really wonder about the genre they are working with, then anything is possible. Perhaps the other question is, Can the writing process be taught so that the student/writer values not only the creative process, but all of the other steps involved.
Too often I find that as I am teaching students to write, either in an academic genre or a creative genre, they are willing to produce a first draft, but there are a lot of students who don’t find the value in revision. To me, this is where the discoveries are heightened and gained as a creative thinker and writer.
I loved meeting with author Pamela Munoz Ryan and inquiring about her writing process. Her response to the question–what is the most important part of the writing process to you? Her reply was this: the creative part, but most of all, the revising part.
She had a waist-high pile of drafts for her last book. Waist high. Can you imagine? That is discipline, but it also tells the tale of a writer who appreciates not only the creative side of the writing process, but the reworking, the tightening, the leaving, out, and the re-framing, which is so much a part of creative writing.
Sure, we will always ask: what is good writing and what is good literature? Perhaps teaching students to have a taste for creative writing and the writing process is where the magic begins. Louise Plummer was my first creative writing teacher and I never looked back. It was my undergrad emphasis, and also my grad school focus because of her tutelage. Teachers and professors are instrumental in the process, but the tools, the discipline, and determination are essential pieces as well,not to mention the humility that one must have.
My favorite students right now are not those in my creative writing classes on a college campus, but a group of kindergartners where I witness on a weekly basis that creative writing can be taught. These little ones make me believe in the act of writing. I witness “ah-ha” moments in their finest form.
Thank you for giving us the forum for this conversation today. It was a breath of fresh air after an afternoon teaching APA and analysis of psychology articles.
I haven’t ever taken a writing class, but I guess I consider myself a writer. To me, reading a writer who has a similar style to mine is incredibly educational. I learn from people’s examples.
I haven’t ever considered taking a writing class. I suppose I’m of the opinion that you either have it or you don’t.
Leslie, I agree that revision is a BEAR to teach. My first drafts are almost always “crappy” (Lamott uses a more, shall we say, descriptive adjective) and without revision I wouldn’t have anything worth keeping.
That being said, I realize how hard it is. It’s hard for me still, and I’m absolutely convinced of its value. I think part of the problem is that so many of us are so task oriented that it’s hard to throw out a piece of writing, no matter how much it’s dragging you down. I like to tell my students, though, that writing isn’t quilting. If you have to go back and pick out your stitches on a quilt, then you’ve made a mistake. But if you “pick out your stitches” in a story or an essay, then you’re doing what you’re SUPPOSED to be doing!
And Jennie, you do have it. But I think you’d like a writing class, if only for the fun of it.
I enjoy reading all of your opinions. For me , writing is all about practice & volume-and reading- I enjoy poetry as a concise form.
I think for most teachable people, writing can be improved by instruction — and I think that those willing to teach them are saints. I took just one creative writing class in college, and were I in the teacher’s shoes, it would have been hard for me to muster the patience to find the redeeming qualities in some of my classmates’ efforts. (I’m sure they felt likewise about mine.) There was the person writing Trekkie fan fiction, and another person who had based a story on an incorrect math equation (and the math was not wrong on purpose.) I guess that person could have been helped with the simple advice: “Stick to what you know,” except I think they thought they knew math. And then there was the one student with a borderline pornographic story (and this was at BYU.) I was greateful to be a participant but not in charge.
I’ve been listening to the New Yorker’s short story podcasts and really enjoying them, and I do find it hard to imagine those stories growing out of a conventional classroom setting, because they have such quirky individual genius, which I imagine could be stifled in a classroom. But, if someone has the confidence to stick to their quirky genius AND the humility to find ways to hone and polish that quirky genius, then a fiction class could still be useful.
Also, your point about classes motivating output is probably a huge benefit — much as we’d like to think otherwise, many of us are only motivated when we have some kind of accountability. But then I wonder if that means the writing stops when the class ends. And then there are people who find deadlines paralyzing. So I guess it really does depend on the individual, and classes or deadlines are more helpful for some than for others.
I think a proclivity for rewriting can be inborn as much as a general drive to write — I base this on the fact that I will, for example, re-write portions of my own year-old blog posts, even though no other person will ever read them. It’s just an obsession I have to keep tweaking. On the other hand, one reason I decided against majoring in visual art in college was because I didn’t have the same kind of humility and patience with that medium.
Ack. Grateful, not greateful. (Proves my rewriting impulse though.)
Angela,
Thank you for this post. You pose a question that I, as a teacher of six 13-year-old homeschooled would-be writers, ask myself all the time. It doesn’t help that I’m not much of a writer myself–I believe I can identify the elusive qualities of good writing, but a master of the craft I most certainly am not. In fact, I’d say that generally, I myself do not enjoy writing. Sigh.
Five of my six students have come a long way in the two years that we have been working together. One thing that has been invaluable has been giving them the vocabulary to talk about a piece of writing; I don’t assume they are too young to “get it,” either. My one of the six who straggles along is still writing about fairies and rainbows and kittens–I’m not sure when or if it will click for her.
What an interesting post.
I took four creative writing courses at BYU and I enjoyed them thoroughly. The writing workshops in these classes helped me out the most, I think. Having my work critiqued in front of the rest of the students really scared the bejesus out of me, yet helped me to see the weaknesses in my writing.
I loved my creative writing teachers because they were always there to offer me critiques on my writing and to cheer me on when I felt discouraged. I still remember the advice Donlu Thayer gave me when I was a nervous seventeen-year old freshman at BYU. “If you want to write, then get a degree as fast as you can and go for it!” she told me. Eight years later, I’m finally taking her advice.
A question might be asked: When will Donlu Thayer take her own advice! Best wishes to C.T. Richmond and all the rest of you who are getting to it!