For better or worse, here was my response:

Here’s my theory based on nothing but my observation and reading on the industry for nearly twenty years. MFA programs are designed to produce stronger writers. In other words, writers who have a better understanding of craft (e.g. creating scenes, writing dialogue, developing characters). The publishing conversation is like the big white elephant in the middle of the room. Many students want to talk about it, but are afraid to ask. The literary types—and you’ll run into them regardless of where you go—will want you to focus on your art first and foremost, and not worry about the publishing piece (and, to a certain extent, this is good advice, especially when you first start). Everyone else won’t necessarily have the best or any advice. MFA programs everywhere are filled with artists and artistes who want to discuss story and craft and metaphor and not the stinky, messy, commercial world of publishing that sullies the work and sometimes forces writers to “sell out” and enter the dark side, otherwise known as “business” and “marketers of books.”

Again, this is just my impression, and I don’t have statistics or even strong “evidence” to back up these impressions.

The good news? (And yes, there’s good news – I wouldn’t leave you with such a sad outlook.) It’s all OK. The goal of a writing program is to write. A lot. Write more deeply, take risks, revise, stretch yourself in directions you never thought you’d go. When you have a short story or novel (or both) that you feel in your gut is ready to send out into the world, there are plenty—and I mean plenty—of online resources to guide you through the journey to publication. MFA programs just aren’t built that way. YET. I say “yet,” because the publishing landscape has changed dramatically since I started at Lesley in 2006 (Kindle hadn’t been released, nor had iPads; no one with any pride would consider self-publishing…I famously swore up and down that I never, ever would. Never say never, right?). So I do think that programs will need to re-think how they guide students when it comes to publishing…right down to defining “what is publishing?” and what does it mean “to be published.” And you might actually witness this transformation.

So take everything I’ve just said with a grain of salt.

In terms of my own experience, Lesley offered some sort of publishing panel/seminar during each residency. Typically, it’s made up of agents, editors, some folks from lit journals, people like that. It’s usually causal, Q&A type stuff. I attended at least two, and they were good, but I didn’t learn anything new (only because, as I said, I’ve been a publishing junkie for two decades. I swear I devoted the bulk of my 20s to reading about the damn industry and “how to get published” rather than focusing on having something TO publish. That became the focus in my 30s ).

I will say that everyone at Lesley—staff and faculty advisors—WILL be cheering for you. They want to see you succeed and to grow as a writer and to get published. They can and will definitely help you with the “grow as a writer” part. As for the publishing part? That will be up to you (although that could change, as I said). And you never know whom (who?) you might meet during your journey.

Do my no-holds-barred answers help?

Readers with MFAs in Creative Writing…what was your experience in your program? How would you have answered this question?

The second night Nick asked me, “You know what YouTube is, right?”

(Did I mention Nick just started shaving? OK, he wasn’t that young, but close. Early 20s.)

“Yes, Nick,” I said. “I know what YouTube is.”

“So there are some people who just make tons of videos – usually about nothing – yet they get tons of people to watch them and they make all this money.”

“You mean like Jenna Marbles?” I said.

Nick’s eye lit up, obviously impressed. “Exactly! Just like Jenna Marbles. Have you heard of Hannah Hart and My Drunk Kitchen?”

“Nope.”

“Last night I went on Hannah Hart’s Facebook page and wrote, ‘I’m taking a CPR class and my partner looks just like you.’”

“Really? I look like some chick named Hannah Hart? I hope that’s a good thing.”

Nick assured me it was.

Naturally, I googled her when I got home (look at this link — it’s a Google images link). I actually can see what he means in certain shots. Her videos are funny – you can check ‘em out on her FB page. I’ve quizzed a few folks, including the ‘rents, and they can all see it. It’s kindy spooky in some shots, like I’m looking at a picture of myself that I don’t remember being taken.

People who know me well will probably be able to see it. People who know me only from my head shots (and I had extra poundage in those pics) won’t likely see the resemblance since that’s all smoke and mirrors and fancy touch ups.

Note: Hannah Hart was born in November of 1986, making her not-quite 27. I’m taking this to mean that Nick probably has no idea I’m 40. Of course, he might still think almost-30 is ancient (see YouTube comment above), but I’m trying not to focus on that.

Note #2: I’ve been thinking about going really short with my hair, and seeing how Hannah rocks the look, I might just do it. Stay tuned.

• Mumford & Sons “I Will Wait“
• Phillip Phillips “Home“
• The Lumineers “Ho Hey” (embedded below)

And the writing goes.

What are you listening to?

I used to think like that. I know some writers who still do.

Here’s what I wrote back: “By the way, I don’t think a writer necessarily needs to use big words or complex sentences in order for his or her writing to be considered talented. The right words and the right sentence structure determine whether a story is working. Many of the ‘greats’ – from Hemingway to Cormac McCarthy – are known for their sparse language. I think your story works so well because each word has a purpose and each sentence propels the story forward…that’s the sign of talented writing!”

Question: How’s your vocabulary?

Here’s my order from LEAST FAVORITE to FAVORITE month:

12. November – least fave.

11. December

10. October

9. September

8. August

7. January

6. February

5. March

4. July

3. April

2. June

1. May – fave!!

Go ahead, interpret. What do you think the order says about me? And what’s your favemonthology order?

Waiting for a call
that never comes, my heart breaks.
I will write anyway.

Tell me, what do you do that’s insane? Haiku it in the comments!

“Just get it down,” I said. “You can’t revise what’s not there.”

Good advice.

For me.

For everyone.

I love how the subconscious works.

What do you dream about?

I’m not pointing this out because I’m fishing for compliments, reassurance, or someone to offer the platitude “but that’s still young.”

Young, old — I don’t care about these things, much.

What I care about are milestones and those moments when it makes sense to stand back — I mean really stand back — and reflect on where I’ve been and what progress I’ve made and to look forward to where I want to go. Forty seems like a good enough place as any to do this, as do the months, weeks, and days leading up to this milestone in my young-old life, depending on your perspective.

Yesterday was the eleventh anniversary of 9/11. I not only remember where I was on that morning like everyone else, but also remember in vivid detail the days leading up to 9/11. OK, not the whole days, but specific moments, like the fact I was printing out applications to places like BU’s and Brown’s graduate programs in creative writing, two programs I never ended up applying to when I finally did make the move five years later. I was essentially unemployed at the time, having left radio (the first time) in February 2001 so that I could write. I couldn’t have told you what a gerund was to save my life, because I hadn’t yet taught a writing class. Forgotten April was a “what if” question that had only recently occurred to me. In many ways I was a dreamy, but heartbroken pup on 9/10, and became even more so on 9/11.

But getting back to yesterday. Yesterday, I sat down and made a list of how I’ve changed and what progress I’ve made since 9/11/01. It was an interesting exercise to sit and reflect and stare out over my life’s landscape from the last ten years (plus one).

I’m a firm believer that what we’ll regret most in life as we take our last breath are the roads not traveled, the chances not taken, the “what ifs” never answered. I’ve confronted some of these in the last eleven years, but I still have work to do. And I imagine this is the case for most of us.

I haven’t blogged here in some time, but I’m getting back in the groove, having tackled Facebook and Twitter and this little thing called “book #3.” I’m ready now to get back at it, even as I still try to figure out exactly what I want this blog to be.

Here’s looking forward.

How do you celebrate “big” birthdays?

Here’s my attempt to answer those questions, and I doubt any of what I’m about to write is an original thought. But it is how I feel.

For me, art is not complete until it’s shared. I write the novel. The novel is approaching art, but it’s not a complete piece of art — in my mind — until people read it. Why? Because the readers finish what I’ve started. They take the work to the next level: they interact with it, think about it, laugh at it, cry at it, hate it or love it, they (almost) complete it. I say “almost,” because I also believe a piece of artwork is never truly complete — never truly done — since there will always be (in theory) a new person to come along and interact with the artwork (a novel, in this case) in a fresh, new way. The art will never be 100 percent complete. But with each reader, with each new experience and insight, we get closer to achieving the 100 percent.

So having readers — lots and lots of readers — is important to me. The fact that lots of readers means more money is certainly a benefit, but I can honestly say this: if someone gave me a million dollars and said “live off of this and go write, but you can’t ever share your writing with other people,” I’d say no. It’s not about the money. It’s about creating art. To create art — in this case, a novel — you need a writer (me). But you also need readers. If there’s only me producing novels but no readers, it’s incomplete artwork. And that’s extremely unsatisfying to me.

I’m at my happiest when I’m writing. I can honestly say that. But when I’ve sent my novels out into the world and they’ve landed in the hands of readers who talk about them and think about them and share them with others? That’s the definition of nirvana.

I know not all writers (or artists) feel this way. And I respect that. Open to hearing other thoughts — agreement or disagreement — in the comments.