I can't believe that I will graduate with my master's degree in just two months.
I have loved everything about the Graduate Program in Creative Writing at Western, and I know without a doubt that I made the right decision in choosing the publishing concentration. Kevin J. Anderson and Allyson Longueria have been the best professors and mentors that I could ask for, and I've made so many wonderful new friends and colleagues. I am feeling more confident in my career as an author and a soon-to-be publisher than I ever have. But as I reflect on my writer's journey so far—from my very first workshop class at ACC as a fresh-faced nineteen-year-old trying to develop my voice while figuring out early adulthood, to now, as an indie author with two books under my belt and a space already reserved on my wall to display my MA—there is a part of me that feels resentful towards some of my early professors and the education I received in my undergraduate creative writing courses. I realize how bratty that sounds. I am extremely fortunate to have even had the opportunity to pursue my life's dream. I also know that many things can be true at the same time, and it's possible (and okay) to hold more than one emotion at once. I can be grateful for the experiences I've had, grateful for where I am now, and excited about the future, while also being critical when I look back at some of the stops I've made along the way. I feel cheated by the professors who looked down their noses at genre fiction, whether with explicit or barely veiled disdain. Our lessons on the basics of craft—worldbuilding, character, story structure, plotting, archetypes, etc.—should have included different types of storytelling besides "literary" fiction—the preferred term for realism among academics, who erroneously consider it the only "serious" method of writing. I still cringe when I remember the professor who, when I asked why he didn't include genre fiction in our assigned readings, said that we needed to learn "literary" techniques before heading into "experimental" territory. As if the great genre writers—Stephen King, Octavia Butler, Terry Pratchett, Tamora Pierce, etc.—haven't used the very same techniques to create stories that have touched and inspired millions of people the world over, with more skill and artfulness than that professor could shake a stick at. There was another professor whom I looked up to and saw as a mentor, even long after I graduated. It wasn't until a few years ago that I began to look back on our relationship more critically. While I know she was not malicious, and I still carry many of the positives from her instruction with me, I believe her bias against genre fiction held me back creatively. She once told me in class that fairy tales were "nice," but didn't provide a good foundation for building "realistic" stories because they were "too simple." The working-class people of centuries past who kept their cultural and literary traditions alive via oral wonder tales, contemporary authors making their living off creative reimaginings of fairy tales, and professional folklorists (such as the fabulous women of Carterhaugh School) would like a word. To these academics, fantasy and sci-fi were frivolous escapism, horror was gratuitous, mysteries and thrillers were too cookie-cutter, and romance... well, let's just say that the Black Death would have received a warmer reception. And teaching your students that there is only one acceptable genre for serious writers is a deeply unfair disservice to them, both creatively and professionally. I resent being made to feel, as a young writer with big dreams, like I had to tone down or nix the horrific and the fantastic elements that I love so much if I were to have any hope of making it. I don't want new writers to become derailed in their creative pursuits. I was, and it set me back years from developing my real voice. This is what I would tell current creative writing students that I wish someone had told me.
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