Paul Engle NOT teaching, at the Iowa Writer's Workshop, late-1950s.
Saturday I’m going to retire the “Can Fiction Writing Be Taught” poll. Right now, it’s running 100% yes, 0% no. To which I say… what else would you expect?
[Note: Final results of the poll were: 95% yes, writing can be taught. 5% no.]
Yet folks who should know better continue to run away from the obvious. Here’s my own former writing program, the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, splitting hairs on their website:
“If one can ‘learn’ to play the violin or to paint, one can ‘learn’ to write, though no processes of externally induced training can ensure that one will do it well.”
Can somebody at Iowa tell me what “processes of externally induced training” means exactly? And why the need for such a bone-rattling euphemism anyway?
What’s so wrong with teaching a little writing? Juilliard certainly doesn’t try to duck the notion that they teach talented violinists to become better violinists–in fact, we never hear the questions “can violin, or painting, or dance be taught?” Yet the absurd assumption that writing can’t persists. Why?
My wife Carol, who works with nonfiction writers, thinks it’s because we approach artistic writing challenges preloaded with the necessary basic medium, language. Anyone can feel pre-qualified to create art from language–to write a novel, say–simply because they already read and write.
The unforeseen problem is that writing fiction is not like writing anything else. Under its surface, multiple covert agendas make excruciating technical demands on the fiction writer. Some novelists have likened fiction writing to playing 3-dimensional chess. Given this, good teaching can be the crucial difference between a mediocre novelist and a very good novelist.
Yet Iowa persists in the fantasy that such a complex body of craft and technique can’t be taught – particularly that talented, advanced, young writers can’t be taught to become even better.
I wonder where the idea started. One of the programs I taught in was big on a modified version: “writing can’t be taught, but it can be learned.” Whenever I heard that, I would think to myself, “then what the hell are we for?”
Iowa is clearly horrified that that anyone might presume they offer young writers more than just a place to stay. And should they rise to prominence in the future, it’s “more the result of what [the writers themselves] brought here than of what they gained from us.”
Here’s another stunner, quoted by Louis Menand in a recent New Yorker piece: “…we continue to look for the most promising talent in the country in our conviction that writing cannot be taught [ital. mine] but that writers can be encouraged.”
So the Iowa Writers’ Workshop doesn’t teach anything; rather it’s a kind of rolling talent search, cum junior MacDowell Colony, with a bit of 800 support line thrown in. Am I getting this right? What I’m hearing, in effect, is, “please don’t expect to encounter teaching here, we bear no responsibility for that…but hey, here’s some encouragement–you’re lookin’ good, doing great, keep it up, keep it up.”
Over the years, I’ve come to understand a few things, but I’ve yet to fathom what’s powering the can’t-be-taught myth. Maybe it’s some kind of literary-academic Calvinism: you are born either elect or damned, and nothing you can do (or be taught) will ever change that. Or maybe it’s just club snobbery of the “we’re writers and you’re not” variety. What do you think? I’m at a loss.
{ 18 comments… read them below or add one }
I’ve always blamed lingering Romanticism.
In the case of Iowa, it might just reflect reality. The top tier writing programs these days are more a means of accreditation for published writers than teaching programs, or so I’ve been led to believe from the Internets.
I feel like I know exactly what the Iowa Writers’ Workshop is pointing at, which is that we are all mincing words when we confuse the idea of creativity and expression with the idea of “improving our artistic toolkit.” Which of those two perspectives are we referring to when we say “to teach writing” or “to teach violin?”
I can only speak as a composer (which, as far as storytelling goes, is very similar to being an author but with dots and slurs instead of alphanumeric characters), but I feel like this is quite a universal question. As far as music goes, one must be quick to make the distinction between the two perspectives I mentioned before. “To learn the violin” perhaps could mean working on technique and interpretation: fingering, bowing, posture, dynamics, etc. But when I go to a recital or buy a CD, I’m not paying to hear someone “play the violin” per se, I am paying to hear them use the violin as a tool to create something beautiful.
In a few of my musician circles, I often talk to 30somethings who feel as if the conservatory experience was actually a detriment to their artistic journey. Sure there needs to be a structured forum for learning about theory, form, and structure (akin to grammar, syntax, story arcs), but many players I know describe the feeling of being “broken down” by their teachers more than being “built up.” The environment can be restrictive, dogmatic, artificial, and ultimately, un-creative. Especially in the jazz world, I hear many young students who are very well educated, but every solo sounds like a thesis on Charlie Parker instead of hinting at what this individual REALLY “has to say.” So, in that sense, no, an education is no guarantee of artistic improvement.
So, I’m torn. I love people who understand their toolkit and mechanics by which their art form works, but I also want every art and music department across the country to come clean and admit that they aren’t teaching anything, but rather providing an environment for observation and learning from experience (and that’s only if they are wise enough to refrain from mindless encouragement AND ruthless criticism). Not coincidentally, this is also how I feel about the organization attempts around the individual spiritual journey (don’t tell me what to believe or that you can teach it to me, just give me an opportunity to find out for myself).
This mixes metaphors (a sin) and perhaps states the obvious. I believe that writing can be taught, but creativity — the “spark” that ignites prose or poetry — cannot. However, creativity can be freed. For too many individuals, it has been imprisoned early in life by “No Child Left Behind” and its forerunners.
I’m one who most wholeheartedly believes that fiction writing cannot be taught. Grammar, spelling, sentence structure, and the like can, and should be taught – and I am doing my best to learn them before I go and edit my novel. But the creative process of going from ideas to a finished product cannot be taught, and it should not be attempted. Everyone must find their own way.
The nineteenth century is – I believe – one of the greatest times of literature the world has ever seen. In that time we had such authors as Jane Austen, Sir Walter Scott, Louisa May Alcott, Charles Dickens, Charlotte Brontë, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Mark Twain. Yet they did not have writing classes back then. In fact, I believe that that had they heard of such of such a thing they would have thought it extremely comical and frivolous. They learned from their own mistakes and successes, much as I have and continue to do.
In the last two years of my writing I have learned more about writing than I could have in any class because I have learned not only about style, form and well rounded characters but about my own likes and dislikes when it comes to the kind of characters and plots I write. In every failure I have found at least one thing I did like in that plot or character, despite the stuff I didn’t like; and I have found at least one thing I didn’t like in it, the elements that ruined the good in it. Those likes and dislikes accumulated in my brain, and when I wrote, I didn’t have to try to put the good things back in, or take the bad ones out – it just naturally happened. There isn’t a class in the world that can teach that.
We all have our own way of writing and one person’s way probably won’t work for another person. I’ve looked at and read creative writing books and found them to be extremely stifling. While reading them I worried so much about whether or not I was doing it the “right” way, that I could not concentrate on my writing. They usually say to create the characters first – and to write lengthy character sketches before one continues on. Then, they say, to imagine up the plot, and write it down in the form of an outline.
I have tried this way before, and it doesn’t work for me. My characters become one dimensional as a result of my trying to define their characters; and my excitement wanes from knowing what is going to happen. I must leap into my stories without thinking twice and find my way out as I go. I don’t know my characters well when I start, I have very little idea where my plot is going and I write all out of order. And yet – it works. I put a little bit of myself into each character, and they become so much more rounded then I could ever have done had I tried to. My plot takes twists and turns as my characters choose, forming and interesting, and intriguing story. This is my way of writing, it works for me, though few people would advise it. I have learned it on my own, without the help of any writing classes. This is the method that got me a finished novel when no other would. And that is why I believe that writing must be learned on ones own, and not taught.
I have decided to post this comment on my blog in the form of a post, and would be ready and willing to debate this further, if you so choose. If not, I would just like to thank you, for whenever I hear people say that writing can, and should be taught, it only determines me even more to finish my novel, get it published and prove them wrong.
~ Katherine Anne Dawn
Lee,
MFA as accreditation: that’s more and more true. But if John Grisham wanted to teach, I doubt if the subject of an MFA requirement (he doesn’t have one) would come up.
Eric,
Thanks for the thoughtful comment. It’s a different persepective, one that I mostly see as valid. Putting the arts into academia, a fairly recent development, has created an almost industrial approach to turning out artists. The MFA approach won’t have fully matured until, as a system, it knows how to address each artist’s idiosyncratic dream and help them find better ways to achieve it. But I do think that if talented artists are made to feel “broken down” by their teachers, that’s bad teaching.
There’s a fine line between benign neglect and providing a fruitful environment that nurtures artistic grown. I can’t imagine the latter without good teaching being part of it. What drives me nuts is the assumption that because you can’t teach someone to be a great writer, therefore writing can’t be taught. It doesn’t make sense. It confuses the ends: the point of teaching writers at any level is to give them the means to take their writing to the next level, whatever that might be. Why is it assumed that the purpose is to produce greatness, which by definition is impossible, and because greatness can’t be taught, then writing can’t be taught. See the logical error?
Al,
Interestingly, creativity CAN be taught. But let me immediately qualify that: it can be stimulated, and ways to speed that process can be taught. There are mental and emotional exercises that can inspire new and unusual thought patterns in almost anybody. It’s a radical idea: mimic creativity enough and you can be more creative. Obviously within limits, but then, where was it ever written that there aren’t individual limits inherent in learning any sport, art, craft, whatever. Creative achievement is not a zero sum game–it has degrees. You can improve. That’s what teaching is all about. And yet again and again we encounter the false standard, “you can’t teach greatness.”
Thanks, Katherine. I appreciate what you say here very much, and do not want to debate you. But I will leave a comment on your blog.
Good writing fundementals definitely can be taught and are applicable for two situations. Sadly I find these fundementals increasingly lacking among many of the younger generation, many of whom cannot even construct a simple report or letter, let alone prose. There is a dire need to successfully teach the very basic writing skills to everyone. Alternatively, teaching writing can go far to enhance and polish even those writers with a very high level of native talent.
However, I do not believe you can teach anyone to be a John Grisham. For example, Greg Iles is clearly a “Grisham wanna-be”. He’s good, but he’s no Grisham. Clive Cussler is obviously a “Dan Brown wanna-be”, but he’s no Dan Brown. Some people are born with a native talent for writing, and this native talent cannot be taught. The proof is in the book sales, albeit promotion has a lot to do with it (a good topic for a separate discussion).
This same pattern for native talent is apparent in sports, music, dancing, and other fine arts. Some are born with “the right stuff” and some aren’t.
I mostly agree, Dean. But again, what bugs me is that attitude that you can’t teach someone to be as brilliant and successful at writing as Grisham, Hemingway, or Tolstoy, therefore writing can’t be taught. It doesn’t follow. When do you ever hear “you can’t teach someone to be as awesome as Federer, therefore tennis can’t be taught?” What Iowa and others are guilty of is an error of logic based on a semantic misapprehension. It wouldn’t matter were it not so damaging to many who would like to learn to write fiction, but don’t bother to seek good teaching because, of course, “it can’t be taught.”
It’s funny, I think we agree on most of the same points about the need for “teaching” (Yes, you can even induce creativity, you can’t directly identify it, but you can get people close to it and put them in an environment to mimic it and then own it for themselves. Improv comedy classes are very efficient at this) but I don’t quite know where you are grabbing this bifurcation point between greatness and non-greatness from? Yes, it is a logical contradiction, but exactly who is setting it up? I thought we were talking about “teaching writing” instead of “teaching writing to the point that others are able to identify some sort of ‘greatness’ parameter as compared to what has come before”
Maybe the mistake has something to do with the observer effect, or some esoteric epistemological concept: if we go into teaching looking directly at the end game and focusing on getting there, we have already failed. If we take a more observational route, we will one day be able to look back on our own personal success to see just how we arrived there. Harking back to my Julliard stories, it strikes me that the academic setting is too focused on form and content and not enough on process. So, perhaps there it is: “writing” cannot be taught, but “the process of writing” can be.
Some of these comments also remind me about the recent research on “the myth of talent” most recently popularized by Malcolm Gladwell’s “Outliers” book (nope, haven’t read it, don’t really plan to).
Also, I am embarrassed to have made a grammatical error on a writer’s blog. The second half of first sentence should read “but I don’t quite know FROM where…non-greatness.”
The one thing that music conservatory taught me was that the arts can be taught. It taught me how to improve myself, how to be dogmatic about something most people view as some sort of wishy-washy thing that’s mostly to-do with luck and talent.
Many of my friends had a difficult experience. Just the need for correct notes ALL the time, and for pianists, MEMORIZING all those correct notes, is exhausting. And then there’s the comparing to each other, etc.
I loved every minute, though. Loved it. The only thing they failed to teach me, which was probably the most important, was that I was supposed to be finding my own voice. I wish they had told me! I really do!
It’s the hardest thing to teach. As is “having something to say.” I just came across an interesting remark by teacher/blogger Dennis Cass: “Maybe the reason why we don’t believe we can teach the whole ‘having something to say’ part is because we’ve never tried.” I agree. More teachers should figure out that part and try to teach it.
@ Eric It’s a commonly voiced argument. I hear it all the time from non-writers. “But you can’t TEACH it, can you?” If you take it up, they follow with, “How can you teach someone to be a Faulker or a Hemingway?” That’s the faulty logic. As for who’s setting it up, it’s mostly people who don’t understand the writing process. These folks romanticize it, read a lot but have no conception of what goes into creating the apparent simplicity and unmediated “greatness” of what they are reading. Since they don’t perceive it, they don’t understand what’s there that could be taught. I remember hearing Terri Gross ask Drew Cary how he learned to be funny. He said he spent some time in the library reading books on how do construct a joke, how to build a standup routine. She was amazed. Learned to be funny from books? She didn’t believe it. You wonder where the bifurcation point comes from–I would bet that’s because you don’t hear it in voiced in music or the other arts. Again, that’s one of my main points: why is it WRITING that can’t be taught?
By the way, David Gessner, a wonderful author and a dedicated teacher, encapsulated the whole thing nicely in a comment on my Facebook page: “If they (Iowa) think it can’t be taught maybe it’s time for them to stop teaching it.”
Just for fun, let’s look at the process in reverse. Maybe some of you can answer these questions. What “teaching methods” were used to “teach” Hemingway, Faulkner, Tolstoy, and Grisham? What “learning process” did each of these authors (or any) go through to achieve their level of expertise and writing success? Is there a common thread?
Conversely, does anyone know of any teaching methods (for writing) which have already produced successful writers?…great writers?…brilliant writers?
If we could answer these questions, therein lies evidence to support whether ‘writing can be taught.’
I’m assuming (maybe incorrectly) that we’re talking about teaching people to be “great writers”. Maybe that’s where the disconnect lies.
Hemingway had teachers. Sherwood Anderson and, most notably, Gertrude Stein, at whose feet he sat like a schoolboy. They were not part of an MFA program, but good teaching is good teaching. They did NOT teach him to be great.
“Great” writers with MFAs? Flannery O’Connor and Toni Morrison off the top of my head. Iowa claims 16 Pulizers and 3 Poet Laureates. There’s no question that these programs produce good writers, some of whom become “great.”
But once again, it’s greatness (or extreme excellence, call it what you will) that CAN’T be taught. Writing CAN.
I think there are fundamentals and elements of style that can be taught at every level. I also think that having an experienced instructor you can bounce ideas off of and can get recommendations in reading is invaluable.
Not everyone can be great. The Michael Jordan’s of the world, even though he worked, arguably harder than anyone, are set apart on the shelf of genius, but as for others who have a basic understanding and a will to learn–teaching is possible.
Writing can’t be taught, but they sure can teach you how to polish your writing.Teach you how to write professional manuscripts for publication, how to edit your work.This is what is holding many great writers back.They don’t know how to produce acceptable manuscripts and so therefore they get published.
Totally true, Werta. But since the skills you’ve described as teachable are so crucial to becoming a fully developed writer, haven’t you just made the case that writing CAN be taught?
Maybe you meant they can’t teach you to have a writer’s imagination or cultivate the place in your psyche where great ideas are hidden away. But I believe everybody has a store of great ideas (if hidden) and the challenge is access to it. If that’s true, then means of access can be taught–and my own work with students and clients is proof of that.
The only thing that can’t be taught, in my experience, is desire and dedication. It can be modeled, but not taught.