I once
had a disagreement with the (now former) head of my department. The crux of the
matter was this: He didn’t think that a graduate level course on adolescent
literature should count toward my degree. In his eyes, adolescent (ie: YA)
literature didn’t count as “real literature.”
The new head of my department has the
following policy in her workshops: first year MFA students aren’t allowed to
submit speculative fiction. Her argument is, “You have to learn the basics
before you can experiment." And by "learn the basics" she means "write literary fiction" (ie: existential realism).
Being a genre writer in my program was
like being an unnamed orphan in Annie: it’s a hard knock life.
Yesterday, I faced the last major obstacle of my MFA career: the
dreaded thesis defense. For the purposes of my program, a thesis consists of a
complete novel or a collection of short stories with no fewer than 100 pages. I
went with the latter, submitting a work comprised of 4 shorts (136 pages).
The purpose of a thesis defense is to make
an author explain his or her choices (and thus demonstrate a conceptual mastery of
the craft). If you’ve ever been in a workshop environment, it’s a little like
that--only with a savage twist: you have to talk back. Three professors sat
around a table and discussed every possible shortcoming of my stories,
punctuating each observation with, “Why did you do it this way?”
They honed
in on my weaknesses with the seasoned ruthlessness of carnivorous pack animals.
“Your
protagonists need more distinctive voices.”
“Your
balance between characterization and plot is lopsided.”
As a bonus,
none of the members of my thesis committee are readers/fans of speculative
fiction. I only write speculative fiction. As a result, I fielded questions
like:
“Most
genre stories seem to be precautionary tales. What is this story telling us to
avoid?”
“Your
story didn’t explain the world as fully as (insert full-length novel here).”
The latter
was a particular sticking point for me. It didn’t seem fair to compare the
depth of world building in a 26 page short to that in 400 page novels. Of
course, to some extent, that’s the point of the exercise. Because speculative
fiction was such an unfamiliar medium to my committee, I had to work that much
harder to explain my choices.
Q: Why
didn’t I explain more of the world?
A: There’s
a balance between the details that a story needs and the details that are cool
but unnecessary. How did Panem come to be? Suzanne Collins doesn't tell
us because it isn’t germane to the story.
Q: Is this
supposed be to art or entertainment?
A: Both, by
necessity. If it isn’t art, it won’t be worth reading. If it doesn't entertain,
it won’t be read.
These are
abbreviated examples, but you get the idea.
I was
interrogated for a full hour. Afterwards, I waited in an adjoining chamber
while the committee deliberated my fate. A few minutes later, the head of the
committee opened the door and congratulated me. My strategy had worked.
So, what was my strategy?
The thesis committee is made up of three professors. One acts as an
adviser, providing feedback during the thesis revision process. The other two
professors only come in at the end to help assess the final draft and its
defense. The most important thing is that the student picks which three
professors to invite.
Since none of the professors in my program write (or particularly enjoy)
speculative fiction, I sought out open-minded educators that looked past
antiquated labels and literary prejudices. The members of my committee didn’t
necessarily “get” genre fiction, but that didn’t matter. I’d picked people that
would focus on universal craft elements and my ability to soundly articulate
the reasoning behind my choices. As one member of my committee put it, “I don’t
care about what genre a story falls under. I only care about how good it is.”
Amen.
So, I guess my thesis defense strategy is twofold. First, be deliberate
in writing. If something is in your story, know why. If something isn’t, know
why that is, too. Second, choose your audience wisely.
