Here is one way Merriam-Webster online dictionary defines the word masterpiece:

1. a work done with extraordinary skill; especially: a supreme intellectual or artistic achievement

And here is a list of American playwrights who I think one would be hard-pressed to dispute have written at least one masterpiece, as it has so far been defined. (I am leaving off writers of more recently acclaimed and widely seen plays— such as John Patrick Shanley, David Auburn, and Tracy Letts—because I believe it is still too early to tell if, say, Doubt, Proof and August: Osage County will remain cultural touchstones in the decades to come.)

• Eugene O’Neill (1888 –1953)
• Thornton Wilder (1897–1975)
• Lillian Hellman (1905–1984)
• Tennessee Williams (1911–1983)
• Arthur Miller (1915 –2005)
• Edward Albee (b.1928)
• Lorraine Hansbury (1930 –1965)
• David Mamet (b. 1947)
• Sam Shepard (b. 1943)
• August Wilson (1954–2005)
• Tony Kushner (b. 1956)

Now here is the second way Merriam-Webster defines masterpiece:

 

1. a piece of work presented to a medieval guild as evidence of qualification for the rank of master

This definition is antiquated, to be sure; but if we take out “to a medieval guild” we are left with what an artist puts forth to gain acceptance from his peers, right? So if we’re talking about playwrights, a masterpiece would be the plays one writes to attain the status Master of Playwriting. How do you know if you’ve achieved that status? Probably through—ahem—a Master of Fine Arts degree; or—coming back to what’s medieval—the Holy Grail for playwrights of my generation.

Now here is a list of the playwrights from above who have written a masterpiece, as defined this second way (accounting for my update, of course); or, to put it more simply, here are all the folks from above who got MFAs in playwriting:

…

See the irony? None of these playwrights are Masters of our craft, and yet they are the ones—or at least some of the notable ones—who have given us masterpieces. (Tony Kushner did go to graduate school for directing at New York University.)

So the question then becomes: why is it that some of us playwrights in our twenties, who, if you’re anything like me, aspire to someday write a play that comes even just a little bit close to being regarded as worthy of comparison to Our Town, Death of a Salesman, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof—why is it that we who wish to write this next wave of American theatrical masterpieces, are so desperate to get into grad school that we’ll cough up hundreds of dollars in application fees, probably spend even more to run off hard copies of our scripts at Staples, pay a little bit more still to get official college transcripts, and—in some cases—actually take the GREs if the folks whose work we most seek to emulate never did any of those things?

Well, let me speak for myself.

I applied to graduate school last year because I listened to the advice of my elders in our profession. I was raised to believe in the intrinsic value of continuous education; I am passionate about the theater and about playwriting specifically; and, finally, I am desperate for a concentrated amount of time, like say two or three years, to mess around, screw up, be challenged, and get better because, despite everything I know and/or have been told or read about the realities of working in this field in 2011, I still want playwriting to be my career and believe that it can.

Did I get accepted into graduate school this year? Er…no.

Did I even get called for an interview? Nope.

Do I regret having gone through the process? Well…

And here is where it gets tricky, at least for me. Take a look at an excerpt of what the Dean of one program I applied to wrote in “my” rejection letter (“my” is in quotes because it’s almost certainly a form letter):

I regret that we are not able to offer you admission to the Playwriting department. Enrollment is highly competitive and limited to only a few students per year. As a result, it is not possible to accept many candidates like yourself whose education and background in theater might have qualified them for admission under different circumstances.

Thank you for your interest in [Program X], and best wishes in your career.

That last line’s a killer, isn’t it? “Best wishes in your career” sounds like a send-off if ever I heard one. And I’m not sure I like the first part either. To say my background and education might have qualified me for admission under different circumstances…what circumstances are those? And putting aside where I come from and what school I went to, what about my application materials? Aren’t they, ultimately, more important?

I toiled for weeks over my personal statements: 500 words apiece and no guidelines on what to write about. So what did I do? Well, I figured the best use of each statement was to say why I had chosen to apply to a school and why that school should choose me in return. The “Why This School” stuff was easy. I had weighed the decision carefully, after all; I even went and visited one of the two programs in person. What went into my choice of schools? Well, location, for one thing; cost, for another. Most important to me, though, was who was on the faculty and what were my production opportunities, because the truth is, if I thought about what was actually missing in my life, it was mentors and rehearsal time.

As for the “Why Me” stuff, that was much harder. Here’s the gist of what I wrote:

I have been influenced by Famous Novelist X, Important Playwright Y, Brilliant Comedian Z, etc. I love Famous Novelist X because of A, I adore Important Playwright Y because of B, and I revere Brilliant Comedian Z because of C, and so on and so forth.

Ugh! I wrote about other people! I just figured the best way to illustrate who I was would be to talk about the writers who inspire me, but I got lost in the shuffle. Mistake Number One. Mistake Number Two came in the selection of writing samples. I chose a different play for each program because I heard from friends on the inside that one admissions committee responded to this type of thing and another to that type of thing. Big no-no, I suspect. I was most proud of one piece, and I knew it. I should have sent it to both programs.

I’m dwelling on my hypothetical errors for a couple of reasons. First of all, it’s cathartic.  And I want to show you that— despite my reservations about the whole idea of grad school—I really still want to go.

But that of course opens up a whole new can of worms, because now I’m left with the question of why: Why do I want to go so badly? Is it because of all that stuff I said earlier, all that highfalutin stuff about my passion for the art and my belief in continuing education? Or is it because of other feelings, feelings I’m not entirely comfortable having, but feelings that—nonetheless—do exist. Yes, I want to feel validated as an artist; yes, I do care about the prestige that comes from having attended School X or Program Y; and yes, I believe I’m better at this than most people my age, so if those people are getting in to grad school, why not me?

But of course that’s nuts. These baser things I so desire—the validation, the prestige, the recognition from my peers—they’re mostly unattainable I’d guess. I imagine this is because that feeling we all want—the feeling that it’s “real”—never actually comes, no matter how experienced we are or how many productions we have. (I mean, even Kushner still goes to analysis, right?)

On the other hand, I think great theater comes from collaboration, and if it’s the case that the artistic communities have migrated to the Academy, I should probably spend some time there too. I also think even the most gifted writers need to be nurtured, and if the role of nurturer has passed on from a core group of powerful literary agents and producers to an older generation of established playwrights who have taken up posts on college campuses and are mentoring my peers, well, I want to get some mentorship too. And finally, I think creativity springs from a relaxed mind and a healthy body, and if there are opportunities to escape the all-consuming pressures of poverty, get some health insurance and see a doctor or two, and have two to three years to just write, well I ‘d be nuts not to go after that offer. That makes grad school sound like a pretty sweet deal to me.

So where does that leave me? I’m going to apply again this year, but I’m also not going to let my sense of identity as a member of the “guild” of playwrights, so to speak, hinge upon attaining an MFA degree. Regardless of our educational backgrounds, there is something I know I do share with the writers listed above—and hopefully the writers writing today—and that is, quite simply, my commitment to playwriting. Whether on a laptop or a legal pad, at my desk, at the bar, at the diner, in the park—nothing in my life compares to actually writing plays.

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Monica

Every year I ask myself what an MFA program could provide me that I'm not already providing for myself. The only things I can come up with are "school name recognition" and "new connections." Neither of which seem remotely worth the expense or the commitment.

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Christian

Great article. I just completed an MFA program for acting at one of the "top" schools. I loved my time at school. A few things I've learned upon completion that pertains to your article. 1. Though I am stronger in craft, I am not sure I feel any more "validated as an artist" than I did before. A master's degree won't give it to you. 2. Prestige is nice but... see #1. You won't get jobs because of a pedigree. You'll get jobs because your script is balls to the wall with awesome potential. 3. My school was one of the "free" ones and I'm still going to be in debt for it. (Living expenses) Its not impossible to take 2 or 3 or 30 years to "just write." Begin by lowering your cost of living, lowering your hours at the day job and upping your hours at the work desk. (you can probably bum a syllabus from a school, too) 4. There is a slight chance that the exclusivity of the program is what is most alluring. You really don't know that the Holy Grail is inside those classrooms. If you believe you are better than most people your age and you are working every day on your craft then you have no place to go but to get better. Remember that PT Anderson turned in a David Mamet spec to an NYU professor and got a C on it. He left school to make films. (To say nothing of David Mamet's popular rants AGAINST master's degrees for writers) Apply again if you must. But consider that maybe you dodged a bullet this year. Keep up the good work.

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Chris

The graduation robe of an MFA might better inform to the purpose of the degree. There are two chutes of material, one by each wrist, that are theoretically for scrolls. The Master would carry them as teaching implements. The MFA, while an artistic degree, is still a terminal degree. That means it's a teaching degree from the perspective of academia. If you want to someday acquire a professorial position at a college or university, then by all means, get an MFA. If teaching your craft isn't that important to you, or not part of your long-term plan, then don't do it. Unless you merely hunger for more study. Then, do what you will.

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Todd Ristau

It surprises me a little that the only two things a graduate of an MFA program might list as benefits are school name recognition and new connections. If learning and experience weren't on the list, I'd say you went to the wrong grad school, no matter what its name recognition can command in the "market place". And though it might not have been a modern MFA program, I do believe that Tennessee Williams got training in playwriting at the University of Iowa. Tennessee may not have liked what EC Mabie told him about his work, but he did go to one of the first playwriting programs in the United States. Certainly, if you are able to provide enough self-instruction, create a supportive community of writer as invested in your work as they are your own, as well as gain experiential learning opportunities through self-producing your own readings and productions then you shouldn't waste your money on grad school. It is possible, however, that there are some good programs out there that would be a good fit for you--and you for them. Creating a relationship with your graduate program is a lot like building a relationship with the theatre producing your work or even a marriage. It can be great, or it can be awful. It can help you or break you financially. Both partners in the relationship, whether that is theatre and playwright, husband and wife, university and student have to benefit. I agree it isn't enough that the university benefits financially and the student benefits by association. That's just abusive. Find a program where the students and the program are both equally committed to each other's success. They actually do exist, and in some surprising places. As was pointed out, even a program offering a free ride can still put you deeply in debt. I think it is absolutely necessary to give careful thought about what you want, what you hope for, and what you're willing to sacrifice before you send in the application. And by all means, have a frank discussion with the program director as to whether or not they can actually help you attain your goals. Full disclosure, I run a grad playwriting program, but although the university is interested in revenue stream, I'm actually interested in playwrights. If I'm ever more interested in the wallets of those playwrights than I am in helping them find the tools to better give voice to their ideas and inspiration, I am pretty sure they'll be able to tell and will stop seeking my instruction. Don't go to a grad program because you want three years to rest, relax and write. Apply to New Dramatists instead. Go on a retreat. Travel. Don't go to a grad program if you want to be a teacher. We have a lot of those. Do go to a grad program for specific artistic aspirations that matter to you personally, and let your professional ambition be guided by the results of pursuing those aspirations not what you think success in the field looks like or how to pay off your loans. Remember, your reputation matters a whole lot more than that of the school you go to. And, don't tell the university this, but what you learn in your program matters more than getting the degree. When you've learned enough, stop going. The degree only matters if you want to teach at the college level...and I already said that going to a playwriting program because you want to teach isn't as good a goal as going because you want to be a better playwright. What you learn there and the community of writers you build there is what is so important...far more important than the sheepskin or the networking opportunities. Heck, it is the networking I have now with the other students I went to school with that are the most important to me now, not sitting at the feet of this or that famous writer brought in on NEA money. (Though that was pretty good too.) Well, those are my pre-coffee thoughts on this subject. Except for this last one...why are you applying to grad schools who get so many applications that you have to prove you don't need to learn what they have to teach in order to get into them? That's what drives me the most nuts. I'm not saying you should apply to my program, but if you're a scrappy emerging playwright, maybe a scrappy emerging program would be a better fit than some of those Well Established Name Brand places you've been trying to get into. PS: I'm 48 and still paying off my student loans...but I've never regretted or resented a penny of that investment.

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Andrew Hinderaker

Hi Matthew, If I'm not mistaken, most MFA programs in Playwriting popped up after 1950. So it may be unfair to talk about how the likes of O'Neill, Hellman, and Wilder never got an MFA, when those programs weren't a part of their theatrical culture. And let's not forget that Albee runs an MFA in Playwriting Program, that Williams was trained at the University of Iowa (as one commenter noted), that Kushner received an MFA in Directing (as you note), and that Mamet -- who's always quick to blast MFA programs -- is equally quick to take their money as a visiting artist or lecturer. Moreover, when I think about the playwrights who excite me most today, many of them (Tarell Alvin McCraney, Julia Cho, Sam Hunter, Kirk Lynn, Young Jean Lee) have received an MFA in Playwriting. And many have not. So I think there's plenty of evidence to support the legitimacy of MFA training programs, and plenty to suggest that a playwright need not own an MFA to be legitimate. I'm currently entering my second year of an MFA Program in Playwriting at the University of Texas at Austin, and can wholeheartedly recommend the program. I feel extremely fortunate to study under faculty with vast experience and a generous spirit, to learn from extraordinary visiting artists, and to take classes with students who are extremely supportive and passionate about the field. Moreover, because of generous financial support from the Michener Center for Writers and the Department of Theatre & Dance, I'm getting paid to go to school and will likely leave the program debt-free. But I must emphasize that my playwriting education did not begin at UT. I started the program when I was 31, after a near-decade's worth of practical experience in Chicago, seeing as many plays as I could, burning a whole through my public library card, and forging relationships and creating opportunities in the professional community. If what you're after is collaboration, mentorship, and the chance to get in the rehearsal room, then don't wait for an MFA program to provide them. Those opportunities are out there. Finally, I just want to let you know that I applied to a slew of grad programs (including UT) right after college. I got rejected by every one of them, and it was the best thing that could have happened to me. Don't get discouraged, and certainly don't wait for someone's permission to be a playwright.

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Monica

Hi Todd--I think you were responding to me in that first paragraph. We agree in what grad schools can offer. Maybe I'm just lucky, but I already have incredible mentors within a great theater community, am getting produced on a regular basis, write four hours a day, five days a week, and read/study all the time. I already make connections via email, Twitter, conferences, and so on. So what an MFA program would have to offer me, I already have. That still could change, but for now, there's just no compelling argument to apply.

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Taylor

I think there will always be a compelling argument to apply to an MFA program. Maybe not for an individual who is part of an already supportive community and able to get their work produced or read by colleagues. For some, who are drawn to the art of playwriting, but haven't the resources or guidance to delve into the art form, an MFA program would definitely get them on the right path academically speaking. As an MFA Playwright and as a playwright who's been produced, I refuse to put up a wall that I have nothing left to learn or that I can't be pointed in a better direction, or simply a different direction to explore. With that mindset, I've been lucky to attend universities that have used my tuition dollars to bring in speakers and professionals that I would have never met otherwise, or been able to ask questions. I've been exposed to so many different methods of writing that I wouldn't have been able to self-educate myself into understanding. If you have the supreme ability to network, self-educate, meet professionals, and understand all the facets of playwriting without several different approaches other than your own, then by all means, you shouldn't attend an MFA program or feel angst about it. But, you can't argue that it hasn't helped out a single playwright, or think that 'they would've made it happen anyway'. I just don't think that's true (not that the article is arguing this).

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Taylor Mac

I'd love it if the apprentice model came back to our culture in a serious way. How wonderful would it be to approach a playwright (theater practitioner) whose work you admire and offer to pay them (or do assistant work for them) to give you hands-on mentoring/classes for a year. When the year is up, mix it up and pay (assist) another playwright for another year (and repeat until your heart-brain is bursting with craft and community). You could get the mentoring you want, support your fellow playwrights and do it all without one single application fee.

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Aaron Landsman

YES!

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Shawn Ferreyra

I'd love to apprentice with Taylor Mac!

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Sarah Duncan

Well said! That's a badass idea, good sir.

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Eric Avery

I'm currently enrolled in an MFA program and before I applied I was part of a supportive community of folks who I produced work with, shared resources, and grew together. What has change since entering into an MFA program... everything/nothing. I still have those fabulous relationships and they continue to grow and change. I also have added new circles of collaborators that I don't think I would have ever found had I not gone to grad school(part of that is because I'm part of an interdisciplinary theatre program). My choice to get an MFA was for me and me alone. Has it changed my life and made me a totally new artist? No. I went into school with a strong sense of who I am as a person and artist, why I make theatre, and what I want out of the program. Has it challenged me and helped me grow in ways that I could not have predicted? Yes. I suppose I find it far more valuable to think about the kind of artist I am today and concern myself less with what sort of reputation I'll have 20, 66, or 187.5 years from now. Mostly because I'll be dead and I'm sure I won't care about anything at that point... Ultimately, do audiences really care about your credentials if they are moved by your work?

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