Lately, as I’ve been contemplating the future, I’ve been thinking about my past. One item that sticks out to me is my MFA.

Yes, I have an MFA. Sometimes, I call it Miffa. Sometimes, I call it Mmmfah. During the stoner years, I called it the Master of Farts. I don’t think of myself as a Master or a Fine Art. I have been tempted to change the F to a more profitable B. Mmmbah? Nah.

I’ve been asked several times through the years if an MFA was worth it? The asker was usually contemplating if he or she should get an MFA. I didn’t like to answer that question because it had the word should in it.

Here’s what I think about the MFA:

It’s an accomplishment, not a guarantee. I busted my ass to get it. I feel a definite fellowship with my fellow writing classmates. We all survived twenty wild months.

Does one have to have an MFA to be a good playwright? Of course not. If you’re a good writer, you’re a good writer. If you’re a bad writer, an MFA won’t help you.

I didn’t get my MFA to make you feel bad for not having an MFA. 

I have an MFA. I keep it rolled up in the cardboard tube in an old metal trunk.