REVIEW OF UNIVERSITY OF BALTIMORE MFA PROGRAM
- KayTell
- May 21
- 11 min read
Before The Masters
In 2018, I was a soon-to-flee senior at THEE Baltimore Polytechnic Institute, and during our annual college fair, I asked every table the same question: “Do you have a program for Creative Writing? If so, how is it?”
At that point in my academic journey, I’d come to several realizations about myself. Since the age of eight, I’ve known I wanted to bake, teach, and write—I’ve never been a career hopper. I also learned that I thrive in small groups, need a major that’s focused and specific, and that I wasn’t ready to leave home. I don’t do well in large classes; too many people impact my focus, and I value having professors who actually know my name. The idea of sitting in a seminar with 30+ students and being just another face was never going to work for me.
My cousin started at UMD the year after I graduated high school. Even on a full ride, they ended up in a class with over 100 students. I personally would’ve had a breakdown in that situation.
I knew I wanted to study Creative Writing—not professional writing, not English with a vague emphasis, but a program that allowed me to grow as a writer while still studying literature more broadly. Most schools didn’t have that. Either they had no creative writing focus at all, or the degree was too narrowly titled, limiting flexibility when job hunting. I wanted the space to write creatively while also ensuring I could teach English, not just creative writing.
Finally, I wanted to stay home. I had no desire to prove I could “make it on my own” when I knew I could focus better with the support of my family. I wasn’t into the college party life, I already had a close relationship with my parents, and I didn’t want to pay rent just to sit alone in a dorm. I knew myself well enough to know: I didn’t need to go away to grow up.
The only three colleges that matched most of my criteria were Johns Hopkins, Goucher, and University of Baltimore.
Hopkins was a no-go. I was a good student, but I lacked the confidence to apply. Even though Baltimore City students who get accepted attend free, I didn’t even submit the application. The campus felt too big and overwhelming. Looking back, I probably would’ve gotten in—but I have no regrets.
Goucher piqued my interest because of its artsy vibe. I saw a play there in elementary school and remembered thinking, “This is cool.” But it was still too large for me, and once I saw that private schools require a separate financial aid form beyond FAFSA, I noped out. I was already overwhelmed.
Then there was the University of Baltimore. Small, nontraditional, and right at home. I learned that most of their students were grad students or adult learners returning to school. When I started, I was one of only about 20–50 freshmen aged 18–21. My classes were never more than 15 students, except for the general communications class, which was still under 25. My professors knew my name, my life, and my work.
One professor learned about my baking business and recommended me for campus contracts, which helped fund both school and life. The degree structure gave me a BA in English with a writing focus—so I could pursue teaching jobs broadly while still developing my creative work. That balance helped me land my job as a high school English teacher, supporting my goal of one day becoming a professor. And most importantly, University of Baltimore felt like home: affordable, welcoming, and right where I needed to be.
My MFA Experience
I loved undergrad so much that when it was time for grad school, I only applied to two programs: Temple and UB. I briefly wanted to move to Philly to be near my sister, but Temple rejected me—and UB welcomed me back. In hindsight, I’m so glad they did. Grad school, full-time work, coaching, inflation, rent... I would’ve been overwhelmed. Staying gave me continuity, community, and professors who already knew my voice and my goals.
Structure and Classes
The MFA in Creative Writing & Publishing Arts is a 48-credit program that blends writing, publishing, and design. While I don’t remember every single course in detail, several stood out and shaped my experience in lasting ways.
CWPA 620: Creativity – Ways of Seeing
This course introduced us to creativity as a process, not just a product. It created a low-stakes space to experiment with form and perspective, helping us reconnect with our own instincts and artistic voice. It was a refreshing way to start the program and encouraged playfulness that often gets lost in advanced writing settings.
Genre Workshops (Fiction, Poetry, Memoir, Literary Nonfiction)
I took two of these, and as someone who enjoys workshop-style learning, I appreciated the structure and feedback. Being surrounded by peers who were serious about writing elevated the experience from undergrad—but, admittedly, the quality of feedback varied. Some students gave rich, thoughtful comments, while others weren’t quite equipped to critique beyond surface-level notes. I believe this could be improved with a pre-workshop course on giving and receiving feedback (more on that later).
CWPA 720: Advanced Workshop
This was a mixed-genre course—fiction, poetry, memoir—all in one room. While the concept was exciting, it often created a disconnect. Feedback was sometimes strained, given more for the sake of completing the assignment than true engagement. As a result, some students received minimal or vague critique, which undermined the purpose of advanced peer review.
CWPA 651: Type & Design for Creative Writers
This was one of the most practical and useful classes in the program. We learned the basics of Adobe InDesign, which was crucial for the publishing component of our thesis. However, I wish the timing had been more strategic. Ideally, this course should be taken immediately before Thesis II (where we design our thesis books), so that the skills are fresh and directly applied. More focus on brainstorming real thesis ideas would have made this course even more impactful.
Publishing Arts Electives: Book Arts, Print Publishing, Creating the Journal, Electronic Publishing
I took two classes centered on literary magazine production, and they were some of the most empowering experiences I had. They directly inspired me to start my own literary magazine, KayTell Ink, which has grown into a vibrant platform for new writers. These courses gave me a foundation in editorial workflow, production timelines, and community-building that I continue to use today.
The “Wild West” of Publishing
This course was introduced after students (myself included) asked for more instruction on the real-world aspects of being a writer. It had the right intentions but didn’t quite hit the mark. Much of the class was spent listening to guest speakers who, while well-meaning, often shared discouraging perspectives about the difficulty of publishing. What we hoped for was practical guidance on things like submitting to journals, building an author platform, understanding contracts, or navigating copyright and licensing—none of which were covered in enough depth. Still, I’m grateful the program listened to student voices and created the course at all. It’s a strong foundation that I hope continues to evolve in future cohorts.
Thesis I
After completing the required courses, you begin the three-part thesis process. Thesis I functions like a workshop but is framed around the development of your final manuscript. While it’s clearly “worked” for past students, in hindsight, I think it starts too late in the program.
This is where we first learned that our manuscripts had to be 75 pages. For those of us writing fiction or memoir, that felt like a shock. Professors explained that longer manuscripts would be harder to polish, which made sense—but it also meant that the full-length novels many of us imagined were no longer possible. Suddenly, we were scrambling to market what essentially felt like an oversized packet at the same price point as a finished book. That shift was jarring.
Many of us wished we had been required to enter Thesis I with a solid draft already underway. That way, the focus could’ve been on refining and deepening the work rather than scrambling to pull something cohesive together after months of “just sharing what’s on our minds.”
I’ll be honest—had I been more involved in extracurricular events or connected more deeply with upperclassmen, I might’ve seen the structure coming. But UB is a nontraditional school, and most of us are juggling full-time jobs, side hustles, families, or other real-life responsibilities. That’s why we chose this program. I don’t hold that against the school, but I do think that the final product and expectations should be emphasized much earlier—ideally from the start of Year One.
Otherwise, what ends up happening is this: you hit Thesis II and everything suddenly feels like it’s on fire. You’re playing catch-up with expectations you didn’t realize were coming, and it’s hard not to panic.
All that said—Thesis I was still an amazing class.
Thesis II (Writing)
Thesis II felt more like a workshop on our final manuscript—but without a professor consistently present. Would I have liked more faculty involvement? Absolutely. But I also understand that the professors have their own creative work, families, and administrative roles keeping the program running. That’s valid. Still, I think we could have used a dedicated professional—maybe a TA or writing mentor—available to us throughout this phase for ongoing support. Our professor was great, but our stories went through entire reconstruction after workshops and I wish to get another in depth meeting again, but the reality of the timing would not permit this.
Honestly, my only real issue is that Thesis I should’ve been more like Thesis II. We should’ve come into it with a clear project plan, gotten feedback on it as a whole, and then used Thesis II for line edits and polish. Instead, many of us had major revelations once we read our work as a full collection in this class. Big changes happened late in the game—during a period that was supposed to be for final edits only. But when you realize your whole structure needs work in Week 8 of a 10-week process, it’s hard not to panic.
And yes, being overwhelmed is part of being a grad student, but if we can ease that pressure by preparing earlier—why wouldn’t we?
Sure, creative ideas evolve. Most of us won’t use our original drafts long-term. But instead of figuring out in Week 7 that an idea doesn’t work, we could’ve figured it out in Week 3 and had time to pivot more confidently.
The bottom line: if more courses were structured to keep the final product in mind from the beginning, students would feel less like they’re floating and then crashing. I’m not saying overhaul the program—just shift the perspective and communication about what we’re here to create. The thesis should be shoved in our first on day one. Transparency.
Thesis III (Design)
Thesis III is the design portion of the final project—the part where we put together our physical books inch by inch. In theory, it should have been one of the most exciting parts of the program. In reality, many of us felt rushed, overwhelmed, and unprepared for how much of this class repeated content from the earlier Type & Design for Creative Writers course.
We met in a computer lab, but the computers were rarely used. Most days, we sat through a lecture for over an hour, then were sent home to execute what we’d learned—alone. That approach didn’t work for me, and I know I wasn’t the only one. I learn best by doing, especially with visual and technical tools like InDesign. Trying to troubleshoot the software alone at home led to more than one breakdown.
I kept thinking how much better this would’ve been if we’d used class time to build our books together, with our peers and professors there for real-time help. We should’ve been using InDesign during class, workshopping covers, testing fonts, and troubleshooting layout issues as a group. Instead, we had to do all of that outside of class, which added unnecessary pressure.
To be fair, the professors were eager to support us outside of class. They offered Zoom meetings and one-on-one help whenever we asked, which I appreciated deeply. Their dedication was never the issue—the structure of the class was. If the earlier design course had focused more on developing real thesis ideas, and this course had focused more on execution in a collaborative setting, the experience could have felt more empowering and less chaotic.
What Was Missing [TO ME]
This is a Creative Writing and Publishing program, and yet, we barely touched the business side of writing. As someone who minored in business during undergrad—I know the importance of treating writing as a professional pursuit. The Wild West of Publishing tried to brush on business ethics, but it didn’t teach actual processes.
We needed instruction on:
Taxes and accounting for authors
Copyright law and licensing
Budgeting for print production
Real-world profit margins
How to calculate expenses and price your work
Marketing beyond “make a logo and website”
UB has a top-tier business and law school, yet those resources aren’t integrated into CWPA at all. That’s a missed opportunity. Even one cross-disciplinary class—taught in three units by business, law, and design faculty—could fill the gap.
A Final Suggestion: A Feedback Course
This is my biggest hill to die on: we need a course on how to give and receive feedback. It should be required before taking Advanced Workshop. Some people in the program gave feedback like, “This character was convincing. Nice story. Maybe add the dad in more.” That’s not critique—it’s a book club comment. Some people were clearly typing based on the class discussion, not the work itself. I get it—we’re all busy. I’ve done the same. But we need to know how to look at writing as writers, not consumers.
A class focused on critique methods, workshop etiquette, and revision strategies would raise the quality of feedback across the board—and it would make workshops more valuable for everyone.
Final Event: The MFA Reading
The MFA Reading is the culminating public event where we each read an excerpt from our thesis project and then sell our books. On paper, it’s meant to be this big, celebratory launch—the moment we finally share our work with the world.
In reality, the way it was hyped did more
harm than good when it came to the business side. We are required to purchase a minimum of 75 copies of our books for this event. Some students ordered up to 125, based on the narrative we were given—that we might sell 30 to 40 books on
the day of the reading alone.
That did not happen. Not even close.
Most people only sold books to the friends and family who came specifically to support them—and that part was beautiful. I was genuinely excited for my family to see me, to hear my words, and to witness what I had created.
But when it came time to sell, I felt… humiliated. And that’s the truth.
I didn’t perform worse than anyone else in my genre—prose simply didn’t move the way poetry did. The event’s audience just wasn’t drawn to it in the same way. This isn’t a complaint about the quality of the reading or the space—it’s a critique of the
narrative we were sold. The program made it seem like this would be a major sales opportunity, when in reality, it wasn’t. And the financial investment we made—hundreds of dollars (Up to $1500) upfront for inventory—was based on that belief.
If I had known the reality, I would have gladly purchased just 30 books, sold out, and walked away feeling successful. Instead, I stood behind a table trying to smile while mentally calculating how many boxes I’d be lugging home. Business is a gamble—I accept that. But this wasn’t just a personal risk; it was a misalignment in how the event was framed to us. I fully planned on working hard to sell my books after the reading—that was never in question. But what I didn’t expect was to leave that day feeling like I was starting from step one.
I thought the event would give me a real launch, some momentum, or at least a dent in my inventory. Instead, I left with nearly everything I came with. That was hard.
Honestly, being allowed to buy less and simply sell out would be better for the students. We understand that they can not control who comes and who buys books, but they can help setting us up to feel accomplished.
I’m proud of my book, and I know I’ll find ways to get it into people’s hands. But we deserved more transparency. We deserved the option to start smaller, sell out, and feel great. Instead, many of us were left quietly disappointed—trying to celebrate a milestone while mentally bracing ourselves for the uphill climb ahead.
Final Thoughts
I loved this program. I truly wouldn’t trade the experience. Sure, there were things I wish had been different—but I still made it, and it still worked. Can things be better? Always. But this program listens. The Wild West class was created because we asked. Even if not every suggestion becomes a course, I hope the conversation around the thesis experience evolves to help future students feel supported and secure—not like they’re discovering vital information under pressure.
Would I recommend this program? Without hesitation. Just be sure to have your mind o the thesis even before your classes start to worry about it. The peers are passionate and kind, the professors are honest and invested in your success, and the community is real. You’re not fighting for space or recognition—you’re being welcomed into something thoughtful, flexible, and deeply personal.
University of Baltimore MFA Program: 8.5/10. Would I do it again? No—I’m exhausted. But should you? Absolutely.
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