There's more to DIY than mere vanity

Does the independent press have an important place in literary life or is it little more than vanity publishing? Willy Maley takes a look In the preface to his Collected Poems, Allen Ginsberg acknowledged the importance of low-key publishing initiatives in raising awareness of the new writing that emerged in the 1950s under the banner of Beat. "A small-press culture revolution helped change hyper-industrialized public consciousness from provincial wartime nationalist-history-bound egoic myopia to panoramic awareness of planet news, eternal view of both formal charm and empty nature of local identity. 'Acknowledgements' alphabetize an extravagant list of publications that first printed these poems throughout three decades of explosive humour during which legal censorship broke down".

Ginsberg's point is that the underground presses to whom he paid tribute not only helped writers get read, but that by being small they captured the big picture. They were less hidebound than mainstream publishers. Moreover, little magazines were a forum that afforded writers the chance to rush in where oversized outfits feared to tread, paving the way for subsequent book-length breakthroughs. Not all the writers who appeared in the pages of the small press publications cited by Ginsberg went on to bigger things, but those who did were enabled and empowered by the "culture revolution" to which he refers. There's no limit to what a loose network of small producers can achieve. They made a mountain out of Ginsberg.

Ten years ago, two Scottish writers, Duncan McLean and James Meek, were struggling to make themselves heard, and enjoying occasional success when accepted by "overworked, underpowered magazines". But writers only have so much patience, and when there's an urgency in the writer's voice getting published it becomes a race against time. So they hit on an idea. They'd publish themselves and other writers they admired in their own magazine. Thus began the publishing venture that was Clocktower Press.

As McLean put it: "Taking inspiration from music and football fanzines, we decided that glossy production and distribution and prestigious outlets were less important than just getting our voices heard". It had been done before, of course. Writers have been doing it for themselves for centuries. The Beat Generation were brought to book and to the public eye, to the front page, in fact, by the rich little magazine culture that grew up in the 1950s, with such outfits as F*** You Press, giving a platform to voices stifled by mainstream publishers.

McLean was well aware of the charges of self-indulgence that writers publishing their own work would face: "Vanity publishing? No doubt we were caught up in the excitement of seeing our work in print. And no doubt that was one of the reasons why we forged on with Clocktower. Certainly it was a great feeling to write a story one week, and, with only a small amount of time, expertise and money, be able to send it out into the world the next in a neatly stapled card cover. But mostly it was done because I'd come to the realisation that this was what publishing was really about: not a commercial, money-making venture, but a cultural intervention."

The proof of the publishing is in the reading, and the difference between an exercise in vanity and a cultural intervention is both qualitative and quantitative. The first question to be asked of any work of art is: Is it any good? It matters who asks, and who answers. Presentation is nine tenths of the law. Sadly, this is a question that is most often asked after publication, rather than before it. Many writers never get the chance to have the public pose such a question. In Scotland, a small country with a large number of resourceful writers, there have always been ways and means of getting noticed.

McLean says of the Clocktower venture: "The booklets were intended to be literary time-bombs. At first glance they looked slight and inoffensive, even lightweight, but once they were out in the world, once the stories and poems they contained lodged in readers' minds, they'd start a chain reaction that would have disproportionately large effects". And that's what happened. Two years into the Clocktower initiative and along came Rebel Inc, another small armpit that would grow into a mighty oxter. This time Kevin Williamson was the writer, editor, entrepreneur and operator rolled into one. Irvine Welsh appeared in both Clocktower and Rebel Inc within a month in 1992. The rest is hysteria.

It is significant that Welsh established himself initially through small publishing ventures such as Rebel Inc (now a major imprint of Canongate) and Clocktower Press (recently anthologised by Jonathan Cape), though it could be argued that he launched them as much as they launched him. These fringe ventures allowed Welsh to explore the fanzine format at which he now excels, characterised by cartoon violence, endlessly inventive sloganeering, and increasingly intricate typographical experimentation. The 'bittiness' of Welsh's writing, its episodic quality, is due in part to its origins in the pamphlet culture of small presses. It can also be seen to reflect the actual fragmentation of the culture at large.

Many writers who wait in vain for recognition and acceptance are driven to vanity publishing. Earlier this year, a former creative writing student of mine who had written a novella came to see me to discuss ways of seeing his work into print. He had faith in his work and so did I. Others believed in him too, for he had published previously with both Clocktower Press and Rebel Inc, but the step beyond the small world of the little magazine had eluded him thus far. He was now ready to resort to self-publishing, and was considering borrowing money for this purpose, as Roddy Doyle had done with The Commitments. Other advisers might have urged caution, warning that self-publishing was the kiss of death for a writer's career rather than an opening onto the public sphere, but then some people are misguided enough to imagine that getting published is a matter of merit alone, rather than a matter of means and motivation. Accent and accident of birth can see some writers publish and be damned while others perish with meritorious manuscripts decomposing in their drawers.

On this particular occasion fate intervened, for within a week or two of my seeing this student and giving my approval to his intended solo effort, he had heard from a publisher who was willing to take the typescript off his hands. The student was Shug Hanlan, the publisher was Neil Wilson, and the novella is now in print as Hi Bonnybrig And Other Greetings, with a glossier cover than the more modest subvention offered by his friends would have permitted. The presentation is impeccable, and the readership has expanded beyond what might have been expected of a vanity venture, but what else has changed?

When it comes to publishing, all is vanity. Vindication comes later. Anyone who tells you different is a liar (and therefore has the makings of a good writer). The difference between an unpublished work and a published one can come down to a phone call, a letter, a handshake or a haircut. Or it can be a matter of a mentor, or being in the right place at the right time, an opportunity forged by a new venture, or a collaborative project arising out of contact with other writers.

Such innovations as Neil Wilson's 11:9 enterprise are crucial to the development of new writing in Scotland, but in addition to the small presses there are the writers themselves, and Scotland is blessed with writers who have learned the hard way how to be resourceful and enterprising. Many Scottish writers act as unpaid agents and editors for upcoming authors. Their generosity of spirit is the lifestuff of Scotland's literary renaissance. Established writers don't just inspire, or set an example, they actively bring on new blood, dispensing their acquired expertise and experience. Vanity? No, Clocktower Press and Rebel Inc were utterly unselfish acts of cultural intervention, and here's to more of the same.

Professor Willy Maley teaches creative writing at the Edwin Morgan Centre, a joint initiative between the Universities of Glasgow and Strathclyde

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