A Small Press Life:Sorta Outside Rebel Leaders

"Yeah, I get this idea of us being a pair of sorta outside 'rebel leaders' of a group of neo-Lost Generation types who reap heaps of cash for the quality stuff they do, unaffected by some talent-free corporate big wig who would ruin everything."

The above quote, while a bit off-the-cuff, and less tongue-in-cheek than you might expect, captures the spirit and driving force of "A Small Press Life" with humorous perfection. It was said--typed, rather--by my excellent friend and collaborator, Kevin, during a convo on Facebook this past weekend. He lives in Korea; I do not. The Internet is the conduit that keeps our mutual creativity flowing uninterrupted.
While we may practice that creativity in private, as all artists ultimately must, it is through a sense of connectedness and community that we find inspiration, hope and the ability to continue moving down such a difficult path. A support system is a necessity to the well-being of any artisan: it lessens the isolation in-born of such consuming intellectual yet hands-on endeavors.
For some, that serves; it is enough. For others, it is a jumping off point to different ambitions. Such is my case, and Kevin's. The quote is not the result of an unbridled, flagrant ego: it is born of a positive, open desire to spread talent far and wide, ours and that of countless others.
I have jokingly referred to us as like a poor man's Elaine May and Mike Nichols. This is probably unfair to us as individuals and artists, as we are distinctly ourselves. Perhaps, as outsiders, we are more akin to Robert McAlmon and Kay Boyle. Everything that we do, separately or together,is small-scale, though well-regarded: and, in following the muse, we try to include others in the ride.
McAlmon and Boyle, to be sure, never collaborated as such, and neither do Kevin and I. They published their goods--poems, stories, articles, criticisms--in the same places. She edited periodicals, so did he: they ultimately printed each other's work many times over the years. They were friends, insightful to each other's singular talent and life. Their career-boosting and warm regard were mutual. The lives of both were a long saga of creating, inspiring, and trying their damnedest to spread the work of fellow wordsmiths to as many people, in as many corners of the world, as possible.
While Kevin and I are unlikely to re-create a Lost Generation type environment--at the very least we would need Paris and London for that--there is a true spirit behind our intentions and what we do. Our refusal to give in to big media, and remain craftily independent, while encouraging others to do the same and enjoy the ride with us, makes at least part of his quote ring true. Every day that artisans embrace their uniqueness, and set to work doing only what they can do, without ceding to others' requirements, they are holding true to Lost Generation ideals. Rebel leaders? We all are!

It's a Small (Press) Life For Me

A surprising majority of the finest writers of the early Twentieth-Century found their only ready audience in the small bands of readers, usually subscribers, of the "little magazines". These were often kitchen-table affairs, funded on non-existent budgets and the hard-wrought words of dedicated and often neglected artists. The rostrum of publishers, editors,columnists and contributors to these independent periodicals offers an amazing roll-call of the innovatory, diverse and brilliant talent so associated with the writers of that era. To list them all here, while impressive,would be ridiculously space-consuming. I will make do with a representative few: James Joyce,Ford Madox Ford, Kay Boyle,Gertrude Stein, H.D.,Marianne Moore,T.S. Eliot,Ernest Hemingway, Ernest Walsh,Mina Loy, Ezra Pound,Wallace Stevens, Edith Sitwell,Robert McAlmon, D.H. Lawrence,Glenway Wescott and Djuna Barnes.

As with countless wordsmiths before and since,many writers and poets of the '20's had to make do financially,often only scraping by,working day-jobs or accepting hand-outs. T.S. Eliot famously worked for a banking house in London while Kay Boyle was the shop girl for the Parisian retail establishment of Raymond Duncan, Isadora's half-charlatan brother.Across the Atlantic, Marianne Moore was a librarian in New York City and William Carlos Williams a small-town (i.e. poorly paid) doctor.

Eighty or ninety years ago, these small, passionately produced magazines weren't just a romantic, idealistic alternative to the big glossies. For many, publishing works in the always-revolving coterie of arty mags was the only way to get published at all. There were a few "big name" affairs to be found in New York City, Paris and London.They tended to be traditional, stuffy things, exclusive in their outlook and hard to break into.

Groups of artists, sometimes with the help of a moneyed backer or two, more often relying on their own spare change or donations, formed reviews and journals as a method of disseminating their work.They wore many hats while touting the work of themselves, friends and often complete strangers.In their limited way, they served a function similar to that of the Impressionists when they broke free the Academy and its esteemed show, the Salon de Paris,to exhibit without restraint as the Societie Anonyme Cooperative des Artistes Peintres, Sculpteurs, Graveurs. Both came about through a combination of forced circumstances and exceptional avocation.Neither was a cohesive movement at the time;labels came later.

Their writing careers were usually aided with the occasional book deal, often with equally independent publishing set-ups, such as: The Hogarth Press ( created by Leonard and Virginia Woolf), Contact Editions (Robert McAlmon) and the Black Sun Press (Harry and Caresse Crosby).

Literature, no less than any other art form,is a tough world in which to find one's way,or to even stay afloat.For every true star-by which I mean any one widely known outside of company circles--there are hordes of aspiring or working writers piled leagues deep.The difference between an aspiring writer and a working one can be as simple as taking matters into your own hands, i.e. the willingness to act as publisher,editor,agent and anything else that may be required.That is exactly what the aforementioned poets, novelists and essayists did.Many of us , even in a world of vaster choice, continue to do the same.

Today,there are countless outlets and, with a bigger population,more readers to be engaged. The Internet alone has drastically changed how, and who,any one writer can reach. Yet, limiting ourselves to paper editions alone,we still find our selection to be much superior,at least in number,to what Boyle or Eliot had to pick from a mere 80 years ago.Even the big glossies are more numerous in our time.A career can, if one is willing to tow the line of writing to order, in subject and style,be found in penning product for the fancy, still well-read magazines.

For certain of us, myself included,that could never be an option.I am an avid,unashamed reader of a plethora of magazines that I would never write for.I may be a Cosmo girl but I am not a Cosmo writer.The world has enough of those:I would rather lend it my small, eccentric voice than change it to suit others, however gargantuan that audience may be.

Don't misunderstand:I wish to have readers for my writing. If I didn't, I would not be on here nor would I work with the wonderful independent presses that publish my work elsewhere.I would, doubtless, write on the sly,hiding my work in a sewing basket whenever a family member entered the room. No, wait. That is another Austen, Jane.

I simply wish to maintain a level of control over my work that I would be forced to cede if working for glossies.While I am happy and eager to have others edit and critique my writing, I would become demented and austere if unable to be the full mistress of my subject matter; it is mine, not a foreign thing to be dictated and directed by others.

There is a satisfying synchronization to what I do that I believe would diminish if the end-result of my art was writ large rather than small.Every encouraging comment, erudite opinion and insightful appreciation that I have ever gotten has been genuinely received.

My refusal to go mainstream with my artistic and intellectual goods is not born of ego.It is the result of a conscious choice to be sovereign, to be outside yet to be connected to a lasting movement, of creators creating what they choose and helping each other in the endeavor.

"A Small Press Life" will be a regular column on 1000 Follies, appearing at my whim and discretion, naturally!

Photos, Top Row :Mina Loy, Ford Madox Ford.

Middle Row: Djuna Barnes

Bottom Row: James Joyce.

Banned From Books or:Take My Left Arm, Please

The act of opening a book is, for me, an offering to the eternal. It is an odd, unique, tensile link in a liturgy that has been occurring for hundreds of years. It is neither religious nor mystical. It knows of not one God but of millions.To read is to connect with what has come before and what is yet to be:you are connected, however tenuously, with every person who has pored over the same words. It is a subject that I have touched on a time or two already, in a different venue:its relevance endures, not only for me as a reader but as a writer. This very connectedness is, indeed, the main reason, aside from an insatiable love of words, I am a writer at all.

Attempting to justify, to explain, to elucidate the very marrow of your lifestyle, your character, your mind-set in one article is daunting. Like Everest, it is impossible for most of us to ascend, yet many make the effort.

I identify myself fully, and with pride, not as a writer who is female but as a female writer. Whether or not my perception or subject matter is decidedly 'female', if such a thing is even possible, is entirely not the question at hand. As a fiction writer, my voice is liquid, changeable and mobile even if my style is not.

I was inspired by the Nobelist George Bernard Shaw, a male, to be a writer. Yet it took an army of women writers, from every era and genre, to convince me that it was possible.To succeed as an artist is to conquer a vast, unknowable, hostile territory. Historically, while never a fully respectable career path for anyone, up to and including today's artists, it has always been an easier one for men to traverse. At some point,women have been banned from and discouraged in doing just about everything we have ever desired. Being ignored in the arts is just one example. Still, thousands of talented, determined, resilient women have succeeded brilliantly,often irreverently, as writers.

It is to those women, from Behn to the Brontes to Bogan, that my mind turns, however fleetingly, every time I sit down to write. They are my network, as much as any living person, to whom I can look to for words of wisdom, guidance and support. Their lives, though far from wholly knowable, are guide-books to the difficult, joyous, invigorating moments that we all encounter and surpass.

It was my little hope, from the age of seven, to be able to write, always. Unaware then that you could be allowed to do such a thing as a serious grown-up, I applied myself to my scrawled, childish compositions while I could.I earned a happy dollar or two by selling hand-written copies of my stories to my family. I curbed that show-and-sell dimension to my writing when slightly older but my mania for reading has never been hidden. Since I have been doing both things--reading and writing--for the vast majority of my life, they have always been glued together in my perception. They are mirrors of each other.One without the other is not to be fathomed by my intellect. Yet, of course, that is exactly what I am now doing.

During the early stages of my transformation from reader to the ever-flowing reader-writer-writer-reader-writer that I am today, I discovered the canon of literary works by incredible women. It was a few years later that I stumbled upon the archetype of my other self: the salonierre.Active in locales as geographically separate as Paris and Moscow, salons were regular literary, philosophical and musical gatherings organized by women. They were much more than hostesses. They were the magnets that drew together artists and patrons, intellectuals and dissidents in a spirit of camaraderie, debate and discourse. The salonierres determined the style and tenor of these gatherings, their wit, verve and creativity acting as sustenance for all whom they entertained.

The salonierres were not content to be solitary readers. They were an artistic force, independent enough to choose favourites and influential enough to assure their success. Salonniers,no mere bluestockings, were participants in the sowing of literary criticism and reputation. Often, they carved a career of words for themselves.

I, living in what is perhaps an ill time for certain of my talents, am a writer and a bluestocking. If I could figure out a practical method of sharing this passion with others,to form a sort of modern salon,which is not the same as a book club(for which I have no natural bent),I certainly would. Either way, the reading is not separate from the writing. I have, in many ways, minutely calculated this life and, giving up even a crumb of what I have so intricately fashioned, feels, at this juncture,like an act of personal desecration.

Yet, for the duration of this barmy wager, separate they must be. For the first time in nearly 3 decades, I must be one without the other: writer, yes, reader, no. I maintain a slight hunch that, at some point, I shall go through a kind of low-key version of the DT's: shaking, night sweats, mental restlessness. I jest, barely. While half of my identity is temporarily fallow, I am hoping that its partner-in-intellect, my creativity, will benefit from the sudden vastness of attention it is currently receiving.

I'll get back with you in a week. I will either be stir-crazy or revelling in a new sense of Achillean artistry or, as a wild-card option, resplendent with an assortment of new skills:maybe I will take up knitting or learn how to bake a killer baklava. You never know until you make the attempt.

(This is the third in a series).