Words To The Wise
From Derek White in the current NYPress:
So why is it that musicians or filmmakers who make and sell their own art are hailed as free-thinking independent geniuses, while writers who write and publish their own works are treated like misanthropic losers? Whether you like Ani DiFranco’s music or not, you want to like her when you hear how she started out selling records from the trunk of her car, and how she still does everything on her own terms. But if you see a writer selling his or her own books out on the sidewalk, you cross the street, thinking “why can’t you get a real publisher?” Of course, if you do find and read an occasional self-published or small press book, you might think it’s pretty good even if it didn’t come from Random House. But more likely (since there’s no marketing force behind it) you never heard about the book in the first place.
From the iJamming! review of Eddie Beverage’s 200 Beats Per Minute:
…One of my pet peeves: the idea within the arts world that while it’s totally cool to throw your life savings into your first movie, and almost essential that you self-release your first piece of music, self-publishing a piece of literature is somehow a mark of failure. If so, that failure is on the part of the literary elite in their gilded towers, too busy guarding their rarified atmosphere of mutually enhancing elitism to admit ‘unwashed’ writers detailing real life experiences in street language.
The more the merrier, that’s what I say.