This Guardian blogger writes on how we love indy music and film, but can’t seem to accept indy writers. Why is that? My theory is it’s because most of them are gravel-pit ugly. Just kidding. (no he’s not) Really, I am. (uh-uh) Truly, a joke’s a joke. (… … … *cough*ugly!*cough*…) I kid because I love. (no, really, he hates) And love is what makes the world go round. (that and a collision with a passing celestial body early in the planetary development phase of our solar system). You know what I mean.
Doing it yourself is to be much admired in music and cinema. That mainstay of Hollywood, Robert Redford, was so enamoured by the growing movement of indie cinema in the United States that he set up the Sundance Festival to give the film-makers an outlet and an audience.
Without indie music, there would be no Smiths, no Happy Mondays, no Kylie, even (she was on Stock, Aitken and Waterman’s own indie label, PWL). Without indie cinema, there would be no Reservoir Dogs, no Ghost World, no Night of the Living Dead. Without indie publishing there would be no … who? Who are the big indie writers, those who refuse to compromise by not allowing The Man to dictate what and how they should write, and earn massive respect because of it?
The literary world only bestows acceptance, it seems, on those who are published through the traditional avenues. Independent and small presses get short shrift – national newspaper supplements seem loath to review indie books, the big high street sellers won’t stock them, unless the books are about the tough lives of mill girls or histories of public house names, which can be shoved on a shelf marked “local interest”.