The first story I remember writing for an audience other then my teachers was a puffy-sticker illustrated story starring the Cabbage Patch kids. I transcribed the story into a lined, hard-cover journal, wanting it to have the look and feel of a real book. With haste and little attention to the revising process, basically as soon as I tacked “The End” onto the tale, I ran off to show it to my mom and dad, and then my grandma, and after that my sister. My first venture into the world of DIY publishing—a topic always on my mind, but increasingly so after coming across an article by writer Steve Almond in the January 24, 2010 online edition of the Los Angeles Times. In “Off the Shelf—Flip it over, huh?” Almond gives a first person perspective about venturing into self-publishing, after his most recent book was rejected by a series of editors.

Almond is funny, and the self-deprecating nature of his discourse is part of his charm, but the presentation of self-publishing as some brilliant new innovation got me thinking about the elitism of the publishing industry in general, and a gate-keeper mentality that I hope to see destroyed in the next few years as technology forces the literary world to widen their view of exactly who can participate in the making of literature and books.

“I simply decided to publish the book myself. But the truth is more damning. I felt self-publishing was beneath me, the province of deluded wannabes. I still craved the legitimacy bestowed by a publisher,” says the author about his decision to go DIY with This Will Only Take a Minute, Honey. After explaining the process of developing and editing the book, he exhorts authors to think about self-publishing as a way to gain literary traction since the “old way of doing things is collapsing under the weight of its own inefficiency.” And here is where I start to wonder: What exactly is the difference between Almond printing up his books himself, and all of those people who stole Kinko’s copy keys back in the nineties (okay, maybe not everyone had to get illegal about their zine-making, but I did) for the joy of placing those cut-and-paste sheets of typewritten words,  confessional stories, tour diaries, band interviews, onto the glass pane to be copied over and over, stapled together and released to whomever in the world might stumble across this black and white masterpiece. I guess I’m just not getting what is so innovative about self-publishing when so many people have been doing it for years?

Granted, there ended up being a glut of “bad” writing out in the world during the heyday of the zine-era, but the opportunity was also opened up for good writing to get in the public sphere that would otherwise never have seen the light of day. I mean, Doris Zine, Evolution of a Race Riot and Cometbus have inspired me more than most corporate releases. DIY self-publishing is not something for “deluded wannabes” though Almond’s comment sheds light on why, when I told one of the instructors at my MFA program that I would just self-publish a collection of short stories if I didn’t feel like dealing with pandering to an agent and trying to shove my foot through the tiny crack in the New York publishing world door, she looked at me as though I was out of my mind.

On that note, one my 2010 resolutions is to read more under-the-radar (in addition to the more well-established) literary journals. Annalemma No. 4 is a beautifully designed journal that focuses on visual art and photography in addition to writing. The first two stories were solid and short, like quick bursts of energy. The photographs and illustrations in the magazine, especially the lovely fine-lined and colorful pen and ink illustrations of strange birds, by Justin Gibbens, are worth the price alone. I also picked up a copy of CakeTrain Issue 7, which leans towards more experimental forms of writing.  After reading the first few pages, I thought damn, there’s a lot of poetry in here; I’m not the world’s biggest poetry fan, my preference being solid blocks of text I can sink my teeth into. But a funny thing happened on the way to me shutting the journal and placing it underneath a stack of books where it would gather dust and neglect–I kept reading. And I began thinking about the simplicity of the poem, the challenge of telling a story or at least conjuring an idea, a thought, a spark with only a few words. And another funny thing happened after that, I actually took out my notebook and wrote my own poem. Weird.

The new Tin House is pretty fantastic. There’s a story in it by Antonya Nelson about a forty-something divorcee in Albuquerque who has lost control of her son, her mother-in-law and her own life. I’d like to be able to write a story like that, one where the ends are frayed but satisfying.

Musically, I spent the mid-point of January listening to the new Yeasayer on repeat. It’s the sound of Grizzly Bear in the bath with Stevie B. while a copy of Depeche Mode’s Violator plays on a cheap battery-operated boombox.  The new Rocky Rivera album is worth a spin as well. I heard a couple of her songs on Hard Knock Radio, and damn, that is some good stuff. Political, super-charged lyrics with a sharp flair. Just the kind of music we continue to need in this day and age, like a reminder of what is possible. Oh, and she put the album out herself, yep.