Like the Pulp.net collection I read earlier in the year, It’s good to see that somebody has managed to pull it all together and into print. There’s no great stylistic or thematic thread, but the title and the people involved should give you a fair idea of what to expect. Alapi describes it as writing with soul. When you think about it that should be a given, but as usual the big publishers seem to be unaware that that’s the only really important thing. Only Raymond Carver could be Raymond Carver, and however much you love him he’s dead. This collection is much more reminiscent of what, say, Black Sparrow Press tried to achieve - and it benefits hugely from that kind of attitude.

As I said, Fante’s opening salvo is less satisfactory than some of the other pieces, possibly because it’s so clearly his style and you tend to know where he’s going. That’s not to say it’s poor (and Fante’s a good enough writer to take it), but there are some nice surprises elsewhere. There’s Mark Sa Franko’s ’The Laughter of the Clown’ a slick, gurning slice of pulp which reads like Ray Bradbury and rushes along with so much morbid enthusiasm that it might punch you in the face before he‘s through. Hird’s contribution ‘A Four Letter Word’ is full of wry cynicism and snot nosed invective - it’s hard not to snigger at a grotesque love affair in all it’s glory. Throughout the book, if there’s a thread at all, it’s that kind of implicit moral outrage (if that’s possible) which comes out through characters dazed but still fighting to ignore the reality of their circumstances. An honest enough look at life, then.

There are quieter moment, though. Christine Decarie’s ‘Nemesis Girls’ is plaintive and full of regret at the easy, frightened cruelty of adolescence. And ‘The Violinist’, by Barry Webster is a sad little vignette of what happens when you just can’t let go. He’s got enough savvy to let us see the good in a character - a fundamentalist Christian terrified by the world at large - who could easily be a caricature. There are lots of nice little touches like that in here, and overall - like these things should - it works like a sampler album for a proper record label. Some parts work better than others, but there’s an overall truth to the voices which is what makes the whole thing so worthwhile. And it’s always good to see new stuff from the likes of Hird, Fante and Tony O’Neill, while some less well known writing gets a chance.

I get bored saying it, but there can never be too many books like this. Much Like the bands who carried you through your youth, these voices are out there and they’re talking about how life is now. Without much cash (unfortunately) or ego to get in the way, the internet seems to be enabling this kind of effort to thrive. And. strangely enough, encouraging it into print which is where it belongs. ‘Writing at the Edge’ is more than an engaging read, it’s another essential little sample of honest art for art’s sake.

Zsolt Alapsi and has done a really great job indeed of putting this together and, hopefully, people will buy it. Thoroughly recommended.

Stuart Blackwood is 30 (odd), was born in Newarthill and lives in Glasgow. He supports Motherwell FC, has an MA in Economics and Philosophy and likes William Bell (the singer), Bukowski & Fante, Eric Arthur Blair, Negativeland, Eric Hobsbawm, politics, philosophy and ambiguity. He dislikes Alan Bloom and Francis Fukuyama, U2, categorization and Violence.