Scotland's literary culture should stay out of the gutter in the 'gender wars'
At last, there are grounds for hope for those of us who have fallen foul of grubby, intolerant new orthodoxies
Six years ago today, I left Edinburgh for a new life in Ayrshire. I’d made the decision to leave just over two months earlier, on Boxing Day 2019.
After a miserable Christmas, I’d tearfully told my confused but concerned mother what had been happening. I was 37-years-old, and – while I admit this sounds melodramatic – I felt my entire life’s work was in tatters.
On the evening of 2 June 2019, I’d tweeted opposition to a male trans activist, who was calling for violence against ‘gender-critical’ lesbians at a Pride march. In response, many in the Scottish poetry and literature sector turned against me.
Yes, really. It took very little back then to get the label ‘transphobic’ and have your life upended. I may be fully vocal about my opposition to the notion ‘trans women are women’ now, but I really wasn’t back then. I was a poet, with little interest in being as publicly direct about these matters as I’ve now become.
I was quietly dropped from arts projects. Slowly but steadily ghosted by literary collaborators.
My recent show This Script was facing calls for censorship. My publisher threatened to drop me. As an events programmer, poets started refusing bookings.
I’d been alarmed by the ‘gender wars’ for years. Could I survive them, as a mid-career poet, rather than someone high-profile? I hoped so. But in the economically-sabotaged meantime, I couldn’t afford to stay in Edinburgh.
My mother had many questions. Not least why opposing women being beaten by activists was wrong? I tried to explain the gender-identity movement brooks no dissent, to the extent of minimising, or excusing violence.
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This was before Sex Matters. Before JK Rowling’s essay. It was years before the trans prisoner scandal hit the headlines due to double-rapist Adam Graham/ Isla Bryson. Most barely knew what the Gender Recognition Act was, never mind why the SNP wanted to reform it.
Much worse followed in early 2020 when my fairly ‘quiet cancellation’ spilled on to social media, due to a ludicrous Open Letter and no-platforming campaign, followed by my being splashed across the headlines of several newspapers.
I spent the Covid lockdown writing a huge essay explaining what happened, and the wider implications for Scottish literary culture. It gained unexpected attention. While I’ve never told the full story of what happened in the years following, it eventually led to a debut nonfiction book in 2024, a new way of writing, and here we are. My ‘Old Life’ however, was unrecoverable.
I hadn’t written that 2020 essay - ‘Anatomy of a Hounding’ - to be needlessly provocative. It ended with a plea for Scotland’s literary world to be a “powerful antidote” to divisive culture warring. To speak with compassion across our differences.
I’d sincerely thought that not just possible, but surely what anyone who cared about Scottish literature would want. I’ve no regrets in wishing something so crucial. But, I accept I was completely wrong.
Six years on, another ‘Anatomy’ essay has been published, this time by poet and novelist Polly Clark. ‘Anatomy of a Vanishing Review’ charts the craven behaviour of Gutter, who are handsomely funded by Creative Scotland to self-identify as “Scotland’s leading literary magazine.”
A few days before publication of Clark’s latest collection ‘Afterlife’, they made it their Book of the Month, alongside publishing a strongly positive review.
The reviewer, poet Iona Lee, praised it as “a fine collection: funny, feminine, and violent; confessional yet mysterious.” Within 48 hours, however, both the online review and Book of the Month accolade disappeared from Gutter’s website.
The reason given, provided in writing to Ms Clark’s publisher, was: “a reader drew our attention to social media posts by Polly Clark that they considered to be offensive.”
Note the scant details. Just that shadowy hint of undisclosed wrong-doing. Efforts to find out if Ms Lee was told of the planned erasure of her work have proven fruitless. Meanwhile, Ms Clark’s launch week – which should’ve been celebratory – has been marred by unnecessary stress and controversy.
“At Gutter, we pride ourselves on providing a welcoming publishing space, including for trans writers,” the legally illiterate editors of Gutter further explained.
Fairly appraising Ms Clark’s poetry, it’s to be presumed, makes trans writers ‘unwelcome’?
Because of her unrelated, wholly ordinary views about women’s biological reality?
It’s the logic of fools. Such people should not be cultural gatekeepers. Creative Scotland’s inadequate response has been they’ll contact Gutter to discuss the “basis on which this decision was made.”
This back-covering won’t wash. CS are fully aware of what’s been happening under their watch – on our dime – for years.
There are, however, signs of progress.
Index on Censorship, who ignored my appeal for assistance in 2020, released a statement in support of Polly Clark. Meanwhile, it’s almost eerily quiet on the online fora formerly favoured by abusive hounders. No #IStandWithGutter; no open letters.
‘Afterlife’ has rocketed up the Amazon charts. The reading public – those we do all this writing for – generally loathe ‘cancel culture’. The past few years have also seen a burgeoning, loosely-knit network – largely funded via small acts of philanthropy via sites like Substack - for those of us who’ve fallen foul of these grubby, intolerant new orthodoxies.
But Gutter Magazine need de-funded. They cannot be viewed as a worthy literary enterprise. Creative Scotland must show leadership. If they can’t, they too need to go.
Scotland’s literary culture needn’t have stayed in the gutter. A heady mix of cowardice, callousness, and zealotry means these acts of hounding endure. Six years on, the least we can hope is to no longer be paying for them. Let Gutter be tested in the unfunded marketplace. See how long they survive. It won’t be six years, of that I’m quite sure.
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