James Kelman argues against Scottish genre fiction

Citing the bestselling Harry Potter novels of J.K. Rowling and detective pageturners of Ian Rankin, James Kelman has accused popular genre fiction writers of warping the world's perception of Scottish literature. Speaking at the Edinburgh International Book Festival, Kelman--who is Scotland's only Booker Prize winner--said that the success of "mediocre" writers has overshadowed the more talented output of literary authors and has turned Scotland into a factory that churns out conventional fiction for mass consumption.

Kelman's remarks have, of course, been met with much derision from both writers of such fiction--who question the ability of so-called "literary writers" to produce enjoyable stories--and readers, who often enjoy gripping yet "easy" tales. Neither is the divide restricted to Scotland fiction; the United States, for instance, has its own distinction between the Dan Browns and Clive Cusslers and the Philip Roths and Thomas Pynchons of the book universe.

Kelman's How Late it Was, How Late, which won the Booker in 1994, met its own share of scorn and criticism, with one judge threatening to resign and critics labeling it "crap" and "literary vandalism." The stream-of-consciousness novel is written in a working class dialect of Glasgow and follows a few days in the life of an uneducated ex-convict.

The Guardian offers an excellent examination of Kelman's remarks:

As a manifestation of the old 'genre v real literature' chestnut, the debate should be just as interesting to those outside of Scotland. Kelman, committed to experimental form and language, sees genre fiction as redundant, compromised by commerciality. Mina, while still calling Kelman a "beautiful writer", regards his stance as a mere "play for status"; a failure of the writer's duty to entertain.

There is another to level to this, however, about the ways in which any country's indigenous literature – especially those of smaller or post-colonial nations – is threatened by the commercial imperative to produce page-turning, airport-friendly thrillers. A third level concerns the collusion of the literary establishment in this. It's certainly the case that the books editors of broadsheet newspapers will bemoan the fact that we're not all reading Tolstoy, while providing acres of coverage to crime writers. Genre fiction doesn't need highbrow attention in order to sell by the bucketload, yet editors must cover it precisely because it is so visible. This crowds out more risk-taking writers, for whom a single review from a perceptive critic can provide a career breakthrough.

It is galling, then, that a country like Scotland, home to an enormous, bristling, experimental tradition which includes James Hogg, Alexander Trocchi, Hugh McDiarmid, Muriel Spark, Edwin Morgan, Tom Leonard, Alasdair Gray, Janice Galloway, Irvine Welsh, Alan Warner, Ali Smith, James Robertson and Kelman himself, is marketed to tourists as the home of Rebus and Potter.