Writing doesn’t come easily for me. The more I do it, the better and faster I get. But then the better I get the higher I set the bar for myself, and the slog continues slowly and with many (I’m told) sighs, scowls, grinding teeth, muttering, breaks for snacks and handstands, and daydreams about other kinds of work I could be doing, particularly work that’s outdoors, in beautiful weather, and provides gratifying, concrete results in measurable increments of time.
But I keep doing it, out of love and indignation and suspense — what will happen next? And I am trying to put more of my writing into print. Much as my entire work life relies on the continued functionality of a beaten up laptop, I still don’t really believe in the internet. It isn’t free, it isn’t green, it isn’t universally accessible, and it won’t be with us forever, at least not in this form we take for granted.
I love books and zines, not just for the sentimental attachment to the experience of turning pages, but because I see a future in it, and a far better and more accessible one than any electronic format. These zines will be on your shelf, or on the coffee table of the friend you loaned them to, or in the coat pocket of your grown children, long after you’ve forgotten the blog posts where I first floated some of the ideas for them. And I hope that they’ll inspire you to make something yourself, or send something in the mail, or read something for the satisfaction of it rather than out of compulsion to click on another link.
But I can’t make these happen without your help. Literally. Each one of my zines in the past year has been funded by you, the world. Without you, I can’t pay the printer to a) make them beautiful and b) make enough of them and affordably enough that I can make this whole precarious business of eking out a living as an independent writer work out even half way.
So thank you for funding this — and thanks, in the future, for reading words in print on pages. It’s going to make things a little better. I promise.