There’s something about cool, crisp paper that makes a person pause.
The first time I held this week’s zine, it was like stepping into a time machine and landing in my elementary school’s admin office — back when math worksheets rolled off the ditto mimeograph machine in a whispery purple haze. If you remember that smell, you know it could knock a few years off your life but also make your day brighter. Ours printed in neon purple text on white paper, and this zine’s first touch felt almost the same — minus the intoxicating fumes.
I didn’t staple it yet. I just folded each sheet carefully, creased the edges like they mattered, and stacked them together. Then I saw my name at the bottom: Story & illustrations by Annette Zimmerman. My eyes watered a little. (Yes, I know it’s weird to call a zine a baby, but here we are.)
This particular “baby” has been gestating for almost six years. I wrote the short story back then as a writing exercise — just for fun, no grand plan. I kept it tucked away in my files, waiting for its moment. And here it is.
When I look at this zine, I see more than paper and ink. I see a timeline:
Nine years ago, I was still a mechanical engineer, thinking more about retirement plans than art.
Five years ago, I was learning to draw and write, wondering which creative path to wander down.
One year ago, I decided to focus — to figure out what I wanted to do with the next thirty years.
Three months ago, I thought: “Let’s try zines.”
Now, I’m holding the proof that every one of those decisions led here.
Halfway through making it, I wasn’t thinking about holding it in my hands. I was thinking about layout, page flow, where to put the illustrations, and how to make it look good without getting tangled in perfectionism — a skill school never exactly encouraged. (Mental note: we’ll talk about that in another post.)
The first person I showed it to was my husband — not in a “look at my baby” moment, but in a “please tell me if the margins are crooked” one. Still, it felt good handing it over.
And now I picture someone — maybe not even a reader by habit — picking it up. Maybe they’ll flip through it like an adult picture book. Maybe it’ll be the nudge that sends them toward another story. And another. And suddenly, they’re a reader.
Wouldn’t that be something?
If you want to see what all this fussing, folding, and purple-haze nostalgia led to, you can find the zine — along with its full backstory — in the Dominion of Doodles and Art. Take it, read it, share it, leave it somewhere for the next curious wanderer.
Who knows? You might just hand someone their first step into a lifetime of stories.
