How We Made This: Inside the Zine Machine

By someone who runs on coffee, chaos, and a deep hatred of default fonts (Courier forever).

Born Out of a Breakdown

She Zine started around 2016(ish), not as a polished project, but as a stubborn reaction to everything collapsing at once. The site that kept glitching out and the half-legible scribbles in a composition notebook — that’s the soil this grew out of. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t even particularly intentional. It was just the simple fact that walking away felt impossible, so we stayed and kept dragging the idea forward.

No one here waited for stability or certainty before starting. There wasn’t any. There were burnouts, injuries, blank browser tabs that sat open for days, and the sense that the “real” publishing world was never going to save us. So we did what we could with what we had: a busted laptop, a stack of half-formed Google Docs, and a refusal to let this thing die in draft mode. That refusal is the real origin story.

“We didn’t wait for permission or for things to feel ready. We just started.”

Built With Whatever Was Nearby

She Zine has always been about building from the scraps in reach. We weren’t shopping for the perfect software or the right branding package. We were working with whatever sat on the desk, or the floor, or at the bottom of a bag and replying on the self-taught ability to do everything we could.

The gear list was laughable: one laptop, a pile of nine hundred notes scribbled on napkins, receipts, and an obsessive Post-it habit that left every wall plastered like a murder-board. The website was held together by a WordPress theme that buckled under the slightest update (that was eventually just abandoned altogether). Canva templates were tortured into something that looked like a photocopied zine clipping. Plug-ins were dragged out of long-dead forums with no instructions attached. We weren’t even sure how half of them worked — just that somehow they did.

Some of it was made at a bar after last call. Some during half-hour breaks between other jobs. Some in a leg brace after a totally heroic fall. Some while crying on the floor. None of it looked professional, but all of it looked alive.

The Meltdown–Snack–Redemption Workflow

If there was ever a workflow, it went like this: meltdown, snack, redemption arc. The layout broke thirteen different times. Whole posts vanished into caching voids. The Wi-Fi cut out mid-upload more times than we could count, each time convincing us the whole project was doomed — until it magically reconnected and spat out the file along with three new tabs of inspiration we didn’t even remember opening (ain’t it always the way?)

That’s what this place has always been: break it, rage about it, patch it, keep going. It’s not elegant. It’s not efficient. But it’s why we’re still here and it’s why I love what we’re doing. Things get scrapped, things come back, categories get reorganized, the homepage gets rewritten again and again. If you’re waiting for the perfect system, you’ll never move. The point isn’t polish. The point is momentum.

“The point was never polish. The point was momentum.”

What We’re Building Next

We’re not aiming for some big reveal where everything looks finished. This is a live build, a work-in-progress that changes as it goes. That’s the fun part.

The future here looks like more voices, paid fairly, not with the empty promise of “exposure.” It looks like print issues when we can swing the costs, because holding a zine in your hands still matters. It looks like merch and riot kits, the kind of objects your guidance counsellor would confiscate and send you home with a warning. It looks like meetups in laundromats and pop-ups in borrowed spaces. We don’t have to overthink it. We just have to keep moving and keep making.

This isn’t a brand rollout or a business plan. It’s culture in motion.

Owning Where We Started

Here’s another truth: I’m white, cis, and hetero. That’s the starting point. And it means the perspective this zine grew out of was narrow. Pretending otherwise would be dishonest. The work now is widening that scope without tokenism, filler statements, or decorative content. Not checking a box, but publishing, paying, and making space for voices we can’t generate ourselves.

It’s not solved. It’s not quick. It’s ongoing. That’s the point. This is the start of that process, not the end.

To You, Reader (and Maybe Future Contributor)

If you’ve read this far, you’re already inside the circle. You’re already part of the build.

So here’s your open door: pitch us. Write your piece. Send your photos, your art, your half-formed ideas. Don’t wait for permission or for your setup to look perfect. Use what you’ve got nearby. That’s all we did.

And if writing isn’t your move, you can still keep this alive. Share posts. Pass them to your group chats. Support contributors directly through their tip jars (linked in every bio). Toss a couple bucks into the central Ko-fi if you can. Grab merch when it drops. Zines don’t survive on clean edges; they survive because people carry them around, pass them on, and refuse to let them disappear.

We’re not trying to look slick. We’re trying to make noise. And if you’re here, you’re part of that noise already.

To Anyone Else Starting From Nothing

If you’re dreaming of making something yourself, this is your nudge. You don’t need a plan. You don’t need a system. You don’t need the right laptop or the right timing. You just need to begin.

This site isn’t an example of how to do it perfectly. It’s proof that it can be done anyway.

We don’t need polish. We need people. That’s you. Every click, every tip jar donation, every share is what keeps this thing alive and what stops it from fading out.

“Now get in. We’re making culture.”

Keep This Thing Alive

This zine runs on scraps, coffee, and community—your support is what makes it real.

• • Pitch your story. Got something messy, brilliant, weird, or loud? Send it via the link or the form below!

• • Support a contributor directly. Every writer has a tip jar linked in their bio—if a piece hits you hard, buy them a coffee, a snack, or rent money. It matters.

• • Back the mag. You can toss change into the central Ko-fi tip jar on any page in the bottom left corner or grab some riot merch when it drops.

• • Spread the word. Share a post. Screenshot it. Send it to your group chat. Zines live because people pass them around.

We don’t need polish, we need people. That’s you. Every click, tip, and contribution keeps She Zine from disappearing—and that’s the whole point. We hope you love it as much as we do. 💜🖖

Pitch Something!