A cool tidbit of YA literary history.
A world where I could turn the endless scribbling in my notebooks into things other people would read, where I’d make friends with other kids doing the same thing, where I’d feel less on the fringes and more in the middle of something–the middle of something that mattered. Where I’d feel inspired and excited, where I’d meet people I’m still in touch with today, where I’d feel less alone in my angsty alienation–like maybe we were all just angsty and alienated. I wrote like it was the only thing that was keeping me sane, like it was something I had to do, like it was keeping me alive. And some days, I don’t think it’s an exaggeration when I look back at that time and think, yeah, making a zine really was what kept me going, what both led me to my self and saved me from myself.