CREATING ZINES, CONSTRUCTING PLACE: PLACE-MAKING AND COMMUNITY-BUILDING 
PRACTICES OF ZINE MAKERS 

By 

Sophia Maggio 

A THESIS 

Submitted to 
Michigan State University 
in partial fulfillment of the requirements   
for the degree of 

Rhetoric and Writing – Master of Arts 

2025

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ABSTRACT 

This thesis explores the value of zines as multimodal texts that can create a sense of space, 

place, and/or community for both zine readers and zine-makers (“zinesters”). In this thesis, I 

discuss the contributions of space and place to the production of, engagement with, and 

preservation of zines within communities. After reviewing literature on the archival, pedagogical, 

rhetorical, and methodological implications of zines, I interview three zinesters – Remi Germaine, 

Bre Upton, and Alice Wynne – and pose a series of questions about their zine-making processes and 

conceptions of space, place, and community. I respond to the same questions as a fourth and final 

case study, then collate, summarize, and expand on my takeaways in the form of a “summative 

zine,” included in the appendix of this thesis. By analyzing and assigning descriptive themes to the 

interview responses, I identify and explore five key takeaways in the summative zine: among them, 

the capacity of zines to fight sterility, facilitate placemaking through provenance, and function as 

rhetorical infrastructures for personal and communal expression.  

 
 
This thesis is dedicated to my family (Mom, Dad, Camille, Gabe, Camille, Fiona): I love you all so 
much, and you are a part of my community wherever I go.  

iii 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS  

I want to acknowledge and express appreciation for my three committee members: Dr. 

Danielle DeVoss, Dr. Kristin Arola, and Dr. Nancy DeJoy, who offered their support, kindness, and 

thoughtful questions and insights throughout this project. I am grateful for and inspired by my 

committee, as well as my graduating WRAC cohort and other classmates, my family and partner, 

and various friends in the Eastside neighborhood in Lansing, Michigan, where I’ve built a home and 

community over the last two years.   

iv 

 
 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Zining My Way to a Definition of “Place”..........................................................................................................................1 

Zine-Driven Definitions of Space, Place, and Community.........................................................................................4   

Literature Review: A Developing Conversation with Librarians, Scholars, Writers, and Community 
Members.........................................................................................................................................................................................8  

Pre-Methodology: Reflecting on Positionality, Identity, and Definitions........................................................15 

Methodology..............................................................................................................................................................................17 

Results: Zinester Case Studies…........................................................................................................................................19 

“Collating” Four Case Studies.............................................................................................................................................39 

REFERENCES.............................................................................................................................................................................41 

APPENDIX: SUMMATIVE THESIS ZINE..........................................................................................................................44 

v 

 
Zining My Way to a Definition of “Place”  

Last fall, I spent a long and slow Saturday morning re-adhering the various doodles, letters, 

notes from friends and sisters, and other paper ephemera onto the back of my bedroom door. 

Interior design via Scotch tape is a flimsy and time-consuming affair, and while I often tell myself 

I’m too old to continue taping all of my decorations to the wall, I still feel too transient to nail 

anything down.  

If asked to describe the meaning of “place,” I’d associate the word with a sense of stability, 

warmth, and groundedness: a pin on the map, a nail in the door. Yet transience – and tape – are 

parts of my definition, too. In the past few years, whenever I’ve left one place for another, the loss of 

my previous home sits heavy in my body. I miss the too-small bed, the creaky floor, the housemates 

with their particular laughs and coughs and odors; my door collaged with cards and doodles I 

scrawled during work, classes, or bus commutes. My body, finally arriving at the next funky house I 

found on Facebook with one too many housemates, is a low-budget lodging for longing: longing for 

my previous home, until I redecorate my new door and begin to settle into the next new place. 

Since moving to Michigan, my bedroom door has functioned as, well, a door, partitioning off 

my space and body and assorted stuff from the bodies and stuff of my housemates. But the door is 

also a collaged reminder of the people, places, words, and images I love, all taped or sticky-noted 

along the perimeter of a smudgy mirror I inherited from the previous tenant.  

Each time I close my door, I’m reminded of the place I inhabit now, here in my bedroom in 

the capital city of Michigan, but also of the places I’ve moved and related through to land here. 

Traveling through these places in my mental-mobile, I arrive at a definition of “place” that describes 

where I’m standing geographically, emotionally, and relative to the communities and spaces I 

engage with now.  

My sense of place evokes a sense of finding somewhere to stand, to be held by the ground 

below. It reminds me of “the doctrine of stasis” described by Arroyo and Alaei (2012), which I first 

read about last spring in a course on multimodal composing. Arroyo and Alaei use the metaphor of 

a dancing floor to exemplify “the very dance of maintaining stasis,” a word that translates to 

“standstill” and can be expanded to “finding a place on which to stand and generate arguments.” 

Around this time, I dove deeper into my zine-making practice, exploring how zines serve as paper 

places on which writers and makers can “stand” with their arguments, hopes, ideas, feelings, half-

formed thoughts, and any other mental moves folded into the choreography of a human life.  

Before beginning my thesis, I tried to capture the choreography of my life in Lansing by 

creating Lan-zine (ha, ha): a zine about Lansing, filled with suggestions about places to see and visit 

1 

 
 
via bike, bus, on foot, or any other mode of transportation favored by Lansing locals. I 

crowdsourced suggestions from folks on r/lansing, who responded with thoughtful enthusiasm to 

the draft of the zine I shared in the fall of 2024. I turned to r/lansing as an immediate, responsive, 

and digital source of "community" in Lansing. I visit the subreddit almost daily for information 

about things happening in the community, funny or inquisitive musings about the city's quirks, and 

other fun facts I get to share with my IRL (“in-real-life”) communities. Because I find daily value in 

r/lansing, it felt natural to turn to that community for zine suggestions, but I would have had 

different results if I gathered suggestions from in-person spaces in Lansing and/or the MSU campus 

in East Lansing. Posting and waiting for replies was the easiest way to gather multiple suggestions 

at once, but the final "itinerary" I share in Lan-zine reflects suggestions I've gathered and 

experiences I've enjoyed through in-person conversation and exploration. In-person exploration of 

Lansing is almost always richer and more meaningful to me; but r/lansing, as a digital community, 

has also inspired many of these explorations by way of recommendation and random posts about a 

hidden gem or hot take about a local establishment.  

I could not find much demographic information about folks who post on and visit r/lansing, 

but I would not be surprised if the r/lansing community reflects the broader demographics of 

Reddit: young (below 30), white, liberal, college-educated men, based on 2024 data from Pew. 

Someone recently addressed the youth of redditors on r/lansing in a post about the demolition of 

Lansing Eastern High School, which will be replaced with a psychiatric hospital. "Newspaper reader 

demographics skew older" and "Reddit users don't," a journalist wrote in the comments, in 

response to why the demolition is better received by younger, more progressive users on r/lansing 

than older Lansing locals, some of whom have stronger attachments to the high school and read 

about the demolition in the newspaper. 

"It seems obvious," writes another commenter on the post, "but all too often, Redditors 

forget that this sub isn't necessarily representative of the city's population as a whole." While the 

suggestions I collected for my zine hopefully make space, place, and community for folks from all 

backgrounds, I'm also mindful of the demographics of Reddit as a social media website and would 

love to have more information about r/lansing as a community to better frame these suggestions.  

Ultimately, by reflecting on the characteristics of r/lansing and “zining” about this city, I 

started conceptualizing zines as tools to expand and preserve a sense of place, both personal and 

communal, and thus unwittingly wrote the first pages of my master’s thesis. In this essayistic 

portion, I draw from my visual arts background and continue the work I began in Lan-zine by 

reviewing literature on rhetorical and creative conceptions of space, place, and community. This 

2 

 
discussion is shaped by my interests in community-building and “creative placemaking” (CPM), 

both physically and digitally. After discussing more relevant literature on and conversations about 

zines in the field of rhetoric and writing, I present my methodology (including my interview 

questions) followed by the storied responses of Remi Germaine, Bre Upton, and Alice Wynne, each 

presented as a different zinester case study. I also respond to the interview questions as a fourth 

case study, drawing from my experiences making and publishing Lan-zine.  

After analyzing major themes across these four case studies, I conclude with a textual 

discussion that I continue into zine form. In this summative zine (see Appendix), I discuss how 

zinesters create space, place, and/or community through their zine-making practices, and how and 

why zine-making is a powerful form of multimodal composing within and beyond the “academy” of 

rhetoric and writing studies. 

3 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Zine-Driven Definitions of Space, Place, and Community 

Conceptions of space, place, and community have been highly academicized and theorized. 

In this project, I do not firmly define nor enforce hard distinctions between space, place, and 

community, nor do I dwell too much on the relative importance of digital or physical creative 

placemaking. For the most part, the zinesters I interviewed tend to use “space,” “place,” and even 

“community” interchangeably, and in fluidly generative ways that I discuss in later sections. Even 

so, I find value in referring to other scholars’ definitions of space, place, and community to inform 

my own, and thinking about the affordances of physical and digital placemaking via zines and other 

creative practices.  

While spaces “are geographically-designated areas,” Vazquez (2012) writes in a white paper 

on creative placemaking, “places are made up of physical and psychological connections among 

people and their environment. Objects alone do not make a place” (p. 5). Perhaps the same could be 

said of a zine sitting alone in a bedroom, without makers or readers to generate meaning from its 

pages, whether those pages are read in person and online. In the world of zines, these makers and 

readers arguably make up a community, which depends on both spaces and places for sustenance. I 

appreciate and often refer to the definition of a “cultural community” provided by Powell et al. 

(2014): “any place/space where groups organize under a set of shared beliefs and practices—

American Indian communities, workplace communities, digital communities, crafting communities, 

etc.” (Act I, Scene 1). 

As DIY (“do it yourself”) publications that often originate from “underground” subcultures 

and cover a wide variety of topics, zines generate alternative definitions of place for the alternative 

communities they support. Matich, Parsons, and Ashman (2024) theorize zines as “alternative 

infrastructure– with alternative processes and ‘means of transmission’ (cited from Withers, 2015),” 

based on a six-year study using “netnographic” methods to examine the emergence and growth of 

an intersectional feminist zine community on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr. They find 

that zines-as-infrastructures, which “cut across the social, digital, and material” (p. 1049), are 

“based on solidarity and communal forms of identification” (cited from Bold, 2017; Chidgey, 2013) 

and emerge in response to “being in common with others” in a particular space and time (p. 1059). 

In addition to the texts themselves, which can provide infrastructures for zinesters to 

connect with likeminded makers and also “‘find themselves’” on the pages (Matich, Parsons, & 

Ashman, p. 1053), other spaces that emerge around zines include in-person zine fests, which are 

the focus of Kempson’s ethnographic study (2015). Kempson explores the placemaking capacity of 

zines in her study of “negotiating belonging” in the UK zine subculture. Although Kempson 

4 

 
interviews zinesters at in-person zine fests, her findings suggest that participants’ sense of place 

within zine subculture is both ideological and geographical (p. 1093): the former based on 

zinesters’ perceived positionality to the dominant values of the DIY subculture, and the latter 

influenced by zinesters “spatial proximity to the geographical ‘centres’ of zine subculture,” which 

tend to be more accessible and urban spots in “mainstream” cities (p. 1082). Kempson’s work 

illustrates how definitions of place can shift in response to urbanization, accessibility, the values of 

our chosen communities, and how (ideologically) and where (geographically) we stand relative to 

those communities.   

As a concept that bridges physical and digital infrastructures, creative placemaking (CPM) 

influences the way I think about space and place relative to zines. A widely circulated definition by 

Markusen and Gadwa (2010), cited by Vazquez (2012), describes CPM as a process that “‘animates 

public and private spaces, rejuvenates structures and streetscapes, improves local business 

viability and public safety, and brings diverse people together to celebrate, inspire, and be 

inspired’” (p. 1). Vazquez finds that CPM projects are most successful when they prioritize intent 

over action, the intent being to improve quality of life and “enhance the environment for cultural 

expression throughout a place” (p. 6). Successful CPM projects are also asset-based and place-

based, rather than space-based; scholars who adopt CPM as a framework thoughtfully leverage the 

existing connections in a place. Examples of CPM provided by Vazquez include the Mall of America 

in Minnesota, framed as a creative contributor to the “experience economy” (p. 39); and Project 

Row Houses, which transformed vacant properties in Houston, Texas into “a community 

development program that included services to women and children and community-based 

planning” (p. 11). 

In recent years, CPM has been expanded to “creative digital placemaking,” accounting for 

the influence of augmented and virtual reality, social media, location-based mobile applications, 

and other digitized experiences on an individual’s or community’s sense of place (Basaraba 2023, p. 

1474). Examples of digital CPM are “emerging in creative tourism and the cultural heritage sector” 

(p. 1471): for example, creating a game-like phone application to accompany a public art walk, or 

“location-based mobile applications with narratives about significant places of memory along 

heritage trails” (p. 1473), both of which rely on digital technologies to promote immersive, 

educational, and embodied experiences of placemaking. 

Basaraba completes a bibliometric analysis to better understand how CPM has been used 

across disciplines and, more recently, applied to digital projects. She finds that papers about digital 

placemaking “primarily used ethnographic methods that combined data gathering from both 

5 

 
observations and interviews” (p. 1491). Basaraba argues that future digital CPM projects must be 

more considerate of citizens’ needs before implementation and allow for participation through co-

creation (p. 1493), compared to the relative passivity of observations or interviews. While these 

methods are valuable in tandem with participatory practices, their solitary use may encourage “top-

down” approaches to CPM projects (p. 1489) that neglect or dismiss citizens’ actual needs, desires, 

and visions for their communities. Conversely, a bottom-up approach to digital CPM projects begins 

with citizens as well as an awareness of the digital divide, which Ragnedda and Kreitem (2018) 

divide into three levels: accessing the internet, digital skills and capabilities (p. 7), and becoming 

aware of the tangible benefits of using the internet.  

While a further exploration of CPM warrants an entirely separate paper, I bring up digital 

CPM because an increasing number of people experience zines for the first time in a digital context, 

often on social media, as opposed to encountering their first zine in a bookstore or in-person 

workshop. I, for one, have learned more about zines via the r/zines subreddit on Reddit, various 

YouTube channels, and scholarly and journalistic coverage of the genre, than I’ve managed to learn 

through in-person events and communities. In large part, this is circumstantial: I live in a city 

without a significant and consistent in-person community of zinesters, save for a couple of friends 

who also enjoy making zines as a hobby. Consequently, I embody a physical-digital definition of 

CPM as an “artist-in-residences.” This plurality honors my current physical residence in Lansing, MI 

as well as the contributions of previous residences (Philadelphia, Spokane, Everett) and their 

pixelated relations with digital places like Instagram and Reddit, where I share and engage with 

other zinesters.  

As a zinester exploring my own sense of place relative to both geography and community, 

I’ve identified the precarity and transiency of everyday places – my rented bedroom in Lansing, my 

bus stop, my favorite local breakfast spot – as elements that make these places feel precious, even 

beloved. Zines give me hope that lost, precarious, and transient places can continue standing on 

pages penned by DIY publishers, through the words and images they use to express where they are 

now and where they hope to go. As a fourth and final “participant” in this project, I primarily draw 

from my everyday experience of place – shaped by my interactions with CPM, definitions of space 

and place, stasis, and other rhetorical groundings – to guide my answers and reflect on the 

responses of three other zinesters.   

Why Does Any of This Matter? 

Whether they’re created and shared online, in a classroom, a library, a bedroom, or 

somewhere in between, zines illuminate the contributions of space and place to the production of, 

6 

 
engagement with, and preservation of creative artifacts within communities. Throughout this 

project, I reference the words of Bre, Remi, and Alice, their zines, and supporting scholarship and 

writings to explore the importance of space, place, and community in both the creation of and 

engagement with creative artifacts. Questions that catalyzed this exploration (and influenced the 

final questions listed in the Methodology section) include:  

•  Where and how do people make, share, and read zines?  

•  Why do people make and read zines, and in the formats and settings they choose: 

circulating in communities, or situated in four-walled places, like schools and libraries?  

•  How do zines encourage and enrich someone’s sense of place – and, in turn, support and 

enrich the places and communities that form around zine-making?  

I’m interested in these questions as a zine-maker and current resident of Lansing, Michigan, 

where I first started reading and making zines in earnest. 

7 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Literature Review: A Developing Conversation with Librarians, 

Scholars, Writers, and Community Members 

In addition to various online communities and in-person conversations with friends, local 

artists, and zinesters, I also want to acknowledge the influence of the 2024 Watson Conference on 

this project. As an attendee last spring, I participated in a collaborative zine project entitled 

“Aca(DIY)mia,” which I now mark as one of the places on my zine-making map. I left the conference 

with a renewed understanding of the importance of in-person zine communities, and how I might 

continue to intertwine zine-making with community-based writing, writing pedagogy, and the act 

of writing itself, however we might define it.  

Excitingly and encouragingly, my literature review – mapped broadly in this section as a 

conversation with various voices and disciplines – suggests many possibilities for intertwinement. 

This literature also helped me identify what gaps I might fill or contribute to by focusing my thesis 

on the place-making, community-building, and spatial practices of three contemporary zinesters. 

Zines in the Archives 

The library at MSU is a prominent zine force in the Greater Lansing area. Under the 

direction of “zine librarian” Joshua Barton, the MSU library maintains a Special Collection of zines 

that can be viewed via appointment in the Special Collections Reading room, or incorporated into 

lesson plans or assignments with support from Barton. Special Collections appointments are 

available to “all researchers, regardless of academic affiliation or place of residence,” creating 

opportunities for individual graduate students like myself, instructors interested in facilitating on-

campus “field trips” for their students, or anyone else attempting to design a zine workshop. I first 

interacted with the Special Collections last spring, when I attended a “Zine Jam” facilitated by fellow 

graduate students employed at the MSU Writing Center. 

The MSU Zine Collection is an incredible educational resource and ongoing archival project, 

eliciting crucial but challenging questions about the ethics of archiving and citing zines (Berthoud et 

al., 2015; Barton & Olson, 2019; Fife, 2019). Zines are sometimes positioned as objects of the past: 

for example, as sources for urban planning history (Gimeno-Sánchez, 2022). This past-oriented 

perspective is not forwarded by all contemporary sources, however; some scholars, like Hays 

(2020) and Watson & Bennett (2021), illuminate the zine as a living, hopeful genre with “felt value” 

(Watson & Bennett), powerful articulations of identity and the self (Hays, p. 15), and significant 

implications for participatory, community-based research (Valli, 2021). 

8 

 
Based on my conversations with Joshua Barton at MSU Libraries and the information 

provided on the webpage for “Zines at the MSU Libraries,” the libraries demonstrate an awareness 

of the archival opportunities and complexities of zines. Barton and other zine librarians actively 

seek for ways to “activate” zines as communal artifacts, such that zines can more readily travel from 

the archives into the hands of community members – or, if not their physical hands, at least into 

their awareness. During a one-on-one conversation last spring, Barton described how zines call into 

question the “underpinnings of what we’re doing in libraries.” He described how the “instrumental 

orientation toward research” in academic libraries might depict zines as raw materials for 

scholarship, as opposed to living articles engaged in collective memory. “This entails affective 

responsibility to a wider range of people, not just scholars,” Barton shared.  

This desire to “activate” zines in a larger public consciousness, while honoring the rights 

and desires of zinesters and of zine readers, comes up in the Zine Librarians Code of Ethics 

(Berthoud et al., 2015), which outlines a set of core values to guide zine acquisition, collection, 

organization, archiving, and access in library settings. The Code acknowledges that “access to zines 

in libraries and archives carries an inherent tension” (p. 8), as zines often originate from creative 

communities and individuals working and writing against large institutions – like universities. 

Holding these tensions, the Code encourages zine librarians and archivists to do their best to 

preserve zines “and make them accessible to future readers and researchers, via physical access 

and description” (p. 9).  

At the MSU libraries, I view the Maker Space Zine Kit as a lower-level example of this 

accessibility work, “activating” zines by way of community engagement. By enabling students to 

check out materials (including a folding tool, brush pens, scrapbooking paper, and other crafting 

necessities) to make zines on their own, the library positions zine-making as a contemporary and 

accessible endeavor. The library also hosts a “Zine MakeStation” at its Hollander Makerspace. The 

Station, designed to make zine-making accessible to students on campus, also recalls the tension 

described in the Code by inviting students to make personal publications in the surveilled space of 

an academic institution. As someone who utilizes and appreciates this station, it’s very difficult to 

imagine anyone (staff or fellow students) looking at the work created in this station without 

creators’ consent. Even so, there’s something different about making zines in an institutional space, 

compared to doing the work in your bedroom in pajamas and staying up way too late on a Tuesday 

night to make perzines about an embarrassing and/or emotional experience. 

Fittingly, Fife (2019) describes zines as "personal archives" that also contain traces of a 

society's memory, channeling an interplay between “me” and “us” (p. 5, cited from McKemmish, 

9 

 
1996). Depending on the relative balance of intentions (and power) between “me” as zinester and 

“us” as archiver, zines may end up shoved in a bedside drawer or carefully stowed in an acid-free 

folder in the Special Collections of an academic library. Fully analyzing the ethics of zine 

preservation is beyond the scope of this project, but I view librarianship as central to the ethos of 

zines as accessible, communal, deeply embodied artifacts. These alternative texts are necessarily 

embodied modes of knowledge-making and acquisition, and can be difficult to describe and archive 

as physical representations of ephemeral, deeply felt experiences.  

Zines in Writing Pedagogy 

As a student, maker, and someone learning about writing instruction, zines have brought 

me closer to the “punctum of recognition,” described by Arroyo and Alaei, which “emerges from and 

provides access to knowledge inside the body.” This puncturing process instigates “disruption, 

disturbance” in my previous understanding of what writing can or should be. Arroyo and Alaei 

move from puncta to chora, which they describe as “an open-ended mode of invention” that “both 

unsettles us and moves us to respond.” VanKooten (2016) paraphrases other definitions and notes 

the older connotation of chora as “place,” before summarizing it as a methodology “through which 

we compose and feel out meanings from diverse materials, patterns, emotions, bodies, and 

memories.”  

Last spring, in a zine titled “I DON'T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING FOR THIS PROJECT (YET) (A 

ZINE)!” created for a Multimodal Composing course, I described zines as “choral spaces” that 

literally fold "time and space" (Arroyo & Alaei) in and out of their pages. Arroyo and Alaei describe 

pre-2010 YouTube as a choral space; its community “forms a network of creative practice” that 

transcends a fixed place or time, reminding me of zine communities. In reflection, VanKooten’s 

summative description of chora is a fitting way to frame what I was doing (even unconsciously) in 

that zine, as I unpacked the meaning of choral spaces and the potential benefits of teaching writing 

and composing through zines.  

In a writing classroom, some scholars introduce zines as texts that complicate students’ 

understanding of what “good writing” looks like, as expressed by Helmbrecht and Love (p. 166, 

2009) in their comparative analysis of two “mainstream” feminist zines, BUST and Bitch. Relatedly, 

instructors might cultivate more excitement and confidence in students by introducing them to the 

genre and granting opportunities for zine-writing without assessment. In her exploration of zines as 

a modality to support students’ diverse identities, Lonsdale (2015) emphasizes that “zine-reading 

and zine-making should be supported through an in-depth genre study… so that students (and 

10 

 
teachers) understand the history, purpose, and potential of zines as they are created and circulated 

in their natural environment” (p. 15).  

Based on my reading, literature on zine pedagogy from the early 2000s seemed to focus less 

on the assessment and embodiment of zines and more on their function as pedagogical texts to be 

created and/or analyzed by students. Doreen (2002), for example, describes how writing 

instructors might use zines to help students practice rhetorical and cultural analysis. She outlines a 

three-part paper assignment based on a “web zine” of each student’s choice, describing how 

students can use qualitative, ethnographic methods to study the “electronic subculture” 

represented by their zine. The subculture may be “organized around issues of identity that concern 

sexual orientation, gender, ethnicity, and race,” or “around a particular cultural icon or subcultural 

practice,” such as a fan community (Doreen, “Assignment Summary”).  

Although Doreen shows how zine-based assignments can promote critical thinking about 

subcultural production and non-mainstream texts, other educators caution about integrating zines 

into writing curriculum, noting the intimacy of zines as embodied and often (but not always) highly 

personal texts. Liz Mayorga, an educator and artist involved in the People of Color Zine Project, calls 

on educators to consider whether a “zine assignment” is the “best or most appropriate way to 

connect with your students or articulate a particular concept.” Educators assume privilege and 

authority in a classroom space, and they cannot assume that students “are totally free to share 

private details of their lives without consequences” (Mayorga, 2010) through the intimate format of 

a zine.  

Zines in Rhetorical Scholarship 

Moving beyond the classroom to more general rhetorical scholarship on zines, Rhodes 

(2002) employs the term “radical women’s textuality” to express “the idea of a networked 

community composed of writerly activists who work individually and collectively through their 

texts” (p. 128). These texts include zines and other feminist writing that “emphasize a type of 

agency that Susan Miller has called the ‘textual subject:’ a subject who consciously fictionalizes 

stability in order to write, to resist, and to act” (p. 128). Rhodes emphasizes the importance of 

digital, creative, textual spaces for women who may struggle to write their voices into being in 

physical, more regimented and gendered spaces. 

By fictionalizing stability (which we might understand as the apparent “finality” of a 

zinester publishing their stance, belief, or even a seemingly silly hot take), zines encourage the kind 

of soul-seeking and stance-taking described by Guzzetti and Gamboa (2004) in their study of 

adolescent girls writing zines for social justice. Their findings reinforce the archival power of zines 

11 

 
to “fill the gap” (Gimeno-Sánchez, 2022, p. 1117), creating a deserved and even sacred space for 

minoritized voices in historical records. The adolescent zinesters of Guzzetti and Gamboa’s study 

demonstrate another use of zines in qualitative, interview-based research, as well as the 

community- and identity-building enabled by zines. Above all, Guzzetti and Gamboa illuminate “the 

opportunity zining gave [the interviewees] to stake a position in the world” (p. 431) and historicize 

their positions in zine form.  

As shown in the previous section, zines are often academicized in the field of rhetoric and 

composition in terms of their relationship to writing pedagogy. One work that focuses on the 

rhetorical applications of zines outside of the classroom is rhetorician Adela C. Licona, author of 

Zines in Third Space: Radical Cooperation and Borderlands Rhetoric (2012), wherein she focuses on 

“feminist-of-color zines that are co-authored and co-produced” (p. 15). Most of these zines are 

found in the Sallie Bingham Center for Women's History and Culture, Rare Book, Manuscript, and 

Special Collections Library, at Duke University (p. 123). 

In the opening chapter, Licona describes how her upbringing on the “U.S./ Mexico 

borderlands” oriented her toward “borderlands rhetorics,’” which she broadly defines as “third-

space discourses “that can liberate us from the confines and constrictions of dominant dichotomous 

thinking, knowing, and being” (p. 17). She finds that zines, which “can be highly imaginative and 

connectional,” are “an excellent site” for studying borderlands rhetorics (p. 34).  In an academic 

context, Licona defines third space “as the space resulting from the crossing of disciplinary 

borders… Academic border crossings can be knowledge-generating acts of resistance to imposed 

disciplinary orderings—be they scientific, social, sexual, historic, or cultural” (p. 170). “In short,” 

she summarizes in her introductory chapter, “third space is a space that materializes what borders 

serve to divide, subordinate, and obscure” (p. 11). More generally, Licona describes space as “a 

relational production, that is to say, a product of social relations, and thus, necessarily political” (p. 

115) – a conception she attributes to feminist and critical geographer Doreen Massey. 

From her positionality as a Chicana scholar and based on the zines in her analysis, Licona 

argues that these texts serve as “materialized third spaces, ultimately reflecting “borderlands 

rhetorics through the language of resistance, opposition, and, most importantly, coalition” (p. 116). 

While she acknowledges the “pedagogical potential” of zines, her moves beyond the classroom 

illuminate their radical coalitional, community, and activist potential (p. 120). In a 2014 review of 

the book, feminist rhetorician Jenna Vinson summarizes Licona’s book as one that “provides 

activists, researchers, and educators with 1) a new theoretical framework through which to analyze 

12 

 
community literacies and coalitional practices and 2) a vibrant genre to consider for community 

literacy projects and rhetorical analysis: zines” (p. 92).  

I include Licona’s book here as a key example of zines doing community-driven rhetorical 

work and, when understood as third spaces, capable of “revealing an intimate connection between 

place and self” (Licona, p. 22). Licona cites Patton and Sánchez-Eppler’s definition of place as “‘a 

mobile imaginary, a form of desire’” – that, when viewed through a third-space framework and 

applied to zines, positions “third-space zinesters as multiply-situated subjects” who “embody 

multiple sites, social locations, and various and fluid identity markers” (p. 22). The definitional 

flexibility of place recalls my earlier conception of “artist-in-residences” and reflects the fluid 

nature of third spaces, which can be physical or geographical locations, methodological approaches, 

or even practices of “embodied knowledge.” As embodied and “desiring beings,” Licona writes, we 

are “more than our skin and always circulating in the potential of (intimate) realignments and of 

becoming an/other in the crossing of our daily borders” (p. 67), which we might describe as daily 

practices of navigating third spaces: of “being conscious of both/and possibilities as opposed to 

either/or distinctions” (Vinson 2014, p. 92).  

Licona calls upon readers to consider and honor “nondominant ways of knowing and being” 

(p. 120), which we can often find in the pages of zines. Her reflections and spatial framework 

inspire me as a student planning to work outside of the academy, reinforcing my view of zines as 

dually choral and third spaces that “resist dominant dichotomies, build coalition, share lived 

knowledge, and promote grassroots literacies” (Vinson, p. 93).  

Doing Research With and About Zines  

As I designed this study, I drew inspiration from Guzzetti and Gamboa and other 

researchers who reposition zine-making and zine analysis as a mode of qualitative research. From 

the mid-2010s and onward, various scholars have studied zines and their surrounding 

communities, both by analyzing archived and contemporary zines and asking study participants to 

create their own zines as an alternative form of interviewing.  

Biagioli, Pässilä, and Owens (2021) present the zine genre as a “visual ethnography 

approach” (p. 172) and a “qualitative method of collection and analysis” (p. 173) that can be used in 

a range of disciplines, complementing the data gleaned from other qualitative methods such as 

interviews, testimonials, and case studies. The three authors — all coming from different 

disciplines — illustrate how zines can be implemented as self-reflective tools to (1) record 

participants’ experiences in an academic conference environment, and (2) support student 

13 

 
reflection and learning, specifically in graduate-level “Service Design” and “Documentary 

Photography” courses taught by Biagioli. 

Shifting from participatory zine-making to zine analysis from an archival lens, Gimeno-

Sánchez (2022) focuses on a specific sliver of zines – environmentalist zines published in Europe 

during the 1970s – and illustrates the value of these alternative texts for qualitative research in 

urban planning history. Through collection and analysis of seven transnational zines, Gimeno-

Sánchez explores and enacts the potential of zines as “‘minor’ sources,” which “can help reveal new 

readings of existing narratives” (p. 1117): in this case, of the relationship between urban planning 

history and environmentalism.  

Recent studies also leverage the increasingly digital creation, production, and distribution 

of zines, including Matich, Parsons, and Ashman (2024), mentioned previously, who theorize zines 

as infrastructure for digital feminist activism. Focusing their study “on a London and online-based 

zine community which coalesces around the gal-dem and Polyester zines” (p. 1054), the authors 

emphasize the value of zines for feminist political organizers with the desire, resources, and 

“strategic intent” to engage with “differing media forms” across social, digital, and material spheres 

(p. 1068). This study evokes the thesis of Sarah Rayner, a PhD candidate in Cultural Studies at Trent 

University, who invites future researchers to pay closer attention to “zines in a community and 

cultural context,” noting that much of zine research purely “focuses on zine as a piece of media” (p. 

99). I find that Matich, Parsons, and Ashman approach zines from the cultural and community 

perspective that Rayner describes, and I attempted to do the same in my thesis by attending to the 

individual stories and larger communities of each zinester.  

14 

 
 
 
 
 
 
Pre-Methodology: Reflecting on Positionality, Identity, and 

Definitions 

When thinking about the design of any study, I find Aja Martinez’s definition of 

methodology in the opening chapter of Counterstory: The Rhetoric and Writing of Critical Race 

Theory (2020) to be incredibly helpful. Martinez distinguishes between methodology as a “verb” – 

the process, the theoretical justification (p. 2) – and method as the “noun, the genre, the research 

tool” (p. 2). “Articulating a methodology simply makes that approach transparent to your audience 

and clear to yourself,” add Clary-Lemon, Mueller, and Pantelides in their book Try This: Research 

Methods For Writers (2022). In this section, I will take note from these scholars and clarify my 

methods and methodology, as well the rationale and positionalities that shape my approach.  

I designed this study from the perspective of an artist, researcher, writer, and zinester, and 

thus with an interest in arts-based methodologies, which assert that “the integration of creative 

practices and artistic work is part of the research process” (Beck, 2021, p. 18). Some representative 

methodologies could include visual art-making, designing a choreography, or co-creating with 

participants, which Beck explores through the creation of “Queer in the Kitchen”: an online gallery 

made collaboratively to archive moments of queer domesticity.  

I gravitate toward these creative methodologies as an artist and former visual art instructor. 

My students and co-instructors showed me alternative ways of communicating and storytelling via 

drawing, painting, plaster-making, papier-mâché, or simply sitting on the floor when creative media 

felt too stimulating. I worked with students from a range of cultural and racial backgrounds, and the 

same was true of my previous work as a case manager at a shelter. When co-creating “Safety Plans” 

and “Care Plans” with people experiencing domestic abuse, creative acts of care – for example, 

identifying a favorite song or a safe spot to write, reflect, and reset – often surfaced alongside the 

more “standard” actions of blocking unsafe people on social media, changing phones, and applying 

for jobs and assistance. While these technical documents were designed to collect basic information 

and also protect our organization in the event of an audit, they also offered subtle opportunities for 

reflection on the creative, imaginative, and hopeful acts that bring us back to ourselves. 

As I’ve transitioned to working with and making zines, many of which have been made by 

communities discriminated by race, gender, sexuality, and other forms of identity, I think about the 

complexities of engaging in community and social justice-oriented work as a cis white woman. I 

also think about the harms that can happen if I do not approach this work with respect, honesty, 

and a desire to learn and listen. As a model, I appreciate Breanne Matheson’s sentiment that, as a 

15 

 
white woman and technical communication scholar, “privilege is woven through her work” (2021, 

p. 22). Here, I think about how my willingness to create and share certain perzines (especially ones 

on more vulnerable topics like sexuality or intimacy) is tied to the privilege I have to share these 

stories with some degree of comfort, feeling of safety, or support from others. Throughout and 

beyond this thesis, I consider how projects based on zinesters’ stories might serve as platforms for 

voices and communities other than my own, modeling the “openness and accountability” about the 

limitations of my individual perspective and analysis in social justice work, as Matheson describes 

(p. 22).  

Finally, I reflect on my positionality as a graduate student immersed in discussions about 

the disciplinary “home” of rhetoric relative to English, Composition, and related disciplines. Reading 

the four “Octalogs” emphasized, to me, the foundational notion of rhetoric as “a transdisciplinary 

subject” (p. 33), as Mountford describes in the second Octalog (1997), and how transiting across 

disciplines – including the arts – encourages more creative and inclusive methodologies, like those 

documented in the upcoming case studies and other zine-based research.  

In addition to reflecting on my own positionality and identities, I drew on oral history 

approaches to guide my interview methodology. These approaches can include storytelling via 

video or phone interviews, questionnaires, zine-making, and artifact gathering and analysis, many 

of which are employed by the scholars mentioned in the previous section. However, because these 

scholars do not explicitly categorize their research tools as oral history methods, I turned to the 

Oral History Association (OHA) to learn more about the core principles and best practices of oral 

history projects.  

OHA defines oral history as “both the interview process and the products that result from a 

recorded spoken interview (whether audio, video, or other formats),” and contends that the 

“hallmark of an oral history interview is a dynamic, collaborative relationship between the 

interviewer and the narrator.” Because my participants were geographically scattered, I had to 

conduct all interviews online. To promote a more collaborative relationship beyond the one-time 

interview, I shared each case study section with the respective participant and invited feedback and 

revisions via email. Participants will also receive copies of the summative zine from this project and 

Lan-zine. While these actions in no way replicate the dynamism and depth of an ongoing, in-person 

relationship, I wanted to involve participants as much as possible within the scope and timeline of 

this project. 

16 

 
Methodology 

With these disciplinary considerations and precedents in mind, I finally arrived at this arts-

based methodology as someone interested in the historical, communal, personal, and embodied 

nature of zines, which can be explored via archival and creative methods. In this case, I utilized 

storytelling, facilitated by interviews and zines, as my primary method, and approved the study 

through Michigan State’s Institutional Review Board. I chose to interview three zinesters, two via 

email and one via video call. As I worked on this project, I engaged in informal conversations with 

other zinesters and scholars about their creative practices and communities, some of which are 

referenced in the preceding literature review. For the final project, I chose to focus on the 

experiences of three individuals, allowing for closer analysis of their responses and a careful “case 

study” approach to each zinester.  

During the interviews, I reviewed informed consent and then asked each zinester to 

digitally share one of their zines as "artifacts.” All interviewees responded to the following 

questions about their artifacts and zine-making practices:  

1.  Why do you make zines? 

2.  Who do you make zines with (if anyone)? 

3. 

4. 

 Do you have an intended audience(s) in mind for your zines? 

 How do you distribute your zines? 

•  Online, in-person, or both? 

•  Why do you distribute zines in the way(s) you’ve indicated? 

5.  Do you sell your zines? 

•  Why or why not? 

• 

If yes: Online, in-person, or both? Why? 

6.  I’m interested in zines as texts with “felt value,” referencing the potential power of holding 

and reading a zine in your hands. 

•  Keeping this concept in mind, do you feel that you experience zines differently when 

they are print/material as compared to when they are digital/online? 

•  Why do you feel that way? Can you say a bit more? 

7.  Do you belong to any communities related to zine-making (clubs, distros, reading groups, 

etc.)? If “yes”:  

•  Are they online or in-person? 

•  What is the purpose of this community (or communities)? 

17 

 
•  What is your purpose for participating in the community? What do you get out 

of it? 

8.  Artifact-Based Interview Question: Now, we’ll talk about the example of your zine work 

that you believe shows connections to community, space, and/or place. 

•  How did you conceptualize “space,” “place,” and/or “community” as you selected your 

example? 

○  What does “space” mean to you? “Place?” “Community?” 

•  How does this example show connections to space, place, and/or community? 

•  Of these three concepts (space, place, and community), which one(s) resonate the most 

with you in the context of this zine, and why? 

9.  Closing Question: How do you envision the future of zines: the future of your zine-making 

practice, and the future of zines as a genre, more broadly? 

By presenting the zinesters’ responses to these questions in the upcoming case studies, I 

create space for myself and readers to get to know each zinester and the ways in which they engage 

in place- and community-building practices in their zines. Across all three interviews, I identify key 

terms or words and then assign descriptive themes, which indicate areas where the zinesters’ 

responses overlap, complement one another, or diverge.  

Finally, I analyze and “collate” these themes in the final summary, which I begin in this essay 

and continue as a zine. By creating a summative zine to communicate the takeaways of this project, 

I aim to make the experiences of these zinesters more accessible and meaningful to a larger 

audience, as other zines have done for me on a variety of topics: from the anatomy of giraffes, to 

resistance strategies, to first-time motherhood. I also desire to expand the boundaries of what 

counts as meaningful research in the field of rhetoric and writing, honoring the work of other 

researchers, historians, artists, writers, makers, and readers whose enthusiasm for alternative texts 

has inspired my own.  

18 

 
 
 
 
 
 
Results: Zinester Case Studies 

Before writing each of these case studies, I completed several analytical reviews of the 

transcripts from each interview. The main themes that emerged from the three transcripts are:  

•  Distribution of zines 

•  Production of zines 

•  Community 

•  Place 

•  Space 

•  Feeling/ Emotion 

•  Self/ Identity 

•  Monetization 

•  Zines as artifacts 

Predictably, some zinesters touched on certain themes more than others. These are also 

themes that I – as someone wearing the hats of both researcher and zinester – formulated on my 

own, informed by my biases and experiences as a reader, maker, and interviewer. As a result, it’s 

very likely that other interviewers may have surfaced different themes than the ones I outline 

above. Considering the inevitable biases and differences in perception, I aimed to identify enough 

themes to honor the breadth and depth of my interviewees’ responses within the scope of this 

project.  

1. Remi Germaine 

Remi Germaine runs a zine distro under the name Peachy Keen Zine Press. On her website, 

she briefly describes how the press began when she signed up for her very first zine festival. Many 

zinesters (including myself) identify and distribute their zines under a “distro” (distributor), which 

may be run by a group but is often headed by only one individual. 

On her Instagram profile, Remi describes herself as a letter writer, zine maker, and 

illustrator. Based on my interview with Remi, which we completed over email, I’d also describe 

Remi as an especially sensitive, attentive, and curious creator; someone who creates zines to 

“connect with people,” she summarized. Remi is not currently active in any zine communities, 

although she has organized some in-person zine-making events and groups in the past. These days, 

she primarily makes zines by herself, with a few exceptions: including the zine she shared with me 

for this project, made collaboratively with her twin sister. 

19 

 
Remi’s response to the third question about intended audiences reinforces her view of zines 

as part of a connective genre, dually inward and outward. Each zine is a process-turned-product 

that connects her not only to other people, but to herself – and this makes sense, as Remi is her own 

target audience. “My main goal when making zines is to make them for me,” she explained. “I think 

this helps keep my zines genuine and personal. My hope is that the reader ends up seeing a bit of 

themselves in my zines. I really want to create those little human connections.” 

By sharing her “stories and thoughts” in zines, Remi hopes to create “genuine and 

comfortable connections” that resonate with readers. To promote these connections, she 

distributes and sells her zines through a variety of channels: on Patreon, where her readers can sign 

up to receive a monthly perzine; at zine festivals in Utah, where she currently lives, and through 

online trades and submissions, facilitated mostly by Instagram. “Surprisingly Instagram has been a 

great way to connect with other zinesters, as much as I hate social media,” Remi shared.  

Remi described online and offline distribution as “very different experiences”: in-person 

experiences at zine festivals are “more exciting but fleeting,” she said, while online interactions are 

primarily with people “invested in me as an artist and friend.” In both spaces, Remi sells her zines at 

a low cost, guided by the belief that zines should be affordable. “In the end, anyone who is willing to 

spend money on zines knows that it's about the ideas and community, not the product,” she 

reflected.  Some of the “ideas” embedded in the zine community include an appreciation for print 

media, which Remi favors wholeheartedly. “I love print tangible print media,” she exclaimed, then 

continued:  

For me, zines are incredibly personal, and having a zine to hold solidifies that concept in a 

different way than a digital zine can. The more mistakes, the more charm, and you don’t get 

that in digital media. Everything is so clean and perfect, I wanna see where the printer ink 

ran out, ya know?  

In the artifact portion of our interview, Remi described the relationship between her zine-

making practice and ongoing journey “of discovering what being half Hawaiian” meant to her, 

specifically through a zine series titled Hapa (Figure 1) co-created with her sister. As a result, I 

categorized the most keywords from Remi’s interview under the “Self/Identity” category. Many of 

Remi’s references to personal and cultural identity interacted with her conception of space, which 

she explored with her sister in Hapa. “To me ‘space’ means getting to claim it as my own,” Remi 

described. “This Hapa zine series is really to remind myself that I don’t need to know everything to 

claim this culture as my own. There is enough space in all culture circles for mixed race humans to 

exist and to claim space.” 

20 

 
Throughout our interview, Remi used the word “space” with greater frequency than “place,” 

which she used only once. She conceptualized her sense of space as “the space I allow myself to 

occupy” as both a “mixed-race human” and someone who has “felt so quiet, mousy and invisible 

most of my life,” she shared. In connecting space to “community,” Remi wondered:  

Who gets to decide how much is enough and how much space in the Polynesian 

communities I get to occupy? I view community in the same light [as space]. What 

communities am I allowed to participate in? Who gets to decide what communities I lay 

claim to? 

The Hapa series thus became a space for Remi and her sister to explore these questions and, 

if not answer them with certainty, at least give themselves “permission to join whatever community 

you feel lifts you up the most,” Remi reflected.  

One of Remi’s final sentiments illustrates her interchangeable sense of “space” and “place,” 

which I think creates a fruitful fuzziness. Strictly defining and dividing these terms as “separate” 

seems, in many ways, antithetical to the complexity of belonging to and embracing one’s cultural 

identities and communities. Remi writes:  

Getting to create a zine series that highlights one of my biggest insecurities is the pinnacle of 

the work I’ve done to find my place. Exposing my insecurities of not feeling Hawaiian 

“enough” helped me further sink my feet into the space that I have claimed for myself. 

From space to community to feeling “enough” in a community, Remi illuminated the spatial 

and cultural power of zines for both their makers and readers, especially when held in physical 

form. For the makers, Remi and her sister, the Hapa series gave them space and time, over a series 

of zines, to discover “what it means for us to be Hawaiians not raised in Hawaii,” Remi shared. 

Referencing the readers of Hapa, Remi explained that “one of our goals in creating this zine series is 

to let people know that you don’t need to know everything about a community to be a part of it.”  

In this way, this zine series functioned as a source of reassurance and an impetus for spatial 

and cultural exploration, for “discovery” among both readers and makers. Remi does not explicitly 

use the word “healing” to describe this zine or the surrounding process, but the word strikes me as 

one way to describe her zine experience. For both their makers and readers, zines can reorient us 

toward our communities and ground us in space, in place, and in community, in ways that are 

humanly complex and messy, creatively inspiring and rewarding, and healing. 

21 

 
 
 
 
Figure 1. A photograph provided by Remi, showing a hand holding two copies of the Hapa zine 

series.  

2. Bre Upton  

Bre Upton is a zinester and professional artist with a significant Instagram presence and 

“Tiny Print Shop” website, where she sells zines and related merchandise. I interviewed her via 

email, and with the hope of learning more about digital practices of place- and community-building 

among zinesters.  

I categorized the most keywords from Bre’s interview under the “Distribution” category, 

followed by “Community”: both domains that Bre must prioritize as a small business owner. 

Because publishing her work online is “not enough,” Bre said she often walks into small bookstores 

or shops and asks them to do wholesale with her. This practice supports local businesses while 

enabling her to reach more readers. Bre also trades and gives zines away for free at zine fests, or as 

donations to local libraries, schools, and teachers. These relationships, while sometimes framed as 

22 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
“business” relations, appear more communal and reciprocal than transactional, as they increase 

Bre’s exposure as a zinester and professional artist while supporting local businesses and 

educational systems. 

In response to the first three questions, Bre articulated her “why” for zine-making as “a 

form of self-expression.” She usually only makes zines alone and without a specific audience in 

mind: “I just hope whoever experiences my work can resonate with it,” she said. Bre also resonated 

with the conception of zines as texts with “felt value,” stating her preference for “zines that I can 

hold in my hand, because then I feel transported to the creator’s energy at the time of creation,” she 

described, then continued:  

Digital zines are great, cheap, and accessible...but it keeps me wanting more. I feel like I 

experience zines differently when they’re printed because it lingers with me longer, which 

inspires me in my own work. Unfortunately, digital zines have a harder time leaving an 

impact on me because I’m so used to being on my phone that it becomes way too easy to 

scroll past zines on the internet. 

Although Bre perceives digital zines themselves as less imbued with the energy of the 

zinester, she finds most of her zine communities in digital spaces, including her YouTube channel, 

Instagram, and an open Discord server where she can “connect to other zine makers from all over 

the world.” In these online communities, she gains friendships, other eyes for her work, and 

constructive feedback, as well as information about zine-related events across the U.S.  

Bre shared a zine titled Oh! The Places You’ll Cry (Figures 2 and 3), “a short perzine about 

different places in my city that I’ve had mental breakdowns or have gotten so emotional I couldn’t 

contain it and just started crying in public,” she said. Bre shared the PDF of the zine with me: the 

cover page is a Seuss-inspired introduction to “A guide to Downtown Long Beach through tears!” 

The inner pages include collaged images of Bre, friends, and scenes from the film La La Land; typed 

and handwritten entries about life experiences; and, true to the zine title, detailed entries for each 

location on Bre’s tearful journey through Long Beach.  

In response to the questions framed around this zine, Bre first conceptualized “space,” 

“place,” and “community” collectively: “as a third area of comfort away from whatever other places 

we’re required to be such as home, work or school,” she defined. “Spaces that feel comfortable and 

safe to me are things like zine communities, fests, or workshops because you can truly be yourself 

and let go of any societal expectations of how you should behave or act. Within zine spaces, you’re 

only required to create and express yourself and I think that’s so important.” Zines thus become 

23 

 
spaces within themselves: self-published infrastructures for crying (and, hopefully, healing) and 

facilitators of more communal spaces, like zine fests and workshops. 

Bre connected her personal definitions of space, place, and community to Oh! The Places 

You’ll Cry “through the emotions” expressed by the zine. “Since crying is something we typically do 

alone, or within a confined “safe space”, me crying in public is making any third space now one of 

my primary ones,” she explained. Similar to Remi, Bre didn’t make significant distinctions between 

space, place, and community – but of these three concepts, she resonated with “community” the 

most. She continued:  

...while we may often find ourselves in various “spaces” and “places,” it sort of means 

nothing if other people aren’t there to experience. The context of this zine focuses on how I 

can feel my emotions while still being perceived by others, and that not all healing needs to 

be done alone. 

Figure 2. The front cover of Oh! The Places You’ll Cry. 

Bre’s concluding thoughts on zines allude to their healing and human qualities compared to 

internet spaces, which she described as “sterile.” She interprets the growing popularity of zines as a 

response to this sterility, and believes that “society at large is seeking something more meaningful, 

real, and raw, which are areas zines can fill.” 

24 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Figure 3. The full spread of Bre’s Oh! The Places You’ll Cry zine. 

25 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Figure 3 (cont’d)  

26 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Figure 3 (cont’d) 

27 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
3. Alice Wynne 

Alice Wynne is a zinester, artist, writer, and librarian. When I interviewed her over Zoom in 

the fall of 2024, she was working on her Master’s degree in Library and Information Science at San 

José State University, and she completed the degree in December of 2024.   

When asked why she makes zines, Alice emphasized the importance of fun and the power of 

printing. “It's a fun way to combine words and visuals, and I can write about whatever I want, and I 

love photocopying stuff. The Xerox is a really good medium,” she said. Of the three zinesters I 

interviewed, Alice emphasized the role of Xeroxing most in her zine-making process, from her 

initial conception to final printing and distribution. She offered another reason for making zines as 

a way to bypass traditional publication routes: in zines, “you can write about whatever you want 

and publish it, and you don't have to ask anybody for approval. So you can be a journalist, albeit not 

part of an organization,” she explained. 

Community and Self/ Identity emerged as the two most prominent themes across Alice’s 

responses, although she also made significant references to Distribution, Production, and 

Monetization. Freed from the constraints of mainstream publishers and editors, Alice mostly makes 

zines alone, enjoying the autonomy of a freelance writer or independent journalist with access to 

words, images, and distribution channels of her choosing. In the past, however, she has made 

collaborative zines, as well as a zine that compiled community contributions when she lived in 

Olympia, WA.  

Alone and in community, Alice’s zine-making precedes adulthood and even her conscious 

awareness. She started “consciously making” zines at 14 and first sold them at a bookstore, she 

recalled, but her “unconscious” zine-making era coincided with a lifelong passion for magazines and 

early access to a photocopying machine:  

...my mom was a teacher at my school, and so I had a lot of free time. So I would make zines 

and then go into the teacher's office and photocopy them… And then my cousin introduced 

me to zines, and I was like, "Oh, I've been doing this for a while." 

As an adult, Alice’s zines have evolved into “mainly humorous takes on pop culture and 

current events.” With this content in mind, she described her audience as “anyone that likes to 

laugh,” and “people that like to read about pop culture and politics.” While Alice used to sell zines at 

other bookstores, online, and at zine fests (including the upcoming LA Zine Fest, where she first 

tabled in 2015), she described the various difficulties of selling and distributing her work, both in 

person and online:  

28 

 
I started to get really overwhelmed with Zine Fests, tabling at them, but now I'm also 

overwhelmed at going to them. I think that's one downside of the popularity of zines 

because they've gotten super popular, which is really great, but it just means that there's 

going to be a lot more people at events. For a claustrophobic introvert, that's not fun. I 

actually don't really sell my zines anymore. One reason is that I don't want to do the work of 

setting up a profile on the internet or updating a profile on the internet.  

Although Alice doesn’t currently sell her zines, she remains committed to zine-making as a 

practice of fun, connection, and humorous exploration of different topics, often inspired by 

mainstream magazines and her lifelong desire to be a writer and photographer. As Alice considers 

her professional future as a librarian and writer, zines remain a source of constancy in her life. 

There’s no media conglomerate to pitch to, no approval-seeking from a finicky editor; just Alice, a 

pitch to herself, and a Xerox machine. 

The resulting freedom of Alice’s zine-making process shapes the publication and finally 

distribution of her zines. In theory, the steps are straightforward: finish collaging a zine, find a 

printer, and make as many copies as desired to share with the intended audience, each step 

determined by Alice as the leading editor. But in practice, the path from zinester to reader, or from 

reader to some form of archive, can be much more complicated.  

To illustrate this complexity as well as the sense of “community” embodied in her zine 

example, Alice described her journey to photocopy a zine she made at the 2024 Zine Librarian 

unConference in New York City (Figure 4). Inside the zine, Alice humorously references the 

contributions of different friends: for example, she thanks “Liza for the glue; someone else for the 

fun; you, dear reader, for your social security number.” Alice wrote about both “Los Angeles and 

New York City” and “referenced all my friends,” she said. “And so in the actual document, I 

reference the conference community, but I think the document itself has the energy of different 

people in New York City.”  

Alice first read the original, uncopied zine to her conference community, then walked to the 

Brooklyn Public Library to photocopy the original with the help of a Young Adult librarian. “I 

couldn’t understand the Xerox machine,” Alice reflected. “It was like a touch screen and blah, blah, 

blah…”. The librarian helped her, and Alice gave her a copy as a parting gift. The library did not have 

a long-arm stapler, however, so Alice ducked into a UPS store to find a stapler before dropping off a 

copy to Barnard College “because there's at least two zine librarians that work at Barnard,” she 

explained. She set the scene of the UPS store:  

29 

 
 
The people working there were just talking, and I was like, "Can I use your stapler?" And 

they were like, "Yeah, whatever." And they were talking about their night. Just every step of 

getting this zine out there, I communicated with someone. And that's a really fun element of 

zine making. You can make it and photocopy it and distribute it without telling anyone. But I 

think that zine-making, for me, is a great way to connect with people. 

Before the final zine drop-off at Barnard College, Alice stopped at a bookstore with some friends: 

It had been raining, and a feeble wet rat crossed our paths and stopped at this iron gate. And 

on the other side of the iron gate was a drop into a stairwell. And I got really upset and I 

wanted to help it. And my friend was like, “We can't. There's nothing we can do.” And this 

woman stopped with me and was like, “I wish I had gloves."                                                                                               

Defeated by the circumstances, Alice and her friends entered the bookstore, and Alice exited 

about 45 minutes later to go to Barnard. She looked over the iron gate to check on the rat, and the 

same woman walked up and said: "You're looking for it, too?" The two “got to walking and talking,” 

Alice said, “and I was like, ‘I'm here for a zine conference. I'm a zinester. Do you want my zine?’ And 

she was like, ‘No.’ And then I said, ‘Okay, well, I'm just going to drop it off at Barnard right now.’ And 

she was like, ‘Okay, I'll take a copy.’” 

Alice prefaced that this story might not be relevant to my thesis. Yet the zig-zag path from 

the Brooklyn Public Library, to the UPS store, to a wet rat, and finally to a prestigious institution 

speaks to the hidden complexities of zine production and distribution, and how many different 

“scenes” a zine may complete before settling on someone’s bookshelf, a coffee shop, or a public 

library. 

In all steps of the process, Alice expressed her preference for physical zines: “I think that the 

act of making things with your hands, if you can, is super beneficial to your brain,” she said. In 

production, she loves “making zines the old-fashioned way,” as opposed to using Adobe or other 

advanced digital programs. “You're cutting and you're pasting, and you're flipping through 

magazines,” Alice said of her collage process. In distribution, “I also prefer print because I love 

holding things,” she expressed, before expanding on the uniqueness of zines as texts with felt value: 

…it's more of an artifact when it's in print, especially with zines where they're so cheap, so 

you can send them anywhere. And I've come across my zines in random places, zines that 

I've seen that I know I didn't sell to this person. They just somehow came across it. I don't 

know how many hands that traveled through, but thinking about that is super cool. I have a 

bunch of zines from the '90s. That's lived through so many decades, and how many scenes 

30 

 
has that object gone through? So since it's not an object on the internet, you don't have that 

provenance, and the provenance is not as special, I guess. 

Figure 4. The zine Alice worked on during her time in New York City.  

Even so, Alice has uploaded her zines online “when I really just want people to read them,” 

she said, referencing the accessibility of digital zines. “You don't have to reach out to me to get a 

digital zine. You don't have to pay me. Just download it. So that's really cool. It's easier for some 

people that way… I also think that digital zines are more accessible for people with visual 

impairments.” 

As a zine librarian, Alice has spent years thinking about the benefits and qualities of 

different kinds of zines. She identified other zine librarians as a primary source of community that 

connects her to zine enthusiasts across the world through different events. In addition to the 2024 

Zine Librarian unConference, Alice attended the 2023 American Library Association conference and 

helped with the “Zine Pavilion,” a designated area “where you could make your own zines, attend a 

tiny little discussion about zines, and then you could also leave your zine and read someone else's 

zine. And there were actually people selling zines there too,” Alice reflected.  

31 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
These temporary gatherings and professional networks contribute to Alice’s sense of community 

via zine librarianship. She emphasized the physical nature of this community, particularly at the 

New York unConference, where “it just felt really great to be physically a part of that community,” 

she shared; “to hear other people's perspectives and to hear about the projects that they've been 

working on.” At the end of the unConference, the librarians assembled in small groups to talk about 

creating another draft of the Zine Librarian Code of Ethics, mentioned earlier in the Literature 

Review section. This community of zine librarians evidences the enduring role of in-person 

gatherings to connect, create zines, and document and update professional practices and standards.  

Some of these standards pertain to honoring the identity or anonymity of zinesters whose 

works are preserved in archives. When librarians catalogue zines, Alice explained, a zinester might 

be able to find themselves in some online databases. As a zinester with zines catalogued in select 

libraries, Alice discussed the trickiness of honoring different versions of herself: 

…my zine that I distribute for free, that’s on WorldCat but it's under Alice W. and sometimes 

I'm like, “It should be under Alice Wynne,” because I want everything to be connected. I 

want someone to Google me and then find everything that I want them to see. But also not 

making that correction, not calling up a library and being like, “Actually, it's Alice Wynne,” 

honors the twenty-year-old that made that zine and was like, ‘I want to remain anonymous.” 

Alice’s commentary on identity and anonymity illustrates the ethical dilemmas that may 

emerge from zine-making and preservation. By thinking about her past self as a separate creator 

with different desires and beliefs around zine-making, Alice can appreciate the motivations of that 

younger creator. Yet as a new librarian entering the workforce, she also feels “conflicted by the 

contradiction of wanting to remain anonymous so that I can get a job,” she shared. “What if 

someone reads one of my zines that talks about really outrageous stuff, and then I walk through the 

door for a job interview? But the thing about that is that I don't want to work for or with someone 

that can't respect the First Amendment.” 

In the spirit of freedom afforded by zines, these questions are primarily up to the zinester to 

answer, and their responses for archivists to honor. Ideally, zine distribution is also driven by the 

wishes of the zinester (and codified by documents like the Zine Librarian Code of Ethics). While 

distribution is another potentially rich step of zine-making, it is not currently “a big part of my 

process,” Alice said. “Once I get [the zine] photocopied and stapled, I'm just like, actually, it's done 

its purpose. I feel so great, and I've had fun, and I don't need other people's validation, but how I 

distribute it is an extra, it's like an added bonus.”  

32 

 
 
In her concluding thoughts, Alice expanded on ethical concerns in reference to the growing 

popularity of zines:  

In general, I really like the fact that zines have become more popular and that they're being 

incorporated into schoolwork. And a lot more people are becoming zine librarians; the zine 

world is expanding. I think that's really cool. But then there's always at least one moment in 

the lifespan of a material or a medium where it gets just too oversaturated. I don't know 

how to put it, but there's a lot of stuff in the world that has been ruined by people trying to 

make a lot of money or change things to fit their own styles. For example, with 

neighborhoods, gentrification ... It's just crazy to see a neighborhood change so much. And 

the current style, the contemporary style for architecture and design is super sterile, but 

also there's a lot of raw wood involved and coffee shops now, they're not cozy at all. 

Compare this sterility to the coziness of collaging a zine together with your hands, or the absurdity 

of running into a wet rat and a hesitant reader on the way to find a long-arm stapler at the UPS 

store. These vignettes, imbued in the zine Alice shared with me, attest to the warm, whimsical, 

community-driven ethos of her zine-making and inform her hopes for the future. “I think that zines 

are definitely going to go more down the track of corporate monetization,” she predicted, “but while 

that is happening, there's still going to be a lot of people making and learning about zines. They're 

actually going to do it for the right reasons.” 

4. Me  

My conversations with these three zinesters brought me into deeper conversation with my 

own zine practices and communities. In this final case study, I respond to the same questions I 

posed to Remi, Bre, and Alice. I continue this response in the summative zine, which highlights and 

expands on key takeaways shared in the final “Collation” portion of this essay. 

Like Remi, I make zines to connect with other people. Like Bre, I make zines as a form of 

self-expression, especially when I’m unsure how to initiate a conversation about something that 

feels weird, challenging, and/or confusing. And, like Alice, I make zines because I have so much fun 

creating them, save for moments of hair-pulling while drawing, printing, or collating the final pages.  

If I were to combine all of these motivations, I’d say I make zines because I have a really 

hard time not making them. Ever since discovering the genre, I can’t seem to stop folding printer 

paper, scribbling down zine ideas during meetings, and cutting quotes out of magazines for future 

zines. For all of the reasons outlined above by Remi, Bre, and Alice, I mostly make zines alone out of 

convenience and comfort, and to spare others the embarrassment of witnessing me in my most 

frustrated and/or frantic states, although I started making a zine with my partner last fall. Although 

33 

 
that zine has stalled in progress for over a year, the experience enlightened me to the value of 

“opening the process,” as my partner coined, and collaborating on a project as both a creative 

challenge and opportunity to get to know someone else – and myself – more deeply.  

Whether created alone or collaboratively, I would describe zines as “soul dumplings”: a 

phrase I attribute to my friend, Katie. "I'm so excited to finally swap some soul dumplings 

tomorrow," Katie texted me last spring from somewhere far, far away from Lansing, where I'd been 

churning out zines for weeks and trying to come up with a name for my bedroom-based zine 

machine.    

I loved the phrase so much, I decided to use “soul dumpling” as the name of my zine distro. 

More generally, I use “soul dumpling” as a working phrase for the tiny bits of our souls that we give 

to the ones we love (or, at a minimum, trust and believe in, like readers of our zines), with the hope 

of creating and sustaining more love and trust. Soul dumplings may take the form of conversations, 

kind gestures, creative endeavors, or the squishy dough balls themselves that my Dad’s mom, “Nana 

J,” used to plop into chicken soup. Like writing, like zining, like making or cooking of any kind, soul 

dumplings may form alone but are best consumed in community, calling for compassion and 

empathy as primary ingredients. 

Regarding the communal nature of zines-as-soul-dumplings, I’m looking for more zine-

related communities to join and events to attend, especially in anticipation of moving from Lansing 

to an undetermined studio apartment in the Midwest. I follow and engage with a handful of 

zinesters on Instagram, but I’ve been slower to connect with folks in person and will likely benefit 

from more in-person connections as I create and distribute more zines. While I usually turn to 

digital places for zine communities and resources, I prefer to make, distribute, and read zines 

physically. I believe in the material value of both making and flipping through zines, feeling the 

“energy” of the maker, and embracing the inconsistencies of drawing, writing, and printing as 

reminders of each zine’s humanness.  

In Lansing, I mostly distribute zines to friends and family for free. As an artist who 

occasionally sells illustrations, I’ve wrestled with monetizing my work while retaining the pure joy 

of just making for myself. For now, I think of my zines as distinct from my illustrations (as they are 

categorized on my website) and free or very low-cost, maybe $1-$3 if I ever sell them at a zine 

festival or bookstore. Compared to traditional “fine art” spaces, I love the affordability and 

accessibility of the zine community as both a maker and reader. While I invest a lot of time in my 

zines and believe artists should be compensated fairly for their work, it’s very important to me to 

create opportunities for other people to stumble into the zine community (as I did a little over a 

34 

 
year ago) and feel comfortable and supported enough to remain there and nurture their own 

creative practices. This is work I love doing, and work that “compensates” me in the form of 

therapeutic self-reflection and meaningful connection with both loved ones and strangers. 

My compensation for Lan-zine (Figure 5) came in the form of suggestions from redditors on 

r/lansing, a digital place I frequent during lunch breaks and bedtime. In the fall of 2024, I posted 

some in-progress pictures of the zine and asked other users to “help fill out my Lan-zine!” and share 

“what you’re eating, where you’re biking, and fun things you’re seeing/ doing!!            ”. 

The experience of making Lan-zine enhanced my own understandings of space, place, and 

community in relation to zine-making. While I don’t explicitly address “space” in this zine, I think of 

making space, physical or conversational, for others in my community to feel listened to and 

comfortable. Over the years, I’ve also worked on making space for myself in conversations and 

opening the process in my creative and personal life, as I mentioned earlier. This practice in space-

making has grown from the buds of maturity – confidence, honesty, steadfastness – as well as 

support from others. As an active, growth-oriented concept, “space” feels more like a temporary but 

meaningful transformation – of a conversation, of a bus stop, of a river walk – than a personally or 

culturally meaningful location, which are qualities I associate with place. For example, when I walk 

along the River Trail and imagine what “Lansing,” as we call it now, looked like during the dawn of 

the dinosaurs, my physical, spatial embodiment of that moment becomes a longer, more layered 

interaction with all the relations that came before and will come after me. This reminds me of 

Licona’s discussion of space as something that “emerges through active material practices” and thus 

“is never complete, never finished. A focus on the dynamic nature of space allows for multiple, even 

competing, histories and experiences to be identified and reconsidered” (p. 115).  

“Place” feels warmer, fuzzier and more frequented or lived-in, even if it’s only the location I 

live in or frequent during a finite era, as I note in the introductory paragraphs of this essay. In Lan-

Zine, I highlight numerous places in the Eastside neighborhood, including my bedroom and the 

Allen Neighborhood Center, which I frequent as a shopper and a volunteer, and the Green Door, 

which I inhabit as a mediocre dancer. This zine simultaneously reinforced my budding attachment 

to these places, drawing on memories and even locational nicknames (like “Mount Frandor,” the hill 

behind the Frandor Shopping Center) while compelling me to remember and honor the people, 

nicknames, associations, and relations that preceded me.  

This “constellation” of relations is something my peers and I have talked about as a project 

of cultural rhetorics, and specifically Indigenous understandings of the material world discussed by 

Arola and Rickert (2022) in a conversation about the meaning and work of “new materialism” – 

35 

 
work that Arola, as an Indigenous rhetorician, has been doing throughout her career “‘without the 

explicit branding,’” she says. “I move through the world, and my research and teaching, with an 

understanding of matter as vital, and of agency as coproduced by, through, and with all relations 

(humans, nonhumans, time, space, and the unknowable)” (p. 190).  

Figure 5. The scanned, eight-page spread of Lan-zine. From top to bottom, in pairs: the back and 

front cover, pages 1 and 2, pages 3 and 4, pages 5 and 6.  

36 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Figure 5 (cont’d) 

37 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Although their conversation is much richer than I can do justice in this section, I appreciate 

Arola’s attention to “lived relations” (p. 193) across space, time, humans, and nonhumans, as well as 

“thereness”: the unwavering reality that something remains there whether or not we spend time 

doing the “disclosive work” of making its “relations and situations become more visibly dynamic 

enactions,” as described by Rickert (p. 192). I also appreciate Rickert’s description of the power and 

possibility of bringing “the world into presence in particular ways” via different activities, spanning 

widely in nature from the practical to the spiritual (190). By dancing and biking and wandering 

around this city, by being here and there, and by zining about it all, I hope that I’ve become 

acquainted with the Lansing community, and the lifeworlds within it, in more particular and 

complex ways than I would have experienced without creating Lan-zine. 

In the context of Lan-zine, “community” resonates with me the most as I reflect on the many 

moments I’ve experienced, practices I’ve cultivated, and relationships I’ve developed here. As I 

anticipate moving in just a handful of months, I also think of the community I’ll be leaving behind, 

which is equal parts depressing and exciting as I consider the new communities I may build by 

zining in different places. Wherever I bike, walk, or begrudgingly drive to next, I expect to keep 

making zines for as long as I am able, supported and inspired by the spaces, places, and 

communities around and within me. 

38 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
“Collating” Four Case Studies 

At the beginning of this essay, I contended that zines illuminate the importance of space and 

place in the production of, engagement with, and preservation of creative artifacts within 

communities. Based on the experiences and zine artifacts of Remi, Bre, and Alice, along with my 

experiences and Lan-zine example, I would both reiterate and expand on this argument. As 

zinesters and members of geographical and cultural communities, our understandings of space and 

place shape the zines we put out into the world, and vice versa. But instead of clearly defining or 

“conceptualizing” space, place, and community, as I asked my interviewees to do, I wonder how 

these interviews may have unfolded if I began by asking zinesters to simply tell a story about 

making and distributing a particular zine, instead of explicitly asking them about space, place, 

community, and other logistical questions about making and distributing zines.  

Even so, the zinesters’ varying responses favor stories, anecdotes, and artifacts over 

bounded definitions. They live, work, connect, question, and zine in the definitional fuzziness of 

these concepts, with purpose and honesty and joy. Their varying experiences and applications of 

these concepts speaks to the importance of bottom-up approaches to CPM referenced earlier in this 

paper (Basaraba, 2023), and my approach to interviewing zinesters is no exception. In retrospect, I 

may have changed the ordering and nature of my questions to encourage more organic, intuitive 

conversational movement: starting with a zine as the “base” to explore the zinesters’ senses of 

place, space, and community related to making and distributing a particular zine. 

All of this said, collating these four case studies attests to the value of reflective 

methodological practice – what worked well, what may have worked better? – and the slipperiness 

of asking for conceptions or definitions, which are bound to vary and even contradict within a 

single interview, and certainly across multiple interviews. As a zinester myself, I can appreciate and 

find value in this slipperiness, which reinforces my own conception of zines as “infrastructures” for 

soul dumplings. Zines are paperbound infrastructures that encourage us to play with our language, 

conceptions, and understandings, hopefully in the presence of a compassionate (or, at the very 

least, interested) audience. They offer a "tender and protective intimacy," writes art historian Julia 

Bryan-Wilson, cited in a 2024 New Yorker article by Hua Hsu, that allows us "to feel like we are still 

sketching the outlines of our true selves.” This is how I feel when I'm sharing a soul dumpling in a 

zine, as well as reading one: it is a gift, a supple moment of shared trust and intimacy, in which we 

puncture a piece of dough and linger for just a moment – just a bite – in the filling of our true selves. 

The encouragement to view one’s partially filled self as worthy of publication is one of the 

things I love most about zines. In the zine-like spirit of closing creative projects without a definitive, 

39 

 
filled-in resolution, I continue this “collation” of key takeaways from my literature review and case 

studies in [insert working title of summative zine that I haven’t created yet, lol]. In this zine, I 

respond illustratively to Remi, Bre, and Alice’s experiences of space, place, and community. I also 

expand on my deployment of creative placemaking as an “artist-in-residences” and advocate for 

multimodal, artistic approaches to writing and community-building.  

40 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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I present the scanned summative zine in the following order: front cover, body pages 1 through 5, 

APPENDIX: SUMMATIVE THESIS ZINE 

and back cover. 

Figure 6. Summative Thesis Zine, front cover.  

44 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
Figure 6 (cont’d): Page 1.  

45 

 
 
 
Figure 6 (cont’d): Page 2.  

46 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Figure 6 (cont’d): Pages 3 (top) and 4 (bottom). 

47 

 
 
 
 
Figure 6 (cont’d): Page 5.  

48 

 
 
 
Figure 6 (cont’d): Back cover.  

49