Author: Nyx

Last month, Broken Pencil – a magazine (or mega-zine as they write on site) on zine culture and independent arts – announced its first ever Broken Pencil Zine Awards. Submissions are open until July 15th. Nominees will be announced by September 1st, and the winners will be awarded at Canzine 2017 in Toronto on Friday, October 20th.

With a prize pool of $1000 ($200 per category), plus $400 if your zine is chosen Zine of the Year, it has definitely gained some attention. However, with a $20 entry fee for non-members (for the first zine, $8 for the second, and $8 for the third), it’s also caused some not-so-great comments as well.

I’ve been asked to share my thoughts on the event. What I thought would fairly be cut and dry turned into a look at small business, zine culture, and competitions.

I first heard about the Broken Pencil Zine Awards when someone posted about not supporting the idea. They felt that (I’m paraphrasing) putting zines and zine makers in competition like that went against the spirit of zine making.

While I respect and understand that line of thinking on the matter, I don’t fully agree with it. (Speaking with the bias that I celebrated 100 zine reviews by putting up a zine awards event of my own.) I do think though, that line of sentiment brings up the first thing that niggled me when I read more about this event:

It’s a competition.

You may be thinking ‘of course it is’ at this point, but my point is that the word ‘competition’ isn’t anywhere to be seen, and I think it needs to be.

‘Competition’ is only one word, but in these sorts of situations when you have some people getting upset, then one word can make a huge difference..

The definition of competition is, “The activity or condition of striving to gain or win something by defeating or establishing superiority over others.”

By requiring an entry fee, it means the zine maker is making an investment (moreso than other types of entry conditions) and creates the ‘in it to win it’ environment. With phrases like ‘the most creative and cutting-edge zine creators’ and ‘best of the best’ (the latter found in an announcement post) you are creating a competition environment.

Yes, it’s a fine line, but it’s an important one. The words ‘competition’ and ‘award’ create certain expectations. Call it an ‘award competition’ if you like, but to me, awards are about appreciation through equal and open opportunity nomination. Whereas competitions are about a certain slice of a group entering into something with the intention of being better than someone else.

A fee for a competition feels different than a fee for an award (is there such a thing?). An award is like an acknowledgement for hard work, and people don’t usually expect to pay to be acknowledged.

I am heart and soul an editor, so while the wording may be important to me, it might not be important to others. The issue getting many people up in arms is the $20 entry fee for non-members.

More on the hard figures in my next post.

TL;DR I think it’s a competition, and the title should reflect as much to be clearer about expectations. The money stuff is in the next post.

A couple of weeks ago, Wanderer and I were chatting to guy who was passing through town and only there for one night. As sometimes happens, said guy (I shall call him Square) wanted to know what I do for a living. This is always a difficult topic, as I seem to baffle anyone above a certain age and anyone who has had or currently has a nine to five.

Heaven forbid a woman of my age trying to get by on what meagre talents she has.

Wanderer proudly announced that I write books and such, but Square seemed a bit mystified by ‘urban fantasy’ so Wanderer then said that I write zines and explained a little bit about what they are.

“What do you write about?” Square asked.

I replied that there are a number of different topics, but I have one series that is primarily autobiographical.

Square shook his head and announced that no one wanted to read about other people’s lives, to which I replied that I’ve loved biographies since I was a child.

“So what makes you so special?”

Wanderer must have sensed my growing frustration at that point, because he jumped in with the very cliff notes version of leaving everything I knew at barely twenty years old to travel halfway across the planet with some clothes and a laptop to start a new life.

Square was insistent this was not anything anyone would be interested in reading about, at which point we pushed the conversation in a different direction.

Who do you think you are?

What makes you so special?

These questions and questions like them are used so often to bring artists down. To somehow make artists ‘on the same level’ as everyone else.

Somehow, to create something is considered by some people – sometimes by the artists themselves – to be self-indulgent privilege that should only be granted to those who have been deemed valid by others. Some people seem to think a thing should only exist if they think it has value.

Bullshit.

Fast forward a few weeks.

I sat in the little medical office while the nurse helped me to map out my health care plan. I was lost and confused with new chronic illness conditions to add to the list. I was intimidated by the idea of needing a ‘health care team’, and the term ‘quality of life’ rang in my ears.

She asked me a few questions, and I eventually had to confess that this was all new to me and that I was pretty confused about, well, everything to do with my new diagnosis. She nodded, understanding, and said:

“I have that condition, too.”

What? She did? This woman who was so different from me in age, employment, economic background, and countless other things that conversation didn’t bring up was also like me?

I wanted to know so much more. When was she first diagnosed? How? How long has she been dealing with it? Were her side effects like mine? Did we struggle with the same things? What lessons had she learned that she could share with me?

There were so many things I wanted to know about this stranger and her life. I wanted her to have written zines upon zines about her experiences so I could get them all and read them. I felt comforted by the fact that someone who had this big, scary diagnosis in common with me was so great at being a successful nurse.

And she had no idea.

One of the most beautiful feelings in life is finding out that you aren’t alone. That you aren’t the only one. But if we, as artists, were to stop creating, stop writing, stop putting our Selves out there for want of some sort of permission slip from the universe, there’s so much more pain that will happen because of the lack of our art.

Yes, this is a power that so many people who create things don’t realise they have. Whether you are sharing your story through paintings, zines, books, handwritten letters to penpals, and so much more, you are having an impact. You are changing lives, and you don’t even know it.

As a creator, you will touch another person’s life. Perhaps thousands for millions of lives. The only thing you need to accept is that you will never know the full impact you have. Only you have lived your life with your setbacks, your reactions, your failures, and your successes. Only you are fully equipped to share your story in whatever medium you feel most called to.

You should share your story because you’re the best person to share it, and you have no idea how many people could could help, comfort, and inspire by doing so.

Who do you think you are? You are a creator. You put things into the world, you give, and you damn well don’t need permission to do so.