You wrote something once that nobody published, and at some point you decided that meant it was not real. That belief is the thing this whole event exists to argue with.
A warehouse in the Arts District fills with people who skipped the argument entirely — zinesters who photocopied forty copies of something personal and stapled it themselves. Politics, personal narrative, photography, graphic design, visual art, and a great deal that refuses a category. You will pay three dollars for something a stranger made about their mother, or their neighbourhood, or a bus route, and read it that night.
The part that changes people: the table is the whole distance. There is no publisher, no gatekeeper, no acquisitions meeting between the person who made it and you. Ask anyone at a table how they got started and the answer is almost always some version of *I just made one*. A surprising number of people arrive as browsers and leave having quietly decided to table next year.
Saturday, November 7. Angel City Derby Warehouse, 785 E. 14th Pl., Los Angeles. All ages.
You wrote something once that nobody published, and at some point you decided that meant it was not real. That belief is the thing this whole event exists to argue with.
A warehouse in the Arts District fills with people who skipped the argument entirely — zinesters who photocopied forty copies of something personal and stapled it themselves. Politics, personal narrative, photography, graphic design, visual art, and a great deal that refuses a category. You will pay three dollars for something a stranger made about their mother, or their neighbourhood, or a bus route, and read it that night.
The part that changes people: the table is the whole distance. There is no publisher, no gatekeeper, no acquisitions meeting between the person who made it and you. Ask anyone at a table how they got started and the answer is almost always some version of *I just made one*. A surprising number of people arrive as browsers and leave having quietly decided to table next year.
Saturday, November 7. Angel City Derby Warehouse, 785 E. 14th Pl., Los Angeles. All ages.
You wrote something once that nobody published, and at some point you decided that meant it was not real. That belief is the thing this whole event exists to argue with.
A warehouse in the Arts District fills with people who skipped the argument entirely — zinesters who photocopied forty copies of something personal and stapled it themselves. Politics, personal narrative, photography, graphic design, visual art, and a great deal that refuses a category. You will pay three dollars for something a stranger made about their mother, or their neighbourhood, or a bus route, and read it that night.
The part that changes people: the table is the whole distance. There is no publisher, no gatekeeper, no acquisitions meeting between the person who made it and you. Ask anyone at a table how they got started and the answer is almost always some version of *I just made one*. A surprising number of people arrive as browsers and leave having quietly decided to table next year.
Saturday, November 7. Angel City Derby Warehouse, 785 E. 14th Pl., Los Angeles. All ages.