I am a millennial: a true, blue 90’s kid. I had Tiger Beat posters adorned with Lisa Frank stickers hanging on my bedroom walls. I had a stack of Alternative Press next to my bed. Now approaching my thirties, I still cannot get the angsty 90’s music out of my head. I’m always singing along to Nirvana, Lit, and Tracy Chapman like I never left the last millennium.
I was a pretty creative kid and I owe a lot of that to my moderately creative family. None of my relatives are professional creatives, but at home, arts and crafts were a permanent fixture. My mother and my sisters were always scrapbooking, baking, making jewelry, or painting. I was encouraged to chase my dreams, and that opened my eyes to see the world as my canvas.
I’ve been working in the publishing world for the last six years. The first time I interned for a magazine, the vibe of the publication was clean and stuffy. It was sophisticated and straight edged. It lived life by the razor-sharp rules. The picture-perfectness of it all didn’t align with messy, chaotic, edgy, free-spirited me. Although I loved working with authors and artists and helping put stories out into the world, I felt like I didn’t truly belong.
Magazines and literary journals (at least, the ones I encountered while working at a university) were kind of bland. They were serious and prestigious. They were clean and pensive. While it’s not always the case, sometimes the publishing world can be judgmental and a bit hoity-toity. There’s literary and then there’s experimentation. There’s poetry and there’s journaling. There are grammar rules and there are rulebreakers.
I loved writing. I always enjoyed creative writing classes. While I had dreamed of writing a full-length novel, it hadn’t occurred to me until I was immersed in literary culture how many authors start out by getting published in magazines. However, the type of writing that I was doing didn’t seem to fit into mainstream publications. I wanted to get published, but I wanted to find a press where I felt akin.
I did a LOT of research. I was spending all of my free time looking into the hottest zines: Dope Girls, Peach Mag, Bitch Media. Their boldness was refreshing. I scrolled Instagram constantly, networking with artists, makers, and poets. My finger was on the pulse of the freshest art content that social media had to offer. While there were a few publication and media sites emerging with similar feminist ideals that I had, my local literary scene was void that rebellious representation.
I’ve always nurtured my chaotic, 90’s spirit. I look at everything through a scrapbooky, psychedelic, punk-rock lens. And when a few of my college peers were talking about starting their own publications, I thought I’d try it out, too. But the idea I had was queer, colorful, and outlandishly brash.
I yearned for that strong, feminine voice. I longed for something relatable, something that would make reading and writing seem cool. I wanted something tangible — a printed out book that I could hold and flip through and share with my friends. And I wanted it to be glittery and pink. Importantly, I knew that I couldn’t do it alone, and that I’d have to employ a team of creatives to help me.
It was my last year of undergrad. My best friend agreed to help me make this magazine come to life. She had editorial experience and she’d been published a few times, so she was an ideal co-editor. I had met a young woman in my senior projects class who was a whiz at Adobe. She took all my chaotic, digital scrapbook ideas and turned them into a clean and vibrant template. I had a small team of readers comprised of people I had met in literature classes and writing workshops. Together, we made it happen.
The name of my magazine made jaws drop: “Dirty Girls.” I can’t even count how many times I’ve followed up with, ‘No, it’s not pornography.’ Maybe it was a bit misleading, but it did what I wanted it to do. The magazine I created filled a gap where I clearly saw one. Not many people were trying to be both edgy and literary — soft femininity with a boldness to stand on its own. Stories that were both loud and proud and examined a variety of topics.
I was dedicated to bringing this magazine to life. I talked about it all the time. I found artists through Instagram and asked if I could buy custom graphics for my branding. I ordered holographic stickers with the magazine’s logo and stuck them EVERYWHERE. I sold them on Etsy along with T-shirts, hoodies, mugs, and water bottles all brandished with my logo. I made social media accounts for the mag and asked for submissions while promising to pay contributors $10 per accepted piece.
Maybe the mag was meant to be. Maybe it all happened due to a stroke of luck. Maybe I had become a master of manifestation. Whatever the mystical, driving force was, the magazine came together. Yes, it was a lot of work, but I saw my literary baby through to completion. Finally after about six months of work, I was holding the physical first copy of my magazine in my hands.
I was a walking billboard for my little publication. People at school or at literary events recognized me as the ‘Dirty Girls Magazine Girl.’ My school’s newspaper published a story about me and my humble zine. I attended a literary conference in Youngstown, Ohio and even emceed an Open Mic night at an art gallery. I was out there. I was loud and proud. I was personable. I was blushing, bright, and sparkly, just like aesthetic of my magazine. It was pre-pandemic, 2019, and what can I say? Those were generally happier times.
When the pandemic hit, my university just like many others, took that extended Spring Break and didn’t look back. My life had changed drastically over the course of twelve months and the nest egg of savings that I was using to fund the mag ran dry. My team and I decided to go on hiatus.
I’m not sure what’s in store for the future of Dirty Girls, but I’m proud of myself for bringing it to existence. The important thing, in my opinion, is that no matter what state the world is in, people must continue to make and share their art. My experience in making a magazine and working for other publications has enabled me to mentor the next generation of editors and publishers.
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In the two publications cycles I oversaw, the mag published stories, poems, and art. I bought a domain and made a website. I designed and created merchandise and sold it online. I threw a launch party unlike any magazine launch I’d ever attended — with live rock music by three different bands and a comedian as the host. Even now, three years after the launch, I run into familiar faces at literary events who recognize me as ‘the Dirty Girls Magazine Girl.’
I brought my dream to life, and I’m here to tell you that you can do it, too. It isn’t cheap and it isn’t easy. Finances and fundraising are the biggest challenges for indie publishing. So many small publishers can’t withstand the test of time due to funding insufficiencies alone. When I created a magazine, I was living rent-free in my parent’s house, and making decent money at the university. Keeping the magazine afloat proved much harder once I was paying rent and utilities for a two-bedroom apartment and solely sustaining the lives of myself and my two kiddos.
Will there be a Dirty Girls resurgence? Only time will tell. For now, I look at the bright pink spines on my bookshelf and smile, proud of the work that was produced through passion and dedication. I hope my story inspires you to chase your dreams, too.
That’s all for now. I’ll see you next time.
So much love,
Joelle
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This article was originally posted on Medium on June 28, 2022.