“Why Can’t I Make a Magazine Too?”
How some blissful ignorance, a douse of good faith, and trust in the slow, long-haul process led me to Wayward
Written by Angie Stevens | September 12
Mouth open, eyes wide as a wild animal, hands gripping my papery brainchild made tangible, head shaking a bit in disbelief, they ask: “Just how long did this thing take you?”
“Ohhh, you know,” I reply, shrugging off their inquiries. “Too long!” I announce in a half-joking, half-alarmed tone, as to undermine my past ten months of devotion.
It’s become my default reply to any friend, mentor, or perfect stranger staring my young, girly, tomboy form down in search of a real answer. The product resting in their grip is not, in fact, a flimsy magazine as I may have coined it at the start, they tell me, but a thing that feels like the real deal: textbook thickness, heavy weight uncoated paper, a cover with a velvety sheen akin to a baby’s behind, and loads of exploding color and text penned by folks dotted across the map.
How one college-grad girl could craft something of this stature fills their brain––I can see it the moment the thought actualizes behind their eyes. I wonder if they can sense what thought is behind mine.
“Why couldn’t I?”
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I was five years old when the world of rock climbing was introduced to me by my kindergarten teacher. It was a hot and sticky Sacramento summer day and the end-of-the-year hurrah school field trip. My rowdy class was shuttled to the local climbing gym, then into harnesses and to the base of the wall. I don’t remember the swirling thoughts racing through my little mind, but looking up, I ought to have just seen potential. And as I waded deeper into the sport through the years, progressing through recreational teams and on into the competitive circuit, I never truly questioned what hooked me that initial morning, standing tiny in the face of a looming plastic puzzle.
Simply put, I must’ve been drawn to the challenge–– though I never saw it as one. My greatest gift was the wall I put up between me and doubt. When standing overpowered by the tall, beefy men in the bouldering area, who would cut me in line and probably never registered my small form was relevant in that space, I didn’t question if climbing was right for me, or outright impossible. I waited ‘til they muscled and wriggled through moves on their project, then stepped up and ascended.
In similar fashion, when I started to collect print magazines and pour over the longform outdoor stories and photography in Summit Journal, Mountain Gazette, The Surfer’s Journal, EMOCEAN, etc., I thought in my spunky, outright blunt fashion, “Why can’t I make a magazine too?”
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I had a cache of ideas and experimented through them without a need to justify it; I never liked to sit on an idea for too long. And perhaps knowing so many folks close to me whose ideas were halted by doubt before they could flourish, I was propelled into my largest, widest ideas by the buzzing energy of rebellion. Creation was to me not a means to an end.
Two personal photography zines were born through the COVID era. Ideas and throughlines were hashed out in the confines of my journal, and were poured into InDesign documents. I played with themes, color, size, and spacing to give my work freedom to breathe on the page. I researched affordable printing services and said fuck it, ordering fifty copies with my limited savings and selling them.
Midway through college I found myself in the center of a strong, flourishing climbing community. My journalism classes and natural affinity towards people and their stories made it clear what I could create next: my own print-only zine, chockfull of my friends and local community, their passions and thoughts toward the sport. Still, no concrete plan or end goal was thought through, but I saw stories in my friends even when they did not, and that was enough.
Not one of my soon-to-be contributors (after some convincing and coercing) were writers or photographers, and attempting to detail my visions of spreads inspired by the print magazine greats to these engineer and math brains proved quite difficult. But persistence paid off when a 90-page, 8.5 by 5.5 print magazine titled Lessons From The Rock was printed in a bulk order and placed in their palms. Short and long stories, art, scanned journals, poetry, and musings from folks along the Central Coast and a few across the states filled the pages. For the first time, I got to experience the joy of seeing a large idea through, and watch as the fascinating climbers around me got to thumb through their own pieces in print.
My creative brain was satiated for a year. But I knew I could do it again, and better. I had begun working for Trails, a print-only backpacking magazine and was frothing to create again. I used my journalistic skills to hound everyone I knew to contribute for the first issue of this larger print beast I had not yet named. Many said no, for they had no story to share. But I had a vision and held onto the hope that writing about passion would unlock something in people. Thus began the first few months of this publication journey, where I brainstormed lists of people and dug deeper into their lives, passions, and trips.
I returned to them with ideas: “How about you write about your last surf trip, and send me these photos,” I said to one friend, pointing to stunning film pictures on his Instagram. Or “We could scan your linocuts, and all you have to do is think of a good title,” I ensured another. I fished out stories from climbers, high liners, skiers, runners, surfers, and artists, set on the idea that after throwing them all together I could find a connecting throughline and simultaneously preserve each contributor’s unique flair and style.
Wayward Magazine became what it is on its own––a beautiful thing to witness. If I knew how much effort it would take to create this big of a publication by myself in my bedroom––while still in school––I would have said fuck no! But I took it piece-meal, and by the time I was in too deep––with people invested and my mind set on a real tangible product at the other end––I had to keep going.
Rebel, rebel, rebel, I say. Begin before you see the end. Learn one step, then step up. Rebel from tidy bullet journals with next year’s creative goals. Rebel from the learned behavior to share every idea or project before it's ready. Rebel by fighting urgency and flourishing in harmonious conjunction with organic progression, however slow.
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Thank you for reading. I find great joy in feeling more connected to the editors behind my most revered print publications, and hope my slew of upcoming blog-style entries can give you a look into my crazed, print-loving mind. Stay tuned for pieces exploring how the magazine has been received in my community, what it has taught me, a recent climbing jaunt in Squamish, and where it's headed!
Issue 001 has been out since early August, and copies are still available. Head to the website for more details. The ideas are swirling for Issue 002, and I have begun taking pitches. Refer to the submission guideline page, which dives deeper into work I hope to include.
