The Zine Scene

In an age of algorithms and monetised attention, the humble zine remains defiantly analogue, raw, handmade, and deeply personal. A zine, short for ‘magazine’ or ‘fanzine’, isn’t just a format; it’s a philosophy. Sarah Creighton Keogh tells us more.

DIY — History — Publishing

Zines are self-published, non-commercial booklets or pamphlets, often created by individuals or small collectives as a way to share stories, art, and political ideas outside the mainstream. They are real, tangible things that prove that we were here.

From queer punk manifestos to feminist erotic anthologies, zines have offered a space for voices too often left out of traditional publishing. They have served as underground newspapers, art objects, survival guides, love letters, and declarations of resistance. Rooted in DIY culture, zines are made not for profit, but for connection. They ask questions, document lives, build community, and in doing so, they make space for those who might otherwise be silenced.

Zines trace their lineage to early sci-fi fan publications in the 1930s, but they truly exploded during the punk movement of the 1970s. As punk rejected the polished production of mainstream music and fashion, zines provided the perfect medium to carry that raw spirit. Printed on stolen photocopiers, stapled by hand, and distributed at gigs, punk zines chronicled the scene, interviewed bands, and pushed back against capitalist values.

In the 1990s, zines saw another wave during the Riot Grrrl movement in the US, where they were used to share feminist ideas, personal experiences, and political rage. On Our Backs, a lesbian erotica zine launched in 1984, reimagined what feminist publishing could be; playful, sexy, and queer. Its title was a tongue-in-cheek jab at the more conservative feminist publication Off Our Backs, which took issue with the depiction of sexuality. Their feud revealed a wider tension within feminism, one that zines weren’t afraid to explore.

Zines have never been a monolith; they adapt to place and purpose. In Argentina during the 1970s, Somos offered a lifeline for queer Argentinians under a military dictatorship. In 1980s’ Greece, trans activist Paola Revenioti distributed Kraximo, a groundbreaking anarchist zine that combined queer liberation with sex work activism. Electric Dirt, a more recent zine from the Appalachian region in the US, celebrates queer rural identities often ignored. In Sydney, Wicked Women became an erotic, artistic hub of lesbian creativity and rebellion by G.O.D, now archived as a piece of Australian queer history.

And then there’s Straight To Hell, a no-frills American gay smut zine, which has published raw, handwritten sex stories from its readers for decades—a testament to the way zines have always honoured lived experience, desire, and memory without censorship.

To make a zine is to say: I matter. My story matters. In cultures where visibility is hard-won, zines have acted as living proof of identity and resistance. This is especially resonant in queer and feminist histories, where mainstream publishing has historically excluded, sanitised, or tokenised marginalised voices. The power of zines is that they don’t ask for permission. You do not need a publisher’s blessing to write about your body, your trauma, your joy, your weird little niche interests.

Ireland has always had a complicated relationship with the written word—both reverent and rebellious. The country that gave the world Joyce and Yeats also gave it Banshee, GCN, and an ever-growing tradition of independent publishing. While Ireland’s zine scene has been quieter than in cities like London or New York, it has long existed in pockets at art colleges, punk shows, feminist workshops, queer gatherings, and student unions.

Dublin’s punk scene in the late 1970s and ‘80s birthed its share of zines; scrappy, furious, political. The rise of second-wave feminism brought with it a small but fierce collection of feminist zines, often handwritten and photocopied in community centres. The Irish LGBTQ+ community, long subject to criminalisation and censorship, used zines and newsletters to build networks, share information, and celebrate queer life long before it was safe or legal to do so openly.

Today, Irish zine culture is enjoying a resurgence, thanks in part to artists, activists, and queer collectives who are reclaiming the medium. Projects like the Dublin Zine Fair, workshops hosted by art spaces like A4 Sounds, and the continued work of publications show that self-publishing is alive and well. The beauty of zines in the Irish context is their potential to honour our storytelling tradition while refusing institutional gatekeeping.

In an Ireland where debates about bodily autonomy, gender identity, migration, and the housing crisis remain deeply polarising, zines offer a quiet yet radical act of self-expression. They are a way of saying: this is what it’s like to be here now. Whether it’s about growing up queer in a rural Irish town, navigating the asylum system or simply what you wore last week, every zine builds an archive of experience.

Today’s zines might be printed in risograph studios, posted on Instagram, or archived in libraries, but their souls remain unchanged. They are anti-capitalist by nature, rooted in care, creativity, and resistance. They are where poetry lives next to protest, where art lives next to instruction manuals, where the personal and political are indistinguishable.

Zine maker, collector, and archivist Emma Hurson emphasises just how vital this creative freedom remains, especially within queer culture. “Owning and having control over all means of production is incredibly important in terms of being allowed to express yourself with complete autonomy and virility,” they explain. For Emma, the magic of zines doesn’t end with their creation. “The community aspect—the part that comes after production—is equally important. They are a means of exchange. Zines are so valuable, but not necessarily monetarily.” In other words, their true worth lies in connection, not commerce.

In Ireland and beyond, zines are about preservation. Of identity, of culture, of moments otherwise forgotten. They ask us to slow down, to touch paper, to remember that the act of creation is itself revolutionary. In a world that so often feels disposable and digital, zines are something we can hold, share, return to.

How to make your own zine

Start with an idea, or find one along the way. Making a zine isn’t about creating a masterpiece. It doesn’t have to be the smartest, most polished thing you’ve ever done. You don’t need a perfectly formed concept before you begin. If you are working with others, you can bounce around ideas and decide on a theme or format together. If you’re on your own, think about what’s occupying your thoughts lately. What’s making you excited, angry, nostalgic, curious?

There’s no wrong answer when it comes to the kind of zine you can make. Here are just a few possibilities:

• A poetry or short story zine

• A comic strip or graphic zine

• A photo collection or collage zine

• A political manifesto

• A fan tribute to your favourite artist

• A food zine filled with recipes

• A personal reflection on identity, experiences, or microaggressions

• An educational zine about something you love The point is: a zine can be anything; it’s simply a tool for expression. That’s the beauty of it.

Now, it’s time to create. If you want to try your hand at making a quick and simple zine, the one-page mini-zine is a great place to start. All you need is a single sheet of A4 or US Letter printer paper.

Here’s how to do it, and if our simple, step-by-step guide isn’t quite simple at all, you can find plenty of other tutorials online:

1. Fold the page in half lengthwise, then unfold it.

2. Fold it in half widthwise, and fold that in half again.

3. Unfold the paper completely and lay it flat so you can see all eight rectangles. 

4. Fold the paper in half widthwise again. 

5. Cut from the midpoint of the folded side into the centre of the paper where the previously folded lines meet.

6. Unfold the paper. There should be a slit between the four inner rectangles.

7. Fold the page in half lengthwise again, then push the ends toward each other so the slit opens up and forms a star shape.

8. Keep folding until it forms a booklet with eight pages.

Each little rectangle is a page you can fill. Use pens, pencils, typewritten text, photos, magazine cuttings, tape, or anything else you like. If you’re feeling extra creative, you can decorate the back side of the sheet before folding, so that once someone finishes reading, they can unfold the zine into a mini poster.

Next, spread the good news! You can photocopy your mini-zine and distribute it by hand, leave a stack at your local café, library or community centre, or tuck one into a friend’s bag. You can even scan it and share it online.

Zines are about community, connection, and expression. Whether you make five copies or 50, what matters is getting your voice out into the world. You never know who might need to hear what you have to say.