#WHAT IF I HAND BOUND HER HER OWN COPY OF GOING POSTAL.

[sundancefemme]

hang on.

[the-magnus-backlogs]

Statement of Suzanna Harkness regarding a manuscript she reviewed for publishing.

Statement taken direct from subject, 27th December 1993.

You wind up stumbling down a lot of weird rabbit holes when you work for a small press long enough. Niche genres you’d really rather remain oblivious to, arts majors trying to break the mould by submitting something they swear up and down you’ll have ‘never seen before’. Never mind if it’s actually legible, but that’s…that’s another matter, I guess. I’m not here to talk about the subpar sci-fi erotica or whatever, I’m here because I found something weird.

I’d like to say right off the bat that I’ve got a strong stomach. Wouldn’t have lasted this long in the company if I didn’t. We only publish a couple hundred books a year, but we take in all sorts around here. Sometimes it feels like our only real submission requirements are ‘unmarketable to the general public’, and it seems like anybody with a half-baked idea is willing to try their luck at tossing their unedited manuscript into the ring.

That’s where I come in. Wading through the mountains of unusable garbage, hunting for hidden gems. I’ve even found a couple, but mostly it’s just about finding something readable. Or something we can pass off as being readable for those rare readers capable of ‘comprehending the author’s artistic vision’. Yeah, the marketing team winds up throwing phrases like that around a lot.

Maybe I’m being unfair. I was a lot more patient about that sort of thing when I started. So preoccupied with not coming across as judgemental, but I’ve worked in publishing over ten years now.

It used to be more common for us to get manuscripts sent in through the post, back then. Nowadays it’s pretty much all done online. A couple we get from literary agents, but most are just emailed in by aspiring writers who stumbled across our site, usually after receiving their rejection letters from the two dozen publishing houses that show up above us on pretty much any search engine.

Every once in a blue moon, though, a manilla envelope will find its way onto my desk. Some bright spark who thinks they’re above using a laptop decides to send their manuscript in the old fashioned way. Sometimes it’s just a precaution in case we somehow miss the half dozen emails they’ve already sent out to every listed staff member on the site. Hell, sometimes it’s written by typewriter.

You know typewriters require special paper to print? Special ink, too. They probably spend more writing the damn thing than they’ll ever see in royalties, but to each their own, I guess. I even got one handwritten, once. The idiot sent a follow-up a month later anxiously asking if he could have it back if we weren’t going to consider it because it was his only copy. Can you imagine? Mailing off the only copy of your handwritten manuscript to some backroom small press without any insurance.

By comparison, this manuscript was relatively normal. It had been typed, I think. The paper was…I guess it was sort of crumpled, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. The postal service isn’t always the most careful about this sort of thing, and it wasn’t really packaged properly. Just shoved loose in a box and shipped out.

It was pre-bound. Just a bundle of papers held together with a few strands of red string. A little unusual, but not exactly throwing up any red flags. Even when I started reading it, I didn’t know. How the hell could I have?

It was good, though. Maybe that should have been my first clue. The prose dragged on a bit, but hey. There are plenty of successful writers out there who probably could have benefited from a harsher editor. They made up for it, in my opinion. Even just skimming those first few pages, I was hooked. Didn’t even really realise it when I was due my lunch break. I was so focused on that damn book.

The visuals were the thing. Plenty of writers can pour out half decent prose, but something about this writer…they had a way of making it feel real, you know? All the little touches, the scenes they crafted from the ground up. It felt…it felt like I couldn’t stop reading. Even if I’d wanted to, and trust me, back then I didn’t.

I didn’t leave my office that day. Barely noticed it when the phone rang, ignored all my emails. I really, really thought we’d accidentally stumbled on a gold mind. Not just a passable debut novel, but an honest to god genuine talent.

The funny thing is, I can’t even really remember what it was that drew me in. Couldn’t tell you what genre it fell under. The plot itself was practically non-existent. A girl who dreamed of being a dancer and crept out of her house to practice under the moonlight in a clearing in the forest behind her house.

Then, one blissful night, illuminated by the full moon, the forest provided her with a partner. The partner.

Nothing too out there, right? Your basic fantasy-romance type stuff. Pretty tame compared to a lot of what we publish, but I was enthralled from the first description of their first dance. Barefoot and so light on her feet her toes barely skimmed the dew-slick grass. They loved each other, and in that moment, I think I understood that. Really knew what it was to love someone so much you’d offer them your still beating heart if it would mean holding onto them for just a second longer.

Except it wasn’t love. Not really. It was an obsession.

I couldn’t stop devouring page after page as their budding romance grew and spiralled, twisting into something unrecognisable. Those whispered words of I can’t live without you became their mantra as they clung to one another so tightly they left bruises on one another’s skin. Soft kisses turned sharp as they came to understand what it was to need to consume and be consumed. They needed one another in a way neither could truly provide. Not really.

In their despair, they begged the forest to offer them a solution, and it gave them one. A way to lie in the sweet summer meadow forever, and in their glee they didn’t think to ask what it would cost.

Not until they began to rot, anyway.

My memories around here get a little hazy, or maybe the words were just less clear. The writing seemed…hurried towards the end, but the couple didn’t seem to mind much when the insects began to burrow through their skin and make their homes inside. They had so much love to give, literally brimming with it. As sickening as it was, it sounded almost…fond. Like the writer truly wanted to give them the happy ending they deserved, but somehow couldn’t think of anything more befitting than allowing their decaying corpses to be infested with creepy crawlies.

It was sick. The concept was sick. Everything about it was sick, but even now I can’t truly convey how vividly they described it. The picture they painted was so clear. Even the affection the insects lavished upon them as they crawled and burrowed through their decaying flesh. It was…God, it used to make me sick just thinking about it, you know that?

Because it wasn’t enough that I had to read it. That I physically couldn’t tear my eyes away. I had to see it. The idea of it…It got its hooks in deep.

By the time I got to the end, I was at a loss for what to do with the manuscript. On the one hand it was probably one of the best written pieces we’d ever received, and there are plenty of twisted readers out there looking for something to churn their stomach.

Somehow it didn’t feel right to publish it, though. I’ve read body horror before, but this…It wasn’t right. I couldn’t…I couldn’t just inflict that on people. How do you make someone understand, truly understand, when they’re signing up to read something that won’t ever let them go? How do you make them understand that the words they’re paying you to read will imprint themselves against the backs of their eyelids? That they’ll grow and spread and fester.

I dream about that dancer in the moonlit meadow. The descriptions of her actual appearance were relatively scarce, but I can still see her face when I close my eyes. I see her intertwined with her dance partner, caked in a mossy fungus that failed to disguise the living hive crawling beneath their skin. I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, anymore. Not even sure if I could tell them apart looking at them, what with their withered skin being so covered in filth and grime.

That damned book made it sound like something beautiful, but their beauty decayed with their childish notions of romance. They chose to become hollow husks of themselves to make room for the love they could no longer contain, but that’s…that’s not love. It can’t be…right?

So why can’t I stop thinking about the way their fingers intertwined before rigor mortis set in and cemented their bond forever?

I can’t concentrate on anything else anymore. At first it was just a niggling seed of doubt at the back of my mind, but it’s grown so much since then. That image burrowed so deep inside my mind turned its hungry mouth towards the parts of me which were most vulnerable, eating and eating and eating and eating until I could think of nothing else.

I don���t know why I never thought to burn it. Maybe I was worried it would make it worse. Maybe it felt too much like sacrilege. I never read it again after that first time, though I considered it often. It sat on my desk while my other assignments lay scattered around it, disregarded without a second thought. After all, there was no room left in my mind for anything else anymore. Every other passage I tried to read just seemed so…dry. So false. I used to get so invested in the lives of paper people, but now I know what true love is, how could the half-baked notions of romance ever compare?  I tried at first, but by the end I just…stared at it. Waiting.

Maybe if I’d tried to destroy it…Too late now, I suppose. I never let it see the printing presses, but I did let it go in the end. Some old man came in asking for it specifically. Something about it being a collectable.

I don’t know how an unpublished manuscript could be considered a collector’s item, and frankly I didn’t ask. I’m not sure if I even really cared about what he’d do with it by that point. Did it bother me that I might be condemning him to share my fate? It doesn’t now, I know that much.

It’s…I was hoping this might help me clear things up, but I just couldn’t see any of it straight. I can’t see anything, anymore. Not really. It may have started in my dreams, but once I let her in…They’re everywhere, now. I saw him in the faces of my colleagues before the press finally let me go… I don’t remember how long ago now. I think the power company cut the power at some point. It doesn’t matter now.

The funny thing is, I really thought they cared about me. They did, at first. I think. It all sort of blurs together, but I remember how they used to talk about me when they thought I couldn’t hear. The nervous looks they’d send me when I zoned out at my desks. Then they staged their first intervention, and I saw it. I saw her. It was the man I saw painted across the features of everyone I knew, in the arches of eyebrows and slants of cheekbones, but it was her I saw reflected in their eyes.

It was her I saw in the mirror, before they ran out of space inside my skull, and the maggots took my eyes…or maybe I imagined that part too.

I’m pretty sure it’s too late for me now, but when I heard about you guys I figured it was worth a shot. I’m full of it. Whatever that feverish contagion that claimed the couple was. That sickly, rotting thing they mistook for love. I can feel it now. I can understand it now and it’s so much. Already I’m on the brink of bursting with it, I think.

I just can’t wait to share.

[misslisterkeepsajournal]

1822 Sunday 14 July

6 35/60

11 3/4

My aunt and [I] off at 8 1/2 to Castel Dinas Bran (bran, crow, i.e. Crow Castle #) and got back at 10 10/60 - 36 minutes in ascending to the summit - A boy, the under waiter at the Inn, went with us as guide, and led us by the way thro’ the little garden of evan Parry whose son, a boy of 12 or 13, accompanied us with 2 sticks pronged with iron - my aunt used hers, but I had no need of one - the way is perfectly good and considering the steepness of the ascent, and the dryness of the ground, not at all slippery for I never slipt once even with my bright iron-heeled boots on - little steps cut which obviate whatever difficulty there might otherwise be - there was a light blue mist over the mountains which impeded our view - and, after reading Bingley’s description, and that ascending Dinas bran might be a substitute to those who had not ascended Snowdon, I was disappointed  - we could not see near to the end of the vale of Llangollen - nor distinguish anything of Vale Crucis Abbey - the hills immediately around bounded our view very narrowly - the remains are very small - Mrs ..... (not Middleton) of Chirk to whom the castle belongs, is going to build a sort of gothic cottage or summer house at the top of the hill (the shell nearly completed) the castle is to be walled round with an upper and lower wall, and the rest of the ascent planted all round - this will be a very great improvement - the waiter seemed to know something of the underground communication with the castle mentioned but disbelieved by Bingley - he (the waiter) said it was somewhere towards the north end of the castle but now filled up with stones -

In descending we gave the boy 1/. for going with us and taking the sticks and went into his father’s cottage - very neat - his wife and youngest daughter there very neat looking healthy people -  a very nice old man - a slater by trade and slated “that grand house” the King’s head - He had been reading the “English physician” an old physic book - we asked him to read us a little of the 1st chapter of Saint John in Welsh - he did and I tried to read after with tolerable success - the pronunciation is very guttural, but I think I could get the language in a few months so as to make myself pretty well understood -

Had breakfast as soon as we got back - Excellent bread and butter hot home-made rolls, etc and good coffee - At 11 3/4 my aunt and I, accompanied by Boots to introduce us, walked to Plâsnewydd - the gardener in waiting - we talked to him a good deal - he seemed a good sort of intelligent man much attached to his mistresses after having lived with them 30 years - he had walked about the country with them many miles when they were young - they were above 20 when they 1st came there - and had now been there 43 years - they kept no horses but milked 6 cows - said I, “can they use the milk of 6 cows?” “Oh! they never mind the milk - it is the cream” - he said Lady Eleanor Butler was a good deal better - He remembered Mr Banks - he had been there 4 or 5 times - I told him I had longed to see the place for the last dozen years, and we expressed our great admiration of the place - In Saint Gothens (for I know not how else to spell it and which we most particularly admired) was a little book case of 30 or 40 little volumes chiefly poetry Spenser, Chaucer, Pope, Cowper, Homer, Pope’s, Shakespeare etc - I quite agree with M- (vide her letter) the place “is a beautiful little bijou”, shewing excellent taste - much to the credit of the ladies who have done it entirely themselves. The gardener said “they were always reading” - the dairy is very pretty close to the house and particularly the pump gothic iron-work from Shrewsbury (Colebrookdale perhaps originally) - the well 7 yards deep - It is an interesting place - my expectations were more than realized and it excited in me, from a variety of circumstances, a sort of peculiar interest tinged with melancholy - I could have mused for hours and dreampt dreams of happiness, and conjured up many a vision of anxious hope -

In our return we strolled thro’ the churchyard - I shall copy the epitaph to Lady Eleanor Butler’s and Miss Ponsonby’s favourite old servant, Mrs Mary Clark, who died in 1809, when we go back + - just peeped into the church. Stood in the porch - the sermon not concluded - for the benefit of the distressed Irish -

Got back to the Inn at 1 1/4, and off to Corwen at 1 3/4 and got here (Corwen) in exactly 1 40/60 hour at 3 25/60 - (dated at Cernioge 8 1/2 p.m.) Very fine drive (10 miles vide Carey page 235) from Llangollen to Corwen, the Dee within a short distance on our right all the way - the banks shaded by rather large trees - perhaps chiefly alders - the valley narrow the hills on each side bold and beautiful and picturesque - the road like a bowling green - one of the best I ever travelled - government have lately taken this road (the whole way from London to Holyhead) into their own hands, and, tho’ the tolls are much heavier in consequence, yet vast improvements have been made in the road, and are now going on in different parts of the line of it - Corwen is a small limestone-built postal town, like a neat village, a small church on a rising ground on the left just after one entrance of the town - Stopt 1 10/60 hour at the Inn to bait the horses - the Owen Glendwr, apparently a very comfortable Inn - a good place to sleep at, if one was not anxious to get on farther -

Left Corwen at 4 35/60 and got here (Cernioge Mawr) in 3 hours at 7 35/60 - the road very pretty for about 6 miles to Lundyforth (according to the pronunciation) ((Pont y Glyn or Pont Dyn Duffws) vide Nicholson’s Guide page 353.) bridge, prominently situated over the Dee which foamed in a tolerably broad but shallow stream over its broken rocky bed below - we stopt and got out of the gig for a minute to view it - the road (to the right of it) cut thro’ the rock to a considerable depth - from here, however, the beauty of the road begins to decline, and the last 3 miles from Cerig y Druidion (Cherrig (ch pronounced like ch in church) y Druidyon) plain and dreary - the land poor and peaty, the hills quite bare - a little before Cerig y Druidion, we observed a conical hill, having the appearances of 2 mounds or terraces as at Dinas bran, and which we took for the citadel of Caractacus mentioned by Cary - there seemed something like an old stone work remain on the side towards Cerig y Druidion - the last 2 or 3 miles of the road almost in a straight line before us, and Cernioge Mawr tho’ a very neat looking whitewashed house, stands by itself in the midst of hills so bare of people and trees, my aunt and I agreed we should not like to stay here longer than necessary - there is a turnpike bar very near - the gate (there are two such between Llangollen and Corwen) such as I had never seen before, struck us exceedingly - 

ten iron radii, about 1 inch broad and 1/4 inch thick, spring at equal distances from the circumference of the 2 little quadrants o circles placed in the corners at the foot and top of the hanging side -  a very slight iron post is fastened to the stone-posts - and upon the top of this single iron post, finished off to admit it, the gates are hung by a 

swinging on the top of these posts -

Sat down to dinner here about 8, Kenioge Mawr Inn as the man of the Inn spells it - Trout, mutton chops, and gooseberry tart and cream - very good - Settled everything and paid - the bill etc and came up to bed at 9 1/2 to be in readiness in the morning to start at 7 for Capel Curig - wrote the last 9 lines of today - after having curled my hair - feel so very heavy and sleepy, I can write no more - I wonder what success I shall have about Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby. Mrs Davies thought they would be pleased with my note - but I cannot write more now - than that we have had delightful weather today, and have travelled on most comfortably - I am more than 1/2 asleep and must make the best of my way to bed - ‘Tis now 11 1/2 - E... [regarding her venereal condition: 3 treatments] a good deal of discharge - I have heard the win whistle here 2 or 3 times - what a dreary place it must be in winter! -

# Tuesday 20 August 1822, improperly called Crow castle -

+ omitted copying the epitaph as I intended - sorry -

Reference: SH:7/ML/E/6/0025 - SH:7/ML/E/6/0026

[protytwo]

You Too Can Join an APA by Jay Zilber

They've been around for over a hundred years, long before organized comics fans (or science-fiction fans) were around to adopt them. So it's a little odd that amateur press associations—apas for short—are still so little known. They survive to this day almost solely on the strength of word-of-mouth publicity, for in all this time there have been few serious attempts to bring this unique form of communication to the attention of mainstream fandom.

Apas have always had a difficult time getting publicity, partly because they are, indeed, so little known. They're not commercial endeavors, so they are never advertised. And though some apas may get an occasional short plug in a fanzine column here or there, these plugs don't tend to generate much interest because apas just can't be explained in a kernel of information 25 words or less. Apas can fulfill different purposes for different people, and at least seven definitions come to mind:

1.         Apas are limited-circulation fanzines; in order to receive a copy, one must also be an active contributor to the apa.

2.         Apas are the next-best thing to a comics convention, a fannish social get-together on paper.

3.         Apas are the underground fan press, free of the "commercial" restraints and limitations of mainstream, high-circulation slick fanzines.

4.         Apas are a system of centralizing correspondence which makes it possible to keep in touch with a large number of other fans at the same time.

5.         Apas are an outlet for creativity and self-indulgence. They are an invaluable learning tool, through which one can develop writing, drawing and editing skills. They provide built-in feedback and constructive criticism on such creative endeavors.

6.         Apas are where the old, tired fans go as an alternative to total gafiation.* And often, they are where the old, tired pros go for relaxation from their professional writing.

7.         Apas defy clear-cut categorization in technical terms. Communication studies break down all media into two categories: mass media and interpersonal media. A mass medium—such as television, film, books, or this magazine—is a one-way system in which the Communicator sends a message to a group of Receivers, a large mass audience. If that audience wishes to relay their comments or reactions about this article to its author, they're met with various obstacles; they usually can't go back through the original medium and write their own article (or publish their own magazine) in order to make their reaction known. The obstacles are not insurmountable—hence, letters columns—but the original Communicator can get no direct or immediate feedback from his mass audience. That would require the use of a two-way system, an interpersonal medium (such as the telephone or, in the case of face-to-face dialogue, air), with which both parties have the opportunity to be both Communicators and Receivers in turn.

 INSIDE THE APA

 Obviously, there are many reasons for the appeal of apas; each member has his or her own individual attraction for being an active "apan," and the contents of an apa mailing is a mixed bag that reflects this diversity. CAPA-alpha was the first—and still one of the best—comics apas, and any recent mailing of CAPA-alpha showcases the full spectrum of what apas are all about:

Some members of CAPA-alpha (abbreviated K-a for esoteric reasons) are accomplished fan artists; they contribute superb illustrations and clever graphics, including a good deal of spectacular work that gives new life to the downtrodden "ditto" medium, imaginatively taking advantage of the so-called limitations of spirit duplicating. Other members are still learning the techniques of the craft; their inexperience betrays their enthusiasm and their work pales in comparison.

There is considerable discussion in K-a of all aspects of comics and comics fandom: behind-the-scenes news, reviews, indexes, speculations and such. Much of this discussion is insightful and well-informed, and some of it is insubstantial and short-sighted at best.

But comics are only a starting point—the discussion and commentary naturally spills over into related areas of science fiction, movies, television and home video recording, personal computers, and all areas of popular arts and culture. Personal trials, traumas and tribulations are also given much attention; some members use K-a as a sort of diary in order to sort out their thoughts and feelings about current events in their lives, and their hopes for the future.

Occasionally, there is original fiction or comic strips that range from brilliant on down. A good deal of purely self-indulgent or experimental material is run through the apa, for, should a member want to try out some new creative ideas, there may be nowhere else to put it on display. While self-indulgence is not necessarily encouraged, it is certainly tolerated for the most part—at least until someone's material becomes completely unintelligible and he is no longer communicating but talking to himself.

For some, the bylaws and politics of K-a itself take an overwhelming prominence in their apazines, and new meaning is given to the concept, "the medium is the message."

There is fannish news, rumor and gossip, there are special group projects and collaborative one-shots, there are comics convention reports that alternate between truthful accounting of fact and wildly exaggerated nonsense. There are in-jokes of the sort that simply aren't the least bit funny outside of the apa's membership (and even among the membership they aren't funny except at four in the morning).

This is the stuff that apas are made of—all this and more. There is no pay or compensation except in terms of personal fulfillment. Apas reflect every stage of fannishness, from the wide-eyed neophyte to the burnt-out gafiate. Apas are networks of communication and life-long friendships that never have developed in any other way. They are an integral part of the universe of fandom… but to truly understand the attraction of belonging to an apa, one must experience it first-hand.

The mechanics of apas are fairly simple, though they may at first seem confusing to the uninitiated. Since each apa has slightly different policies, I will continue to use CAPA-alpha as a useful prototype.

In order to join K-a, a would-be member starts by sending an initial fee of $3.00 to the current Central Mailer. Some apas require new members to be sponsored or voted into membership; this is not the case with K-a, but full membership still does not come right away. As a matter of practical logistics, K-a has a size limit of 40 members and presently has a modest waitlist. A new would-be member is sent a sample copy of the current K-a mailing and his name is placed at the bottom of the waitlist. Membership turnover may be slow; it may be several months, possibly a year or more, before a slot opens up for him. In the meantime, waitlisters may contribute to the apa as though they were already members, but can only purchase copies of mailings when they are at least three months old—and then, only if sufficient extra copies remain available.

At length, the patient waitlister is invited to join the apa. In order to attain membership, he must now produce an apazine; K-a requires that members contribute at least four pages of original material to every third mailing. (This is the minimum required activity, or "minac," to use the inside jargon; of course, one may contribute more often and in greater volume, as in fact most CAPA-alphans do.) The new member is responsible for printing his apazine, or arranging for its printing; he must deliver 50 collated and stapled copies of his zine to the Central Mailer by the stated deadline (usually the first day of each month) and keep his postage account in the black. If he fails to meet minac, copycount, finances or deadline, he risks being dropped from membership, though extensions are sometimes granted under extraordinary circumstances.

The Central Mailer is elected annually; he is a member of K-a who, in return for only the real or imagined glamor or ego-boosting the post has to offer, has opted to take on the tremendous responsibility of seeing that the mechanics of the apa remain well-oiled and that the mailings come out on time. He manages the apa's business and finances; he organizes the apazines as they arrive in the mail from the 40-odd members and waitlisters around the country, collates their stacks of apazines into 50 identical volumes that contain one copy of each zine, publishes the apa's Official Organ, and mails the bound copies of the mailing to the entire membership.

All this is much more work than can be suggested in the time it takes to describe it, and it's why most apas have a membership size limit; otherwise, the work of managing K-a would increase to the point where it would have to be a salaried full-time job.

After its long, torturous trek through the Postal Service, the member finally receives his copy of the mailing and reads it with all due enthusiasm. Perhaps he jots down some notes as he reacts to someone else's comments that he wants to discuss in his next apazine. The cycle continues every month, as it has with only one interruption since K-a's first mailing in October, 1964.

WHERE IT ALL STARTED

 Actually, the concept of the amateur press association goes as far back as the late 19th Century—long before comics or SF fandom existed—with the formation of the National Amateur Press Association (NAPA) and other "mundane" amateur journalism spas. NAPA was founded in 1876 and was originally seen as a sort of training ground for professional journalists. Indeed, many early amateurs did "graduate" to become professionals, and the Association saw this as the most defensible role for NAPA.

At the outset, the inner workings of the original apa were worlds away from the present-day fannish version. In this early concept of NAPA, members were loosely organized by a constitution drawn up at a national NAPA convention, but the gist of it was that members were simply instructed to send copies of their amateur journals and publications to one another.

NAPA only began to evolve into the more modern concept of apas because of the lack of cooperation from the United States Post Office. NAPA's organizers had tried to get their individual amateur journals declared eligible for Second Class mailing privileges without success. As an alternative, they established a centralized mailing bureau; any interested publisher could send their journals to the bureau manager, who would in turn distribute them in bundles to the Association members. Some took advantage of this service, while others continued as before to send their publications directly to one another. As a result, these "private" mailings were not always fully distributed to the entire membership, and only the most active members could expect to receive both the privately-mailed, limited-circulation magazines and the centrally-distributed bundles. NAPA did not even actually require members to publish anything at all, so that an interested but inactive member might receive only the bundles.

This separation of active and non-active members brought about a bizarre class separation of amateur publishers. NAPA also encountered a number of other problems during its formative years; its members rarely used their journals to communicate with one another, and many would-be publishers experienced difficulty in purchasing or gaining access to a handset letterpress, the most commonly-accepted method for printing member-journals at the time. It was this stumbling block that made it impossible to establish a "minac" requirement that all members be active publishers. Yet the notion of a new kind of apa persisted, an apa in which every member was a participant.

Oddly enough, the link between mundane and fannish Amateur Press Associations was provided by no less a personage than H.P. Lovecraft himself. Lovecraft became involved in amateur journalism as a youth, and joined one of NAPA's rivals, the United Amateur Press Association (UAPA) in 1914, and then NAPA itself three years later (for both of which he served several terms as president). SF (then-)fan Donald Wollheim learned of the mundane apas through Lovecraft in the mid-1930s, shortly before Lovecraft's untimely death in 1937. By most recountings, Wollheim saw apas as a useful solution to the problem of keeping up with fanzine trading and a method of reducing postage as well, and promptly joined the National and United Apas. With help from some of the other major SF fans of the time, he then founded FAPA, the Fantasy Amateur Press Association. July 1937 saw the first tiny, 42-page bundle of fanzines, still bearing little resemblance to any modern-day apa. But it was only three months later, in FAPA's second mailing, that two of its members introduced what later became the life-blood of contemporary apas: mailing comments.

Quite simply, mailing comments are the inclusion in members' apazines of comments on the previous mailing. It was the solution to the noted lack of communication within mundane apas; prior to the mailing comments in FAPA, discussion of topics raised in one another's publications was almost nonexistent. Mailing comments provided a sense of continuity from mailing to mailing, and brought about a degree of group spirit and camaraderie among members never before conceived. More than merely exchanging fanzines, apa members now exchanged ideas; rather than just absorbing information, they were now encouraged to think about and react to what their fellow members had to say.

Additionally, FAPA promoted the notion of substance over style; inexpensively mimeographed or spirit-duplicated contributions were not discouraged but actually taken for granted to be the most sensible printing method for a low-circulation apazine, and this made it practical and affordable for every member to contribute. Unique, innovative and successful in everything it set out to achieve, FAPA became the model for most of its followers and imitators in SF fandom, and eventually for its second cousin, comics fandom.

*Gafiation (n), a common fannish buzzword from the root "gafia," an acronym for "Getting Away From It All."

  Mark Evanier contributed the left cover to Capa-Alpha's 200th mailing, while in 1971, Wendy Fletcher was an active apa fan. She now concentrates on Elfquest as Wendy Pini.

A young Frank Miller contributed to apas and this sample page shows, even then, a sense of design and drama that has since matured into some the finest comics work done today.

NOTE: This article was first published in the March 1983 Comics Scene magazine. Comics APAs were very big back in the Seventies and Eighties. These days, surviving APAs are very unlikely to have a full membership and there isn’t any waiting period before a fan is invited to participate and join the membership roster.