8 Pages. A Curse or a Blessing?

There’s something oddly specific about eight pages.

Not seven. Not ten. Eight. So I wonder: Is 8 pages a curse or a blessing?

It’s not a number you stumble upon by accident—it’s a structure. A constraint. A quiet rule of the universe of zines: one sheet of paper, folded just right, becomes eight small surfaces to fill with something that matters.

And that’s exactly why I love them.

At first, eight pages felt like a limitation. How do you fit a story into something so small? How do you choose what stays and what gets left out?

It felt almost cruel.

But then I realized—that’s the point.

Eight pages force you to decide what your story really is. Not everything. Not the full archive. Just the essence. The feeling. The thread that holds everything together.

When I made my first zine, I kept wanting to add more. Another page, another detail, another explanation. But the format wouldn’t let me. It pushed back. It asked me to simplify, to trust that not everything needs to be said to be felt.

And that’s when it became a blessing.

Because eight pages don’t overwhelm.They invite.

They’re short enough to be held in one sitting, but long enough to carry a small world. A memory. A dog. A trip. A relationship. A version of yourself that existed for a moment and then changed.

Each page becomes intentional.There’s no room for filler.

I started to see the structure not as a cage, but as a frame—like the edges of a photograph. You don’t see everything outside of it, but what’s inside becomes clearer, sharper, more meaningful.

There’s also something deeply human about the physicality of it.

One piece of paper. Folded. Cut. Turned into something.

It reminds me that stories don’t need to be big to be real. They don’t need perfect binding or glossy covers. Sometimes they just need a beginning, a middle, an end—and eight small spaces to exist in.

So 8 pages is a curse or a blessing?

Maybe it’s both.

It’s frustrating when you want to say more. It’s freeing when you realize you don’t have to.

And maybe that’s why I keep coming back to zines—because in a world that constantly asks for more, they gently insist on less.

Less space. Less noise. More intention.

Eight pages.

Just enough.

Love, Micol