The Life and Death of 'Zatso Magazine
Rachelle Cordova began her professional career as a flamenco guitarist, calling herself Reina del Cid. “Reina” is a Spanish word for “queen,” and “El Cid” is the Spanish misinterpretation of the arab word “as-Sayyid,” meaning “master.” In those early days, she had very short hair, dressed very butch, and was very aggressive. Young lesbians often come with a sort of fierceness you can warm yourself on just being near them.
After a short break, she reemerged with longer hair, Annie Hall dress sensibility, still carrying a guitar, and calling herself Elle Cordova. She retained her love of words and, not yet thirty, sought ways to pay for her existence as a wordsmith.
Cordova began a Science Fiction Book Club prosecuted on the chat program Discord. For five bucks a month, you can chat with all the science fiction lovers you ever imagined and discuss specific books.
Her first selection was Isaac Asimov's “I, Robot.” Asimov is often called one of the “big three” science fiction writers, not only because of the reach and scope of his work but also because of his insistence on using science as it actually existed, not as the backdrop for a space opera.
Starting with the friendly robot on “Lost In Space,” I’ve always been fascinated by robots. The very first science fiction novel, “Frankenstein” by Mary Shelly, is about a sort of robot built, partly, from the limbs and organs of dead people. One of the most famous robots, Robby from “Forbidden Planet,” is based on the character of Ariel from Shakespeare’s “The Tempest.” A slave, Ariel only wants to be free, but is absolutely loyal when they are not. Often played by a woman, Ariel actually has no gender in the play.
Thinking about robots again, I’ve begun work on a short story involving robots. The concept fascinates me. You don’t see other animals constructing servants for themselves. Maybe they would if they could. We’ll never know. The idea that we are so driven to have servants, other humans we can control, that we would create an entire genre around them fascinates me.
Writing Science Fiction Short Stories presents another problem. Most of the magazines where Asimov, Heinlein, Bradbury, and others originally published no longer exist, or if they do exist, they claim to publish quarterly, but their publication is actually far more irregular than that. Let’s just say that the market for short Science Fiction is much smaller than the market for Donald Trump signature bibles, a fact that almost makes me want to cry.
Recently, I’ve run across two young people here locally who decided to up and start their own magazines. One is a recent Millsaps graduate. She works at the Mississippi Museum of Art, and she’s about the business of publishing her own ‘zine. Jackson used to have some great ‘zines. They were mostly dedicated to the local music scene, which at the time was pretty remarkable.
The other is the child and grandchild of remarkable women I knew, who is about the business of making her own literary magazine at a remarkably young age.
I’ve always been obsessed with magazines. Comics, film magazines, science, and science fiction magazines, I loved them all. As much as I wanted to be a part of that phenomenon, I never believed myself capable of it, or if I did, I was terrified to actually try. I did, however, surround myself with as many people who published these magazines as I could find. Some of them were pretty remarkable.
Like the city of Venice, our lives are built on hidden oak pylons, submerged where nobody can see them. There came a time in my life when it was quite clear that the supports under me were breaking. I was going under the waves, and there wasn’t much that could stop it.
This is where I have to delete about seven hundred words. The people you love can cause you great harm. I write about that sometimes and try to be as honest as possible, but I have a real fear of changing anyone’s opinion of someone I once loved because I told my side of that story. My psychologist used to say, “These are your stories. You have a right to tell them.” he’s right, but I’m also a gentleman who pays very close attention to when he might cause harm.
For very complicated and emotional reasons, I decided not to move to Hollywood like I dreamed about, even though I had friends there, and put money down to option an apartment. Instead, I opened a small business here because I loved and made promises to someone who didn’t want to move.
At first, my little business was making a fair profit, but as the pylons supporting me began to break, it began to break too.
Part of my business plan involved something I considered indulgent. Our main business was importing painted collector’s toys from China and Japan, but I had an idea to publish a magazine with the hopes that it might take off on its own, and also to advertise the products we had on our website.
Deciding on the name “‘Zatso?”, each issue would contain something I loved magazines for. There would be a few pages serializing a serious comic and a few pages of a funny comic. Every issue would have sort fiction, and every issue would have what I called “Argosy” stories.
Argosy was actually a very ancient magazine, but I was exposed to it in the seventies, where it published almost entirely articles about things that sounded like science fiction, but they treated them like they were science fact. Things like UFOs, Bigfoot, Crystal Skulls, and more, I ate that stuff up. I knew they were bullshit, but who cares. They were fascinating to read.
For each issue, my only contribution was the Argosy article. That I contributed zero artwork and zero fiction should have been a warning that something bad was happening. I was clinging to the last ray of light in my life, my last hope to actually make of my life what I dreamed of.
‘Zatso existed for eleven total issues. Each issue had a run of two thousand copies. Mississippi School Supply had seven print shops. I was pretty familiar with that end of the business. I wasn’t running enough issues to warrant a run of a web press on newsprint. Since a significant part of the magazine was original art, I wanted a better paper anyway. We settled on a sheet-fed press on the coast. The covers were slightly heavier stock with a ceramic coating, giving them a slick feel.
‘Zatso wasn’t enough to save me. People were dying all around me. My marriage, which had never been good, got considerably worse. I swore I would never abandon her, so I had to wait for her to abandon me.
I was going to show some scans of ‘Zatso covers, but they’re all in storage. When I decided to hide myself away, I put many things there, thinking I’d never want to see them again. Now, I kind of do.
I don’t think the world needs another ‘Zatso magazine. I get great satisfaction seeing young people trying to do what I did, but at a much, much younger age. As for my robot story, I’ll figure out somewhere to put it.
