My Wages as an Artist, 2015-20


From 2012-2015 I posted transparent figures on the amount of money I make as an artist. I did this for three reasons: first, because most of my income comes from public funding, so you pay my wages and I’m accountable to you for that; second, because workers sharing information about their income is one of the best tools we have for organising; third, because I’d like to improve public understanding of how artists actually live.

I let this project slide for the last few years, as other bits of life took over. I regret this now, in pandemic times, when worker organisation is more important than ever and the arts are in a very precarious position. So I’m sharing some basic figures about my last few years of earning to help contribute to that conversation. This is what income looks like for an artist, working primarily in literature and theatre, entering the middle of their career, with a reasonable public profile and high status commissions from national institutions.

The last few years have been possible for me because of gaining a full scholarship for a creative writing PhD. This is non-taxable, and so meant that for the last four years I have made roughly the real UK living wage from my art, with one bumper year in which I made nearly the UK median wage. It also meant that I didn’t pay a great deal of tax on all that. On the other hand, it also meant that it wasn’t eligible as income for the pandemic self-employed income support scheme, radically reducing my support there. Another important aspect of this is that travel expenses for my work are tax-deductible, as is a considerable degree of cultural consumption which qualifies as research. There is much more travel and art in my life than for the average person who is just scraping together a living wage. On the other hand, as a freelancer I receive no sick pay or other workplace benefits, and I have no pension at all.

I think these numbers give a good picture of the actual precarity of life for an artist who is doing reasonably well. If this is what it’s like for me, it is a great deal worse for the majority of working artists of my age.

A significant number of venues, festivals and arts organisations, the kinds I would usually rely on for income, are expected to close in the coming months. Some have closed already. All will have significantly reduced budgets for the next few years. There will be a great deal less work, and more competition for it. Like most freelance artists I know, I am now actively pursuing work in other industries.

In future I would like to provide a clearer breakdown of where my income comes from: how much is large commissions, how much projects I apply for, how much small events, how much patreon income. But in the future we now have, my income may all have to come from somewhere else entirely, and my art live elsewhere.

Gross Freelance Income22,46110,75121,13314,74520,273
PhD Scholarship7,25014,50014,5007,250
Net Income Before Tax13,63518,00129,81821,09918,843
Income Tax and NICs1,1001501,239153424
Take Home Pay12,53517,85128,57920,94618,419
UK Median Income (ONS)28,29129,02729,00729,427
UK Real Living Wage (LWF)17,16117,57618,20018,72019,344


My expenses data for 2016-17 is buried in a spreadsheet and would take a long time to recalculate, so my income figure there is my recorded income after expenses. I would expect expenses to have been between six and eight thousand.

Similarly, I am missing a record of how much income tax and NICs I actually paid from 2016-19, so the figures there are an estimate from the stated tax rates. They sound about right to my memory.

The comparison data on the UK Median Income is from the Office for National Statistics. Mean income is higher; median in this case gives a better picture of the average life. The figures refer to “disposable income”, which I believe means after tax.

The comparison data for the real living wage (not to be confused with the state’s misleadingly-named minimum wage) is from the Living Wage Foundation, assuming a year of 40 hour work weeks at their stated rate.

I Woke Up and the Arts Was Gone

A derelict theatre in Italy. We are looking from a dark balcony filled with rubble and broken chairs, out onto a light proscenium stage with a collapsed roof and floor. Decaying red and gold stalls curve round either side. Photo by James Kershwin, used under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 2.0 Generic license.

Actually, it took about a week. On Wednesday 11th March 2020, I started to see the first few cancellations of events trickle in: due to coronavirus, we are sorry to announce… On Friday my own workers’ co-operative decided to indefinitely postpone the event we were due to host on Sunday, a performance art show for toddlers. By the following Wednesday, almost every theatre, gallery, cinema, festival and venue had closed — for at least three months, if not six, if not forever. Everywhere in the country that people might gather together to see art was shuttered, suspended, gone. Most of my artist friends lost all their work, many without any cancellation fees, as did precariously-employed staff in areas like front of house, who are also often artists. The entire industrial sector is gone, and in six months we have no idea how much of it will come back, or just how many organisations will be bankrupt or otherwise simply gone, or even if there will be medical, social and economic conditions for anything to come back to.

My artist friends are realising this in waves. I had a scheduled meeting on Tuesday 17th (relocated to Skype, of course) with an artist whose work my organisation has supported. We met talk about the future of the project: he began with all of his desires and ambitions, and I had to say, “Woah. We’ll come to that. First, you realise that everything is shutting down for at least six months? First, you have to decide how you’re going to cope with that.” At the other end, as soon as the first cancellation was announced I saw some artists leap immediately online and begin planning live-stramed gigs, instagram cabarets, ways to bring culture into socially distanced homes. For some, who have lost all their income and who have no security, this is a necessity, a way to bring some money into their lives through their chosen profession; for others, this is mutual aid, trying to work out how under these conditions we will continue the sacred work of making and sharing art, a crucial part of health and community, even and especially in crisis. We each cope with crisis in our own way: denial, bargaining, acceptance, action. I’ve done plenty of each. Right now I’m taking some time to pause and think, “If the arts is gone, what is it that I want to bring back, after all this?” If there is an after.

I am feeling considerable fear for my friends and colleagues. I know artists — brilliant, generous, experienced artists — who have lost their entire income for the next six months, who have no savings or family to fall back on, and who have no idea how they are now going to live. Certainly, there are secure, middle-class people who are better placed to weather this storm, but there are far more precarious, disabled, working-class and otherwise marginalised artists who have been making the most vital and significant art for years, and who now have no way to live. I also feel fear for organisations that I love that have been doing good work in getting artists paid, in supporting marginalised artists, in bringing democracy into art, in making more art available to more people, in doing the arts with some sense of social and economic justice. These organisations are more likely to be precariously funded, and are more likely to never come back. I am scared for people who are losing their work and their lives.

But what I am not feeling is any sense of grief for the arts. It is gone, for now, and I do not mourn it. First of all, there’s still going to be plenty of art. In the last week I have seen an absolute deluge of art made freely available, and I too have helped point people towards art that’s freely available. There are more films than I can watch, more music than I can listen to, more books than I can read, more games than I can play. This abundance was there before the crisis and it will abide. The particular problem of art in pandemic conditions is that we cannot be physically present with it, or present with it in social groups. In the age of digital reproduction, this was the only offer the arts could make to a consumer society: you can touch this, so you should pay for it; you can see this together, so you should pay for it; and, always rather more suspect, this is really good, so you should pay for it. But even if society collapses there will still be art, even if all that is left is our cracked singing voices and half-forgotten stories shouted across distances of at least six feet. Making art has never been the problem: the problem is getting paid.

I do not know any of my artist peers who really believes in the way the arts is organised in this country. This system is gone, for now, and I do not mourn it, because I never believed in it. I have been working full-time in this system, actively perpetuating this system, for a decade, while never believing in it. I have hustled, and earned, and made a living, and made art, and gotten other people paid to make art, and all along part of me has hated myself, and hated what I am doing, what I have been forced to do. The arts has failed in its mission of bringing culture to people: a decade of equality, diversity and inclusion policies has barely changed the make-up of its paid workforce, while working-class culture has been destroyed or assimilated, creating deeper cultural divides between the arts and the people. There’s a reason that many think that the arts is just a middle-class jolly, and as much as I’d like to explain why that’s wrong, sometimes I don’t have the stomach for it.

Even more so, the current crisis exposes the unjust economy of the arts. Even before the pandemic hit the following was true: those who make art were the least likely to be paid or to have security; those who manage the making of art were more likely to be paid, and the higher up their level of management the more security they had; those who own the places where art is made, or who direct those institutions, are paid a lot, and are probably landlords. In the crisis, this is only more clear. Creative Scotland has made the good decision that all organisations currently in receipt of Open Project Funding will receive the full amount regardless of whether the activity takes place. In return, they have asked that all recipients “honour contracts agreed with freelancers and artists”; i.e., pay the artists you said you’d pay, even if they can’t do the art. They probably cannot legally compel organisations to do this, but I hope they will at least ask with more force. Because this decision is now in the gift of the managers of the funding. We are under force majeure conditions: very few contracts and agreements are likely to be enforceable, and even if they are then which artists and precarious arts workers have the financial or even emotional resources to enforce contracts and demand pay? And so, which managers will do the right thing and pay their workers? And which managers will pay themselves first?

I know this is a decision because I am making this decision. I am in the very fortunate position of running an organisation in receipt of Open Project Funding. I have written to all the people who were due to work with us and told them they will be paid regardless: we want to reschedule the work, but if we can’t then they will be paid, and if we can then we will pay them twice. I have to do the accounts this week and work out what we can afford to do, and I will get those people paid before I pay myself, because I am in the most secure and responsible position in the organisation, and we are a workers co-op, and that is how it should be done. But when I wrote to my fellow workers, one wrote back to me to say that he had had fifteen jobs cancelled and we were the only one that had offered to pay.

I have been writing for close to a decade about how the economy of the arts is broken and ways we might fix it. I have been very honest with those I work with that I think, for example, that artistic directors should not exist, or at the very least that someone in that role should not be paid more than someone performing on a stage. I’ve sat on panels and explained this while sitting next to an artistic director, and somehow we’ve stayed pals. I’ve been an artistic director, and even if that’s in a workers’ co-operative where everyone’s paid the same rate, I’ve taken on managerial responsibility which has increased my security, which is why I’m not yet panicking about my work, which is why I have the brain space to write this essay. Give it time, though, and unless something changes then I too will be panicking, because managerial and middle-class security has always been a temporary and deceptive condition. So when I write, I do not write from a place of impatience, or a place of superiority: I write from a place of complicity, and from a place of doing long, hard work. I also write from a place of slowly but hotly burning rage.

Some may be reading this and, rightly, feeling furious with me. “Are you saying that it’s OK for all these festivals to close?” No, I’m not. The immediate closure of many arts organisations is an economic disaster, and not just for the arts, and certainly not just for the middle-classes. The town of Hay and the surrounding area is economically dependent on one annual festival which may now go bankrupt. I may be deeply sceptical of the publishing industry, I may have harsh words for its unjust structures and how it privileges the voices and security of the wealthy, I may feel like I would never want to go to the Hay Festival, but I do not want it to go bankrupt and destroy a town. I live in Edinburgh, and I have had vitriolic words for how the Edinburgh Fringe is run. There is no way the Fringe can run this year in anything like the way it has run in previous years, if it runs at all. Even if pandemic conditions are lifted, the planning cannot take place in time, and the artists and audiences just won’t be there in the same way. This will be a tremendous blow to everyone who works in Edinburgh, including the lowest paid and most precarious workers: not just the arts, but everything from pubs to corner shops operates on the basis of the annual boost in income. I don’t want that to hit all at once. Beyond the arts, my home is Orkney, which has an economy dependent on summer tourism, which will now be drastically reduced. I don’t think having an economy dependent on summer tourism is tenable for either culture or climate, but I don’t want my home to suffer through a sudden withdrawal of trade.

What I am saying is that the economic system we have built for the arts is what makes these shocks so severe. If you’re dependent on an annual festival for work and something goes wrong, you have no work. If artists are chronically insecure in the arts, then artists suffer when something goes wrong. If the arts is built around accumulating wealth for the wealthy, which it is, and built around giving megaphones to the most privileged voices, which it is, then more people will suffer when the arts is gone, and fewer people will care.

Naomi Klein writes in The Shock Doctrine about how capitalism exploits disaster conditions to strengthen its grip. Under a strong and very right-wing Tory government, this is an extreme risk for my country. In an arts that is perceived as a haven for left-wing trouble-makers on the wrong side of the culture war that the Tories have chosen to wage, there is an opportunity for extreme restructuring. The arts is gone, and what this government will want to bring back in its place after “all this”, assuming there is an after, will be far more unequal, far less diverse, far more run by bosses and landlords, far less exciting, far more about accumulating wealth for the wealthy and giving megaphones to the privileged, far less artistic. Art will be even more an industry for rich people than it is already.

The more that arts workers flail around trying to bring back whatever there was before into the after, the worse this situation will be. If we try to bring back all the same festivals under the same structure, then the festivals that are most able to meet their crowdfunding goals — that is, the ones with the richest audiences — will survive, and the ones doing the most interesting art and paying the most artists will not. If we try to bring back all the same organisations in the same way, then more bosses and directors will have a secure income and more artists won’t. Instead, then, we have to decide what kind of culture we want, and we have to organise for it now.

Rebecca Solnit writes in A Paradise Built in Hell about the communities of mutual aid that arise in disaster. Far from bringing about the vicious, dog-eat-dog state-of-nature conditions that the elite panic about, disasters tend to bring about extraordinary and very human generosity, solidarity and organisation. These communities arise autonomously, from the bottom up, and they do not need managers — indeed, the more the state tries to manage them, the less effective and life-giving they are.

Artists are coming together in beautiful community right now, to work out how they can sustain each other’s lives and how they can make and share art. It is an astonishing thing. What we also need to do is work out how we can maintain these artist-led communities of survival beyond the conditions of the present crisis, before capital and the state loom over us and force us back into a system that has never worked. My plea to my fellow workers is this: yes, organise now to sustain each other, but also take the time, when you can, to think about what comes next, so that it is better than what came before, and to organise for that goal. This is the same plea that can be made to workers in every industry, but for those of us whose industries have entirely halted, and who were already most under attack by government (education, health, culture, public service, along with every precarious and low-paid worker and unworker), this task is especially urgent, and the space is filled with the most risk and possibility.

I have made many suggestions in the past for how the arts could be organised. The conditions which determined my past proposals have vanished and may never return, though the logic remains the same. Here, then, are two suggestions, as clearly as I can make them:

First, arts work should centre the workers who make art, and all funding should be on that basis. This means that artists need secure work at a living wage, and this should be arranged alongside the work of administrators, not subordinate to it. The fewer managers we have, the better this will be. This also means breaking the boundary between arts and support work: more artists need to take responsibility for how art happens, and more administrators need to be given the time and resources to make the art they want to make. So, when a venue reopens, imagine it like this: the venue is managed collectively by all who work there, who are all paid the same rate. If there are management-only roles, they rotate, and they are not privileged, and the workers provide the direction. Everyone who manages the venue is also paid to make art, and everyone who is paid to make art in the venue also manages it. We all take turns to clean the toilet.

Second, art is for everyone, and everyone is an artist. Arts funding will make its central priorities both ensuring that everyone has access to art and ensuring that everyone has access to the time and resources to make art. This is privileged over any measure of excellence, because the art that is made will be more excellent. This is privileged over any national institution, because the art that is made will be more brilliantly various and will speak to more people. Yes, this means fewer full-time jobs making and managing art, but it means more money for more artists, for more diverse artists, and for more and better art. Yes, this means that some of our most celebrated culture will stay gone, but that was always the culture that rich people preferred and so managed to get tax money to pay for, and what will take its place will be better, and then more people will actually believe in art.

If you want this, or anything like this, you have to organise for it now, for and through your survival. That means looking to your unions, your Facebook groups, your institutions, your WhatsApp chats, your co-operatives, and fighting for survival through them, and working out how to build something better. We do this together, or we’ll never be together again.

The arts is dead. Long live…?


I have enough to live off, for now. Many of my peers do not. If you have enough to live off and you appreciated this essay, please, in return, donate to QueerCare, which is organising mutual aid for queer and trans people, or to Edinburgh Action for Trans Health, which directly pays for trans people’s healthcare and crisis needs. If you would like to support my work in an ongoing way. you can join my Patreon.

I read a lot of books in 2019



I kept a list of all the books and pamphlets I read throughout 2019, starting on a whim. It’s the first year I’ve done that, and reading it back has been a lovely way to remember the ideas and stories I’ve lived with throughout the year. I read for an hour or two every morning as the first thing I do when I wake up: I find it hard to imagine living otherwise. And books are always my companions on buses, in lonely moments. I have to pick handbags by whether or not they’ll fit a standard paperback, and any day I leave the house without a book is the day I’m guaranteed to need it: even if I don’t read it, it’s good to know the book is there.

I haven’t counted up how many books this is! That’s because it’s a joy, not a task. To that end, I’ve also slowed down my reading by making sure I read each poetry book at least twice: a resolution for 2020 might be to read a few fewer books but read them more, because sometimes I could feel the pressure of the list speeding me up.

Similarly, I haven’t done a diversity tally on this, but I do know that well over half of what I’ve read has been written by trans people. I’ve now read the majority of novels about trans characters by trans authors ever published, and almost all of the trans poetry published in the UK and Ireland. Happily, trans writers keep writing, so I won’t stop. This has been a very healing reading project for me, something I’ve found myself and a world through. I can’t recommend it enough to other trans folk (or anyone). If you want to borrow any of these books, send me a message. Rachel Pollack in particular has been my companion throughout the year: a hugely influential but criminally underread author. Read her!

The other vital companion in my year has been Jamie Berrout’s editing at the Booklet Series. This is regularly publishing trans women of colour in a radical and decentralised way, creating work that needs to be in the world, getting people paid, and persistently critiquing publishing and literary hierarchies. Berrout’s “Against Publishing” writing has been necessary to me, and the vitality of all this work is making me think much harder about how I want to write, and read, in the coming years.

I wrote very short reflections on my reading as I went, with pictures. You can find that on Twitter; I might take it to Instagram and Facebook next year too. Here’s to a couple hundred more books next year! And at least one of my own.


  • Clay AD, Metabolise, If Able
  • Charlie Jane Anders, The City in the Middle of the Night
  • George Mackay Brown, Greenvoe
  • Graeme MacRae Burnet, His Bloody Project
  • Octavia Butler, Seed to Harvest
  • Austin Chant, Peter Darling
  • Zen Cho, Sorceror to the Crown
  • Zen Cho, The True Queen
  • Amber Dawn, Sodom Road Exit
  • Esi Edugyan, Washington Black
  • Amal El-Mohtar & Max Gladstone, This is how you lose the time war
  • Akwaeke Emezi, PET
  • Leslie Feinberg, Stone Butch Blues
  • Leslie Feinberg, Drag King Dreams
  • Liana Finck, Passing for Human
  • Joseph Fink, Alice Isn’t Dead
  • Nicola Griffith, So Lucky
  • Alicia E. Goranson, Supervillainz
  • Jane Eaton Hamilton, Weekend
  • Nalo Hopkinson, Sister Mine
  • Witi Ihimaera with Hemi Kelly, Sleeps Standing / Moetu
  • Rita Indiana, Tentacle
  • Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House
  • Renee James, Transition to Murder
  • June Jordan, His Own Where
  • Caitlín R Kiernan, Agents of Dreamland
  • Caitlín R Kiernan, Black Helicopters
  • Margaret Killjoy, A Country of Ghosts
  • Niviaq Korneliussen, Crimson
  • Rachel Kushner, The Mars Room
  • Larissa Lai, The Tiger Flu
  • Min Jin Lee, Pachinko
  • Lisa Maas, Forward
  • Anna Mill and Luke Jones, Square Eyes
  • Madeline Miller, Circe
  • Helen Mort, Black Car Burning
  • Sayaka Murata, Convenience Store Woman
  • Hope Nicholson (ed), Love Beyond Body Space and Time
  • D. Nandi Odhiambo, Smells Like Stars
  • Nnedi Okorafor, Who Fears Death
  • EE Ottoman, Documenting Light
  • Helen Oyeyemi, Gingerbread
  • Intan Paramaditha, Apple & Knife
  • Jeff Parker, Meteor Men
  • Michelle Perez, The Pervert
  • Hazel Jane Plante, Little Blue Encyclopedia (for Vivian)
  • Rachel Pollack, A Secret Woman
  • Rachel Pollack, Unquenchable Fire
  • Rachel Pollack, Godmother Night
  • Rachel Pollack, Golden Vanity
  • Rachel Pollack, The Fissure King
  • Rachel Pollack, The Child Eater
  • Rachel Pollack, The Beatrix Gates
  • Annie Proulx, Barkskins
  • Philip Pullman, The Secret Commonwealth
  • Sally Rooney, Normal People
  • Ali Smith, Girl meets boy
  • Ali Smith, Autumn
  • Ali Smith, Winter
  • Anna Maria Staiano, Transexpace
  • Linda Stupart, Virus
  • Luke Sutherland, Venus as a Boy
  • Bogi Takács (ed), Transcendent 3
  • Jeanne Thornton, The Dream of Doctor Bantam
  • Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
  • Joshua Whitehead, Jonny Appleseed
  • JY Yang, The Tensorate Series 1-4

Poetry Collections and Anthologies

  • Meg Bateman, Soirbheas
  • Billy-Ray Belcourt, NDN Coping Mechanisms
  • Gwen Benaway, Passage
  • Jay Bernard, Surge
  • Hera Lindsay Bird, Irony /Sincerity
  • Eli Clare, The Marrow’s Telling
  • Charly Cox, she must be mad
  • John Cumming (ed), the crow in the rear view mirror
  • Qwo-Li Driskill, Walking with Ghosts
  • Kari Edwards, Obedience
  • Joshua Jennifer Espinoza, There Should Be Flowers
  • Veronica Forrest-Thomson, Collected Poems
  • Emma Frankland, None of us is yet a robot
  • Jackqueline Frost, The Third Event Part 1 & 2
  • Kit Fryatt, Bodyservant
  • Callie Gardner, Naturally It Is Not
  • Caspar Heinemann, Novelty Theory
  • WN Herbert, Bad Shaman Blues
  • Jay Hulme, City Boys Should Not Feed Horses
  • Kathleen Jamie, Mr and Mrs Scotland are Dead
  • Mikael Johani, we are nowhere and it’s wow
  • Roz Kaveney, Catullus
  • Myung Mi Kim (ed), Best American Experimental Writing 2018
  • Joy Ladin, The Future is Trying to Tell Us Something
  • Pàdraig MacAoidh, Gu Leòr
  • Kei Miller, in nearby bushes
  • Daniel Ortberg, The Merry Spinster
  • Norman Erikson Parasibu (trans. Tiffany Tsao), Sergius Seeks Bacchus
  • Nii Ayikwei Parkes (ed), Filigree: Contemporary Black British Poetry
  • Allison Parrish, Articulations
  • Everest Pipkin, i’ve never picked a protected flower
  • Platypus Press (eds), Islands are but Mountains
  • Rachel Plummer, Wain
  • Rachel Plummer and Russel Jones (eds), Multiverse
  • Nat Raha, Of Sirens, Body & Faultlines
  • essa may ranapiri, ransack
  • Claudia Rankine, Don’t Let Me Be Lonely
  • Calum Rodger (ed), makar/unmakar
  • Linus Slug, Type Specimen
  • Verity Spott, Prayers Manifestos Bravery
  • Lawrence Schimel (ed), Correspondencias : una antología de poesiía contemporánea LGTB española
  • Tayi Tibble, Poukahangatus
  • David and Lizzie Turner (eds), Why Poetry? The Lunar Poetry Podcasts Anthology
  • Ryan Vance and Michael Lee Richardson (eds), We Were Always Here
  • Roseanne Watt, Moder Dy
  • New Writing Scotland 36, With Their Best Clothes On


  • Hamja Ahsan, Shy Radicals
  • b. binaohan, decolonizing trans/gender 101
  • adrienne marie brown, Emergent Strategy
  • Christine Burns (ed), Trans Britain
  • Colin G Calloway, White People, Indians and Highlanders
  • Eli Clare, Exile and Pride
  • Eli Clare, Brilliant Imperfection: Grappling with Cure
  • Lauren Elkin, Flâneuse
  • Sylvia Federici, Revolution at Point Zero
  • Leslie Feinberg, Trans Liberation
  • Laura Jane Grace with Dan Ozzi, Tranny
  • Sophie Lewis, Full Surrogacy Now
  • Sarah Lippett, Stan and Nan
  • Raphael Minder, The Struggle for Catalonia
  • Naomi Mitchison, You May As Well Ask
  • Oli Mould, Against Creativity
  • Don Paterson, The Poem
  • Ruth Pearce, Understanding Trans Health
  • Warren Pleece, Freedom Bound
  • Paul B. Preciado, Countersexual Manifesto
  • Natalia Raha, Queer Capital: Marxism in Queer Theory and Post-1950 Poetics
  • Christina Richards, Walter Pierre Bouman and Meg-John Barker (eds), Genderqueer and Non-Binary Genders
  • Juno Roche, Queer Sex
  • Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Touching Feeling
  • Roddy Slorach, A Very Capitalist Condition
  • Tuesday Smillie, Huw Lemmey, CAConrad: Seized by the Left Hand
  • SPK, Turn Illness Into A Weapon
  • Susan Stryker, Transgender History
  • Mary and Bryan Talbot, The Red Virgin and the Vision of Utopia
  • Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, Decolonising the Mind
  • Alex S. Vitale, The End of Policing
  • Melanie Yergeau, Authoring Autism
  • Yasemin Yildiz, Beyond the Mother Tongue

Zines, Pamphlets and Periodicals


  • Anaphora, Untitled Poems
  • Brae Editions, Milk to Mercury
  • Travis Alabanza, Before I Step Outside (You Love Me)
  • Jay Bernard, The Red and Yellow Nothing
  • Jamie Berrout (ed), Radical Trans Poetry vol. 1
  • blem, I sneez in my sleep
  • Denise Bonetti, Probs too late 4 a snog now
  • Malcolm Bradley, Clock Tower
  • Helen Charman, Daddy Poem
  • Ian Davidson, Gateshead and Back
  • Edalia Day, Super Hamlet 64
  • Mercedes Eng, Prison Industrial Complex Explodes
  • Eros, To Freedom
  • Michelle Evans, Just Another Dead Black Girl
  • Metal Femme, Seek and Give Yourself a Self and Other Poems
  • Gyözö Ferenez (trans. Tom Hubbard), Minoritie Status
  • Cyntha Hariadi, they don’t know I’m missing since I’m always home
  • Cait Johnson, Night Book 1 & 2
  • Cait Johnson, broadsides 1-3
  • Colin Johnstone, All things seem possible in May
  • Bibi June, Begin Again
  • Sean Wai Keung, How to Cook
  • Kierra, Symphony of Symphonies
  • Natasha Lall, Scores for Sissy Bois
  • Audrey Lindemann, I have compiled 14 gay love poems
  • Francesca Lisette, sub rosa: The Book of Metaphysics
  • Dru Marland, Drawn Chorus
  • Jade Mars, Deep Lez Dirt Feelz
  • Alex Marsh, Silo Bliss
  • Hugh McMillan, Sheep Penned
  • Hugh McMillan, Five Days/Twelve Months
  • Nicky Melville, Abbodies
  • Heather O’Donnell, Falter
  • Sandeep Parmar, Nisha Ramaya and Bhanu Kapil, Threads
  • Nalini Paul, The Raven’s Song
  • Nisha Ramayya, In Me the Juncture
  • essa may ranapiri (ed), this gender is a million things more than we are: poetry from takatāpui/genderqueer/trans writers from across Aotearoa
  • Kevin Reid, Burdlife
  • Rara Rizal, Proper Language & Other Poems
  • Edie Roberts, Expotition: Where in
  • Calum Rodger, Fiat Ontology
  • Gratiagusti Chanaya Rompas, Non-Specific
  • Calum Rodger, Ports
  • wren cuidadx romero-gilhooly, when phoenix flooded
  • Alison Rumfitt, The T(y)ranny
  • Chelsea Tadeyske, Totem
  • Margaret Tait, Jean waits for the drunk man thistle-gazer
  • TC Tolbert, i :not he :not i
  • Pascal Vine, The Grand Scheme of Things
  • Jay G Ying, Wedding Beasts
  • Bombinate 1-3
  • Modern Poetry in Translation: Spring 2018 to Autumn 2019 (5 issues)
  • Northwords Now: Spring 2019
  • Poetry London: Autumn 2018 to Autumn 2019 (4 issues)
  • Poetry Magazine: Jan to Oct (9 issues)
  • Poetry Wales 55
  • Stand 17(3): Ecopoetics
  • Sync 1-52, Sync^2 1-40
  • Tender Hammers (Writing for the UCU Strike)
  • Vetch 1-4
  • Zarf 12

Comics and Art

  • Lelia Aluwihare, Uncommon Places
  • Aappa Pappa, Butts
  • Annabelle Beans, Witch’s Hands
  • Bethlem Gallery, You are with me again
  • Debbie Press, Who will comfort and love me and ask for nothing in return
  • Romina Fretes, Untitled
  • Aoi Fukuyama, Needlepoint
  • Jo Hauge, MS Paint it Black
  • Porpentine Charity Heartscape, Blood Sugar
  • Jacob V Joyce, Fear Brown Queers
  • Junie Latte, Queereidolia
  • Maddelyn, Bossy Bottom
  • Gabri Molist, Assonance
  • Ned, Yella Haws and the Cougar
  • Nell, Go to Hell
  • Sofia Niazi, Animals in a Digital Age
  • Sofia Niazi, What Animals Think of People
  • Sarah of the North, Ah Cannae Believe This
  • Lotte Pencheon, Happy//Hungry
  • Lotte Pencheon, Self Care Bear
  • Lizzie Quirke, untitled
  • CJ Reay, Laid
  • Cicy Reay, Fucking
  • Cicy Reay, Cruising
  • Jo Ruessmann, The Bath Woman
  • Soft Hard Soft, Tip Dip
  • Sammi Stein, Crayon 2
  • Gueli Torres, Redes
  • Tempest, Verbal Abusedale
  • Trans Zines, Energising Trans Rage
  • Ren Wednesday & Ava Foxtrot, Emoji Love Dictionary
  • Leo Wight, I feel more underwater than ever
  • Yishu Wang, Island on Fire
  • Runxuan Yang, Three untitled zines


  • Catherine Kim, Collected Stories
  • Linden Katherine McMahon, Daring the City to Fall Into It
  • Mors, Three Stories
  • Nadia Nova, Can You Say My Name Again
  • Esdras Parra, Two Stories
  • Porpentine Charity Heartscape, The Maximum Softness Capable of Being Exerted by All Machinery
  • Porpentine Charity Heartscape, Everyone I Know Wants to be Castrated and Kill Their Family
  • Cy Sevalle, Woman Is the Machine That I Am
  • Gillian Ybabez, Homeward Bound and Other Stories


  • Anon, Damn You Mercury
  • Action for Trans Health, Transitional Demands
  • Lohana Berkins (trans. Jamie Berrout), Selected Writings
  • Claire Biddles (ed), Fuck What You Love
  • Siobhan Britton, Living the No Maintenance Lifestyle
  • Graham Bruce, Riots in Durness
  • Tom Bryan, Stac Polly
  • Tom Bryan, Suilven
  • Tom Bryan, Mountains in your Pocket
  • Carbine & Jackie, Two Essays on Crime
  • Holly Casio, Taking Up Space
  • Holly Casio, Cool Schmool
  • Holly Casio, Burn Out
  • Holly Casio, Things I didn’t learn at library school
  • Andrew Coltrin, A is for Aspergers
  • Sky Cubacub, Radical Visibility: A QueerCrip Dress Reform Movement Manifesto
  • Lindsay Draws, Traditional woodworking tips for non-traditional woodworkers
  • Dysphoria Collective, Dysphoria
  • Kirsty Fife (ed), Trailblazing Stories
  • Kirsty Fife, Hard Femme 1-3
  • Steven Fraser, How to make friends as an adult
  • Steven Fraser, Delay
  • Steven Fraser, Uncomfortable sex with total strangers
  • Steven Fraser, Addicted to loneliness
  • Steven Fraser, BPD
  • Steven Fraser, Be my friend please
  • Steven Fraser, Interview ABC
  • Yori Gagarim, Why I stopped making merch for a revolution that does not happen
  • Carol Green, Biketiquette
  • Hidden Ink Child, mEN DO bleed
  • Hidden Ink Child, Gay Trans Boy Things 1-3
  • Hidden Ink Child, Poverty
  • Hidden Ink Child, My First PIP Assessment
  • Hidden Ink Child, What could go wrong with Google speech-to-text
  • Say Holt, Hard/Soft
  • Say Holt, Guest Artist
  • David Hird, Cape Wrath
  • Kathleen Jamie, Findings
  • Saffa Khan, shadow play
  • Saffa Khan, How to get through really bad days
  • Natasha Lall, Secret Diary: A baby butch bio
  • Jade Mars, Scorpio Moon 8,
  • Valerie McLaren, Anorexic Becomings
  • Txgen Meyer, The Thirst for Acceleration
  • Jem Milton, Magical Grill
  • Nell, Little Victories
  • Nell, Dear GP
  • Sofia Niazi, Intifada Milk
  • Nell Osborne & Hilary White (eds), Academics Against Networking
  • Petroleum Genderloss 4
  • PMS, Building Towards an Autonomous Trans Healthcare
  • Astrid Seme, Baroness Elsa’s em dashes
  • Connie Scum, Feelers
  • Matthew Sea & Lindsay Draws, Together
  • Matthew Sea & Lindsay Draws, Alerta
  • Emil Thornton, Allotment Problems
  • Isobel Waidner and Joanna Hedva, The Prince of Homburg
  • Winter, Legalize Crime + Against Revolution
  • Various Authors, FUCKED
  • Radical Transfeminism, Trans Reproductive Justice
  • Asylum Magazine, Winter 2018 – Autumn 2019 (3 issues)
  • The Author: Autumn 2018 – Autumn 2019, (4 Issues)