Dear Printcila,

Every semester a new generation of editors joins The Record. Some arrive as nervous first-years, and others have dedicated all four years of their academic careers to this student-run newspaper. Friendships form, editors graduate and leadership changes hands. But through it all one crew member remains. Always there. Always working. Usually tucked away in the dark corner of the newsroom, quietly doing the work that few appreciate and even fewer fully understand. 

I’m talking, of course, about Printcila. Also known as the NC-28 printer. My love, my confidante, my most reliable coworker. 

While the official printing of The Record is handled by an outside company, you are responsible for something far more intimate: printing the pages we use to copyedit the paper throughout the night. Before our stories reach the world, they pass through your hands. Before an editor can find a typo, question a headline or argue whether or not a comma belongs somewhere, they must first receive your blessing in the form of a freshly printed page. 

And what beautiful pages they are. Given the proper paper, enough ink, and the occasional sacrifice of an editor’s remaining sanity, you transform our creations into something tangible. You see every layout before anyone else does, every design choice that will inevitably be reconsidered at 1 a.m. You know all our secrets, Printcila. And yet, you have never once threatened to expose us. 

Well, except through the Wall of Shame.

Your one great weakness is also your greatest weapon: paper size. For those unfamiliar with the newsroom life, A3 paper is larger than the letter-sized paper most of us use every day. It is also essential when we are printing the newspaper layout to copyedit. Unfortunately, Printcila has very specific tastes. Fail to tell her that you want A3 instead of letter-sized paper, and she will print your beautiful, carefully designed page at a size that makes it look like it belongs to a dollhouse. No warnings. No second chances. Just a tiny page and an addition to the Wall of Shame.  

And when Printcila gets hangry? God help us all. She does not throw tantrums or send passive-aggressive emails. She simply refuses to cooperate until someone feeds her more paper. 

Of course, not everyone has been fortunate enough to experience your love. Last year, approximately three computers seemed incapable of connecting to you, no matter who tried. I have heard rumors of a past editor that spent an entire semester paying for your services. I cannot confirm whether this was a legitimate financial arrangement or some type of blackmail, but I do know that when it comes to Printcila, you pay what you owe.

I first met you during my first year. It was a late night in the newsroom, the kind where the room is crowded, everyone’s talking at once, and every editor has a different opinion about a sentence that probably should have been cut three drafts ago. There was stress all over the room, the deadline was approaching. And then, I sat beside you.

Suddenly, peace.

Your gentle hums, your mechanical whirs, your unmistakable zum and zig sounds filled the room. While everyone else was panicking, you kept working. Page after page. Zum zing, zum  zing. A steady reminder that we could do this. That there was still time. That somewhere deep inside the newsroom, there was still enough ink, paper and sheer determination to get us through the night. 

When the newsroom empties and everyone goes home, I sometimes wonder if you continue chatting away to yourself in the dark, replaying the night’s layouts and gossiping  about the editors who couldn’t figure out how to select the right paper tray. I wouldn’t blame you. You’ve seen things. 

Printcila, I hope you know how much you mean to me. You have survived multiple editors, paper jams and questionable formatting decisions. You have seen us at our best and worst, and you have never once questioned why we are still in the newsroom at 4 a.m. 

So, dear reader, next time you find yourself in The Record’s newsroom, take a moment to appreciate Printcila, say hello. Give her some paper, but make sure you select the correct size. And if she starts making strange noises, don’t panic. She is just talking. 

And Printcila, as you read this, I hope you know that no matter how many editors come and go, or computers fail to connect, you will always have a place in my heart. 

Yours in ink and paper,

An editor who hopes to stay off the Wall of Shame.