Tone Glow 197: Debit
An interview with Delia Beatriz about Zapatismo, cumbia rebajada, and her new album 'Desaceleradas' (2025)
Debit
Delia Beatriz (aka Debit) is a Mexican-born, New York-based DJ and musician whose career has been defined by recontextualizing and reorienting different aspects of dance, ambient, and traditional music. Her debut album Animus (2018) was about gender and sexuality, and the inner struggle between the personal and social. Ultimately, her interest was in navigating reality, which came to a head in her follow-up album The Long Count (2022), which saw her applying machine learning processes to an archive of Mayan flute recordings. Her newest LP, Desaceleradas (2025), finds its foundation in the first two tapes by Sonido Dueñez, a pioneer of cumbia rebajada, a style of music that slows down the regional music to a slurry haze. Beatriz helped reissue these tapes earlier this year. Joshua Minsoo Kim spoke with Debit on November 4th, 2025 via Zoom to discuss cumbia rebajada, her pedagogical philosophies, and the ideas surrounding her new LP.
Joshua Minsoo Kim: I know that you’re a professor, and I was wondering if there’s a specific guiding philosophy you have when teaching. Is there something that you want to stress to your students above all else?
Debit: The classes I teach are already cool, so even if I was teaching by the book and just hitting the checklist of the curriculum, it’d still be epic. It’s such amazing material. But for a while, I’ve wanted my students to have some sense of discovery. That’s what I really wanna be able to stimulate—that journey. They’re young adults and I want to take them very seriously. For a while I’d be like, I’m your creative consultant—I’m the one with the experience and I can help you get there. And now I’ve toned it down a bit (laughs). Hopefully I can just inspire them to know they can pursue a vision and develop it. I want to be a catalyst for their artistic discovery, or even just curiosity. One of my classes is with 17 and 18 year olds, and I’m treading a little gentler there—I don’t want to scare them—but a lot of them already have it. I had it very clearly as a teenager too, this identity of wanting to be a serious artist. Some people do have those tendencies already.
What were the things that were catalysts for you? What led you down the path of self-discovery?
There are three main things. Politics and activism is one of them. Anything that wasn’t done in culture for the medium’s sake is propaganda, and I don’t want to be part of some propaganda machine for ideological ends—the medium is the end. I was really seeing through a lot of how culture and art and music was hijacked for other purposes. Then, it was from taking computer music and electronic music at undergrad, at Brown. I was learning about the forefathers and foremothers. It was the lab work, the boring labor of discovering and creating aesthetic sensibilities around things that weren’t inherited yet. And then it all came full circle when I left campus and went to warehouse parties in Providence and saw punk and power electronics—just the chicest shit that was not in the books. I was going to parties that only had 12 people; it felt like the coolest thing ever. These were the instances in my formative years that led to electronic music.
When did you first become aware of art being held captive for other purposes? Were you radicalized by something?
Migrating to the States as an early teenager was very radicalizing because of the clear material differences. The culture shock really led me to questioning world order. Since then, from adolescence into college, I was doing things that were politically inclined. In my 20s, I got involved with Zapatismo in Mexico, in Chiapas. I spent some time there working on various projects, and I saw transformative practices up close. I was seeing culture as the terrain which everything is built on ideologically. I was seeing how it was being operated against us, or how it was sold to us, and there are varying degrees of critique there. There was a love for culture in general, but then also for art and music.
Before you were alongside Zapatistas, what sort of things were you doing that were politically inclined?
Just student activism. In college, I was involved with Student Labor Alliance and I did a lot of stuff with ESL and immigration rights. It was a lot about community building, and having some sort of exchange. I was leaving campus and working with organizations that were working with immigrants. I wouldn’t say that language is just assimilation, obviously—ESL is really important—but there was a lot of friendship and socializing that came through that, and it felt really meaningful. It wasn’t just activism that was, say, goal-oriented.
What was it like being with the Zapatistas? Obviously any sort of political organization in Mexico is going to be different than something in America with other Americans. What differences did you notice between these different experiences? And of course with Zapatismo we’re talking about Indigenous rights, so there’s already a different dimension there.
It’s really nuanced and complicated. My initial draw was the ideological and political-economy criticism and world-building around that. The basis of the movement is the Mayan Indigenous, and you learn there is a range of Mayan experiences. You know it conceptually beforehand but when you’re on the ground, it’s like I’m a foreigner in Chiapas. The middle class thing of my experience is that Mexico’s colonization wasn’t uniform either. The North and South might as well be different countries, if you will. There was a lot of confrontation, and I was constantly going back and forth between an oppressed and oppressor position, even if I wasn’t explicitly doing anything in that case. I was still in a privileged position in the south of Mexico compared to when I was an activist at Brown—there, I was “the POC woman.”
So that switch of consciousness was really important to understand. It was good to see the nuances—we don’t have static roles of privilege and oppression. That was a wonderful lesson for sure. I was overcoming class and ethnic guilt because it can really inform being subconsciously paternalistic. For example, there were questions of gender. This notion of white feminism was extremely clear when you’d say, “You women are oppressed!” and then the Indigenous women would say, “We believe in our gender role, and that has nothing to do with our oppression.”
Seeing that played out has really informed how I relate to culture and how I relate to source material that isn’t mine mine. It became about genuinely building dialogues. It was Marxist in terms of the dialetics—it’s perhaps the only way that I believe we can have exchanges wherein we’re all benefiting. My political journey is still deeply informing my electronic music explicitly, especially as we relate it to “world music.” There’s the same dynamics here about the Global South, class, privilege, and oppression.
How crucial is it to you that your music is building genuine dialogue? In my mind, such music requires an accessibility or transparency. There’s gotta be an educational component. All these different things seem necessary, as every single listener is approaching your music from a completely different vantage point. Essentially, I’m wondering if you’re interested in building genuine dialogue with your music and, if so, how are you accomplishing that?
Wow (pauses). Sorry, that’s a really stimulating question and I’m a bit overwhelmed. I almost want to cry because it’s really hitting stuff on the nose. It feels really important, yes, but it feels like a failure (pauses to contain herself).
It feels like a failure?
Yeah, and that’s why I’m getting emotional (sniffles). It’s super important to me to create music that’s accessible, but it doesn’t mean dumbing anything down. For the previous project, The Long Count (2022), it was important that the source material was a Mayan flute archive. And now, I’m working with the rebajada tapes. That stuff is precious. The Mayan stuff is in museums, and the Rebajadas better be in the Smithsonian by the time I’m done with it (laughs), you know what I mean? I always want to feel like I’m giving something back to the source material. I don’t believe that the archives are sentient, but with The Long Count, that’s why I did two years of research in machine learning. I needed to give something back. Similarly now, so many people have done rebajada-style stuff, and they’ve gone on to make cumbia rebajada proper.
The first intention is to give something back and to not dumb it down or put myself above it, which is why I think I end up making abstract work that can be inaccessible. That’s why I got emotional just now, because I’m like, fuck dude… not a lot of people can relate to what I’m doing. But I still stand by it. And I still think in terms of aesthetic sensibilities and the worlds in which I’m engaging with, I do believe I’m going deeper and that it’s genuine, even if the feeling isn’t mutual. With an audience, it’s tricky. Maybe I need to think about the audience more.
My immediate reaction to you saying that the Rebajada tapes should be in the Smithsonian is, why does it matter? Is institutional validation important? I’m thinking out loud here because I’ve watched some films by Indigenous filmmakers who’ve intentionally obfuscated the rituals and traditions on display in their works—these are experimental films and documentaries. They’re presenting these films at festivals, for example, where audiences will be filled with those who aren’t Indigenous, and they’ve explicitly made the decision to not clarify anything for those who wouldn’t get in the first place—it’s not for them.
It’s not this idea that the institution will give validation. It’s more about public-facing institutions whose whole purpose is compilation and preservation. I mentioned the Smithsonian because of the wide audio archive they have. I do believe that such concentration can be good, but let’s talk in a few years post-AI when everything becomes a model, but maybe that’s the stuff that’s gonna be what verifies the archive from the slop. In that respect, it could be important validation, but I’m not on some Western “the institution is what gives it meaning” thing.
The friends who I worked with for this project were people I met 20 years ago via Zapatismo. It’s a wonderful full-circle thing. For them, their praxis is the preservation of cumbia and the various shapes it’s taken. They’ve done an amazing job at archiving and cataloguing, and they have a “cumbia center.” And I use quotes there because they don’t have funding. This project proves, though, that it can lead to creativity. There’s not a static model of display.
You mentioned that you wanted to think about the audience. How have you approached thinking about your audience in the past, and how has that changed over the years? What do you want to do in the future? I imagine each project has been different for you.
(makes an uneasy face).
What’s with the face?
I feel stupid! Regarding Desaceleradas (2025), I’ve been thinking about doing something with cumbia rebajada from the minute I heard it! I knew I needed to do something with it, but I didn’t know what. The tapes came later. And working with [granular] synthesis in that way has all been… there is this naiveté that I operate with even though I’m conceptual. It’s because I target the thing. I know it has to have these elements, and it’s very deliberate and methodical and time-consuming. A lot of it is me prancing through the journey of it, and right now I’m questioning if I’m being stupid because I’m not thinking about how it would interface with people.
I almost feel like the people who it resonates with are those who it was meant to resonate with. Audience-wise, context-wise… with the tapes, when we released those, those who picked up on its importance, it’s like they heard the call. But I think you’re right—every project continues to reveal stuff to me. And if I feel so misunderstood, maybe I’m not thinking about how I’m trying to be read. That’s why I got emotional—I literally haven’t thought about that, and it’s silly because it affects me so much.
How do you feel like you’ve been misunderstood?
Well… maybe not misunderstood. We’ll see after this project is released, as it does seem like people get the point. But sometimes… hmm, now I don’t know if I’m projecting. It’s not just meant to be entertaining or easy listening or pleasant. And I’m not trying to make anyone suffer (laughter). Maybe what I do is niche, and my projects are niche, so they don’t spill outside to people who already have those special interests. I guess it’s not a misunderstanding—it’s that I don’t figure into the matrix. And to me, that’s wild because I find this stuff so interesting.
You said that “people get the point,” but what’s the point that you want people to get?
Electronic music is the one music that allows us to work both on form and content by mere design—electronic music is all invention. And I think that’s my bottom line. But because of my background, experience, and ethnic and national identity, I put it in dialogue with other timelines that have not been part of this history, the metatags. As a result, everything I make can seem inherently exotic. To be clear, it’s not identity politics—it’s poetics. And that’s where I think people are like… you know.
If people understood that cumbia rebajada is part of this history, that if we were to map out the entirety of electronic music and people would place that style of music in its lineage, would that be enough? And by this I mean, if someone just read text about what you’re saying, what is your album then accomplishing? In other words, what is your album doing that is specific to the medium?
Story-wise, the record is about it. It’s about the framing, the titles, the pictures. So the content is about it. The source material is the tapes themselves, so there’s this meta-reflective via synthesis. I extracted harmonies, some melodies, some pitches, and they’re the driving force for whatever you hear. I also used an accordion, and that adds musicality and helps with arrangement—otherwise it’d just be the white noise of the tapes because I find that pleasant. So the metaphysical of using the material itself… that’s obviously from [musique] concrète and sampling. There’s something in our brain that’s activated by that.
Time is such a huge component and axis of music composition, even without electronics. We know that’s a big part of how objects take shape. And I think slowing down something that was already slowed down is to me the most obvious aesthetic consequence of 30 years of rebajada. This is how I processed my encounter with rebajadas, which I believe doesn’t have its due place in electronic music history. I think there’s a class element to it, and there’s a parallel with dub. And dub is perhaps in the top… three things in electronic music that changed the way we’ve made electronic music.
I’d even say top one.
I was gonna say it! I was being careful, but I do think it was perhaps the most important moment. And it’s fascinating because there are parallels with rebajada because it was a technique, it was an ethos, it was a worldview—it wasn’t something that could be trademarked. So then it goes out into the world and changes the way we listen. The sound system culture… I don’t find that to be a coincidence—there’s something in the physics of sound there. So the album is just doing a little landmark in place and time where I found it to be meta-reflective. The music is emotional—I don’t find my take on cumbia rebajada to be abstract in a clinical way. I’ve been very moved by it. I think it’s haunted.
Earlier you said that you’re not trying to make your music pleasant. Why is that?
With non-dance music—though I’m not talking about classical music, as there’s a lot of torment there—I think there’s an underrepresented range of emotions and sensibilities we have. We need different movements, different exposures, different experiences. It’s toxic positivity that everything has to be and sound nice. I’m not making spooky stuff like it’s a horror film; I let the emotion come through and it so happens that I’m tormented so the music is quite intense. But yeah, similar to the last record, I could’ve made some easier listening, but I guess a lot of it is not conscious.
When you talk about something being pleasant or easier listening, this is in relation to a particular audience. Obviously the average cumbia listener would listen to your album and be thrown off, but with the context your music is presented in—released on Modern Love, which is distributed by Boomkat, who primarily focuses on physical media, and your audience is people who listen to experimental music—these folks would maybe find your music easier to listen to than typical cumbia rebajada.
For a lot of people, they’ve barely heard cumbia with a doppler effect in a car, so yeah, I don’t think that a lot of the people who listen to Desaceleradas would have been exposed to the original sound source before. And that’s part of the discovery, just naturally.
We’ve talked about Mark Fell’s book, Structure and Synthesis (2022), before over DMs. There’s this one part about this lecture he gives on the history of electronic music. He prefaces it by saying that this history is incomplete and that things could be debated. There’s stuff he of course doesn’t include, which I think is fine because it also reveals a lot about who he is and what his interests are. With your new album, are there specific things that you intentionally wanted to include and exclude? Put another way, is there something that impacted the way you approached the record either conceptually or sonically that might not be obvious to someone listening to it?
Once I started the writing, Basinski came up, Pauline Oliveros come up, and with her it was because of deep listening and the accordion and the physicality of it, but almost in the negative space of a sonidero. With Basinski, it’s with the tapes and long format. By the end of it, La Monte Young and the minimalists presented themselves because it’s like, yeah it can be challenging to get through some of these projects and pieces and intentions. That generated an acceptance.
An acceptance of what?
Of the challenges of the form. LP is already long format inherently, but this performance I went to of a piece by La Monte Young was four or five hours of a single tone played on cello. By the end of it, I was ripping the skin off my face—I felt like I couldn’t do it, but I did. And mind you, he’s my ultimate. We don’t have a lot of references for that because everything is spoonfed to us with the way social media works. It’s important to see what something can be like and sound like, genuinely, without being pretentious. And then I think the tool itself, granular synthesis, informed the piece too. As I’m understanding myself more, I’m building instruments with tools and the source material. Together, they shape how I’m writing. I don’t want to be an anthropologist, and I’m certainly not a sociologist. There are better equipped people to talk about cumbia and cumbia rebagada and their class politics.
Earlier you mentioned that you wanted to tap into a wider range of emotions with the music. In the process of making the album, was there something especially surprising or unexpected that happened? This could be with something you learned about yourself or with playing the accordion or with using granular synthesis.
The main gift I took from this is the accordion. I had it forever because it was my mom’s, and I would always play a little bit, but I was really listening to it and getting to know it. I’m only playing chords and playing extremely slowly, but I can say I’ve genuinely had my breakthrough with it. It’s like nothing else. I love electronic music—it’s my vocation—but there’s something to the accordion. It’s the resonance of a physical acoustic instrument up against your chest, of hitting the notes and then matching that with the backing tracks… the amplification this creates is a lot. I get why music is a part of divine concepts.
And aesthetically, with the accordion and going back to the question of populism and folk and high brow and low brow, it’s been interesting being from the North. It’s the same as being in the South from the States—it’s like the equivalent of the hick there is the equivalent of the hick in Mexico. I happen to be Tex-Mex, so I’m double that. There was a lot of rejection from me to my context growing up because of these ideas, but then at the same time it was my entire code.
What do you mean by that?
I grew up with cumbias, corridos, ballads, norteños, all these genres and I kind of rejected my environment—I was a bitchy teenager. Now, having these connections… everything makes sense. I always loved cumbia, but with corridos, and with the new tumbados, I finally see myself in it. It might just be an aesthetic thing or a language thing, but it was a piece of this puzzle where everything suddenly made sense. These musics have such a long history of immigration as well—corrido is a ballad that came from polka, and there were Germans in Texas and Germans in Colombia.
Do you mind talking about corrido tumbado and what resonated with you about it? I’m seeing Xavi next month and I’m super excited, and Chicago has a big Mexican population so people always come through for the concerts. It’s funny though because people who are Mexican, they tell me that this sort of music is for fuckboys.
It’s so fascinating to hear regional Mexican music interface with modern techniques and technologies. I just immediately connected with tumbados. I love the instrumentation. I think the people who pioneered it are the Mozarts of our generation—they’re brilliant, prolific children. Artists like Natanael Cano and Junior H. I loved seeing the moment before it went big industry, when it was a little more raw and they were just doing YouTube videos. I guess I love the prototype more than the mature version. I went to high school near the border, and it was right before the war on drugs was declared in Mexico to the cartels. We would cross to Mexico for the weekend to party, and the status quo was called narco junior and buchonas. It was a romanticization of the aesthetics and lifestyle, and this was before the Netflixification of it, before it was pop.
From Monterrey, which is a big industrial city, my cousins and everybody knew it… they always looked down on Tamaulipas, the state. There’s a funny snobbery. But for me I was always like, why are we romanticizing this? I was a young political, intellectual wannabe, like, “We shouldn’t romanticize this,” but then my boyfriend was like that, so I was obviously part of it. I was always critical, and because I saw a lot of that stuff—it was really bad where I was at—and experiencing narco culture first hand… organized crime is one thing, but when it gets disorganized, it’s chaos. And that’s what we experienced.
It’s good to see it have different cycles, but the music is still the same even though there’s been changes in techniques and aesthetics—they’re still ballads and it’s soothing to hear them. The storytelling goes back to the revolution. So, I love a historical form and seeing its twists and turns. My time and place made me be like, “This isn’t good for culture!” but now I love it, and apparently the government is trying to shut it down. Again, it’s glorifying narco culture, and there’s obviously nothing romantic about human trafficking—these are not working class heroes. Five decades ago it was like, okay maybe they’re building more schools than the government, but that’s not what’s happening right now.
You mentioned how you love the more raw stuff, and I think about this a lot with the earlier forms of pop music when things are still developing. I love all the earlier reggaeton more than the newer stuff—Plan B, Don Omar, Tego Calderón, stuff like that. I like that it’s a bit more sloppy. I think about this with K-pop too and when people didn’t know how to mix pop songs “correctly” in the ’90s. That’s the sort of stuff I crave. It’s so easy nowadays to go on YouTube and follow a tutorial for how things should sound.
So like you, I’m always interested in figuring out how a genre started and consequently evolved. I like pinpointing the messiness and seeing how and why that got taken out, or maybe replaced by a new sort of messiness. I don’t think this is exactly as evident with experimental music, though, and I’m not exactly sure why. To turn this into a question, how are you in your practice maintaining this spirit of rawness that you enjoy from this regional Mexican music? Or maybe that’s not something you care about.
I do. I have no unified reference though. What you were saying just now, I was talking about it with someone and I think the common motif in our conversation is this word in Spanish: extractivismo. It’s the extraction of the precious metal from the mountain. Capitalism does that to culture. They’ll take what works and get a team of experts in and find a product. Sometimes that works, and when it does it’s a billion dollar enterprise, and when it doesn’t it’s disposable to the investors. And that’s what is so tragic about the industry.
My rawness comes from how there is no blueprint. People ask me all the time, who do you want to be with, who do you want to be seen as? And I don’t know. I’m still walking here and there’s no destination yet. This is a genuine thing I’m formulating with you. I always say I make conceptual music instead of experimental even though they’re the same—I don’t actually know what the outcome is going to be and in that sense it’s an experiment—but with experimental music, it’s as if there’s no grounding foundation or things to hold onto.
Okay, it’s getting clearer to me now. With experimental music, it’s okay if things sounds “wrong.” Everything is accepted, so it can maybe be harder to pinpoint when something is more “raw.” And of course I’m not just talking about whether something is lo-fi. With pop music, because it’s dictated by capital, you see how it evolves and there are these metrics that can help determine if something is successful and if it’s resonating with people. Experimental music doesn’t have this to that extent, of course.
That’s why I think we enter the realm of metaphysics. It’s not an emotional music, even though emotions are very much invited. With Mark Fell, you listen to it and… it’s just fucking good! (laughter). There’s a transcendence, and it’s not necessarily a religious one, and it’s because he’s British—they don’t have a soul! (laughter). I’m kidding. But a lot of times, I’m just not impressed, and it’s not a technical thing. Again, “rawness” has nothing to do with it being rough around the edges. That’s not part of the conversation. We’re talking about being able to pierce through the noise.
I love that you said you don’t know who you want to be seen as. Mark Fell talks about how with this sort of music, it’s this process of questioning and you don’t really know what the end product is going to be. And you also talked about how you’re learning more about yourself with this album, and how you found this missing puzzle piece with corrido tumbado. I like that there can’t be a visualized end goal because you’re constantly coming into your own. And I think it’s actually sad when you have an idea of what you want to be seen as because you’re limiting yourself to what you know could possibly exist.
That’s when we get back to politics. Are we extracting value from someone’s soul and genius and then reshaping it, branding it, and selling it? Or are we actually able to create value—and yeah, maybe it’s not quantifiable in the way the industry would love, and that’s why some of us have a harder time than others with this. The insistence of quantifying the value, versus the aggregate value we can add… it’s about creating in this really precarious context even though it’s in surplus, and that’s where it can get political. I would say electronic music inherently breaks ground because it’s always evolving. And in that sense, it’s still utopic. I know that people may think that sounds absurd because it’s still consumerist and it can seem like white music, but it’s not—I don’t think it is.
Is there anything about the album that we didn’t talk about that you wanted to mention?
Cumbia rebajada is very niche but I think it changed electronic music. I think cumbia influenced all of Mexico. I wanted to relate to the material in the most genuine way I could from my own practice, from my own praxis. I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I used to think validation came from journalists. With the last record, it had incredible, generous reception. It was also a sexy “it has AI before AI was annoying” thing. It didn’t translate though. But when I played shows, it didn’t transfer. I don’t know what kind of validation this would require, but I think its existence is enough. My friends who are the archivists, and the fact the family let me touch it and reissue the tapes… I think that’s the gold star on my forehead for my little insecure ego. I don’t know what else is missing—maybe it’s as big as it can get for its context. But I think it’s sparked amazing conversations.
Are there specific things you do to feel less insecure, that don’t require thinking about others’ opinions or any external factors?
That’s where I’m at now because, for a long time, I was compensating so hard intellectually. I went to grad school, and I literally became a professor in order to be taken seriously. I think it’s a typecasting thing because I have a silly personality or with the way I look. For the status quo in many ways, it wasn’t smooth sailing. I’ve always been intellectually curious, but sometimes I’m like wow, I really had a point to prove. I wanna do a PhD, mostly because of Mark Fell. I found his thesis and it was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen and I was like “yes!” I don’t want to write a book, I don’t want to be an academic; Mark Fell’s PhD was a bunch of projects. So yeah, there was a lot of compensating that didn’t give me leverage in anything—the industry doesn’t care that I’m a professor and that doesn’t give anybody anything. It’s not a thing where you can say, “You scratch my back and I scratch yours.”
Lately, I got a 500 Series for the live set. I did a project on Catholic nuns last year. There was this mystic who said that for 13 years she didn’t see God. Believing when you don’t have the cherubs flying around is harder than when you’re inspired. And I felt that after 13 years of nothing, God presented itself. And having moments with the music and sound again… I felt like I was in a new phase of discovery. I finished Desaceleradas a year ago and the record coming out next year I finished two years ago. And that’s very exciting to me. I’ve been listening to a lot of Mark Fell lately and Nite Closures especially.
Confidence-wise, it’s when I’m not seeing myself reflected through the values that the industry has, when it’s about the price tag I have on my ear. My self-esteem isn’t in the gutter, though. Being an artist is a process of self-discovery all the time, and I’m continuing to find things that make it about the work itself.
There’s a question I end all my interviews with and I wanted to ask it to you. Do you mind sharing one thing you love about yourself?
Oh… that dumb bitch? (laughter). I’m very committed. That hasn’t been a linear trajectory, and I think that’s another thing about sharing vulnerability—vocation doesn’t have to be like that. For myself, a lot of it has to do with New York work conditions, and teaching was really hard to get comfortable in. I love that despite the crazy shit that’s been present, the crazy shit that would’ve knocked other people off this path, I’m still here and I’m still committed. I still love electronic music.
Debit’s new album, Desaceleradas, is out now via Modern Love.
Thank you for reading the 197th issue of Tone Glow. Stay committed.
If you appreciate what we do, please consider donating via Ko-fi or becoming a Patreon patron. Tone Glow is dedicated to forever providing its content for free, but please know that all our writers are paid for the work they do. All donations will be used for paying writers, and if we get enough money, Tone Glow will be able to publish issues more frequently.
😍😍😍😍😍😍