own voices

Inclusivity. Gatekeeping. Belonging.

I had a wonderful opportunity to do something new to me this weekend. On Saturday, I was part of two panels at the Rainbow Space Magic online conference. This was both my first time attending and my first time speaking, so it was doubly exciting.

First, I read an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Every Time We Meet. It’s a time-loop story, and sadly, this was not entirely well-received by the NetGalley reviewers. But if you’re interested in bisexual women, bad cover bands, lilacs, my hometown (Rochester, NY), and repeating a day until getting it right, then this may be the book for you.

Next, I was on the bisexual #OwnVoices panel. That was a lot of fun. There were four of us, and we had a lively discussion about writing bisexual characters and the challenges of being multisexual (bi, pan, fluid, etc.) in a world of monosexuals (hetero and gay/lesbian).

I won’t go into detail about that, as it’s not the purpose of this post. I want to remark on something that struck me: Science fiction and fantasy, when stripped of the requirement to be primarily Romance Genre, becomes more inclusive and diverse.

Over the years, I’ve gotten used to queer lit being focused on MM or MMM+ (gay male) romance. There isn’t really anything wrong with this, but it’s the lens through which a lot of queer lit is filtered. For example, in my earlier years booking blog tours for my books or hosting them for others, I noticed that the intake forms heavily emphasized male characters. One notable form included a line about introducing readers to our “boys,” as if every person writing queer lit was writing about men (or exclusively men). Don’t even get me started on how referring to grown-ass men as “boys” feels extremely infantilizing to me. (I could write a whole blog post on how LGBTQ+ people are frequently treated like children, both in literature and in real life.)

There’s also a distinct lack of representation of bisexual and pansexual characters who are not in gay-passing relationships. That is, nonbinary people are typically squeezed into relationships that align with their genitals, not their identity. Bisexual characters are expected to land in same (cis)gender relationships. Pansexuals have slightly more flexibility in that they may be allowed relationships with nonbinary/trans characters, but it’s still expected to “look queer enough,” whatever that means.

But this is a problem with Romance Genre, not an across-the-board queer lit issue. When the expectation of romance is removed, and when reviewers align with that preference, that lens disappears almost entirely. Not only that, there’s a wider variety of genders and orientations as well as more diversity in other ways. While it still may not be quite level, this is largely a problem of mixed-genre romance/speculative fiction, not one inherently present in queer sci fi/fantasy/horror on their own.

Another thing of note is that the removal of a primarily Romance Genre focus means a greater proportion of authors writing #OwnVoices stories. My theory on this is that speculative fiction gives many of us the means to explore things we haven’t been able to in our contemporary real lives. Writers who are not part of the LGBTQ+ community may have less need to use queerness to do this because they have other aspects of their lives to contend with.

I’m aware that this is an unpopular opinion, but I genuinely believe allosexual (i.e., not asexual), alloromantic (i.e., not aromantic), cisgender, heterosexual authors should spend time thinking about why they want to write primarily or exclusively about a population they don’t belong to. I’m not even speaking about questioning folks here, only those who are solidly in the allo-cis-het camp.

I can guarantee many of the themes allocishet/non-queer folks want to address can be done so without using our lives and bodies. I highly recommend giving it a go instead of complaining about what’s lacking in non-queer books. If you can’t find a compelling reason, and you’re not writing for us, and you complain when we write about real things we experience and real ways we relate to each other, then you’re objectifying us. Don’t squish us into your boxes just to prove we’re just like you but with 57% more gayness.

If readers are genuinely open-minded, then that has to include dealing with their own discomfort over what queer relationships are. Do some look kind of heteronormative? Sure, and that’s not a problem. But it is a problem when that becomes the only thing that’s acceptable. When even your polyamory mimics a socially constructed western ideal of the nuclear family, something is wrong.

I’m not over here to tell anyone what they can or cannot write. It just frustrates me, as a queer person who is not a gay man and who doesn’t write male-centered Romance Genre, that this is the lens through which queer lit has been filtered. It bothers me that “writing to the market” means catering to a small-minded audience with a narrow set of preferences.

It’s always rubbed me the wrong way that the same people who say “love is love” also often don’t seem to notice that the G isn’t the only letter in the rainbow alphabet. Comments like, “Gay men give me hope that anyone can love who they choose” and “I feel so sad for them” coupled with “I avoid the bisexuals in books and in real life” or “I don’t want to read about girls/girl parts parts in my MM” or “Where’s the sex, this isn’t sexy” are antagonistic toward bisexuals, women, lesbians, asexuals, and trans folks. If you are uncomfortable with open relationships and polyamory and sex work, then you don’t truly support the LGBTQ+ community. You value us if we look and act within your parameters for normal and acceptable, not ours.

(And on a side note, it makes my skin crawl when I see authors of #OwnVoices LGBTQ+ books saying on one side that they dislike these limits and want to write what they prefer but on the other side fawning over their allocishetero audience and obliging their desires.)

Over the last several years, I’ve enjoyed writing contemporary fiction despite always feeling at odds with the expectations of readers. But now that I’ve had a taste of what it’s like to be part of something with much more diversity, it’s left me longing for more of the same.

Oh, is it time to barf on Own Voices again? Le Sigh.

Books, Writing

It’s time to revisit the subject of Own Voices again because it’s come up in yet another really uncomfortable conversation.

A few months ago, I wrote this blog post about the in-betweens. For me, that means I’m frequently stuffed into the “not enough” closet. That is, I don’t appear to others as if I am any of the things I say I am. They are free to read into what I look like on the outside. Funnily enough, for the most part, that means people not marginalized in that way think I’m Not Like Them. And people who are part of those marginalized communities also think I am Not Like Them. Everyone acts accordingly.

Now, back to the subject of Own Voices. I tend to write a whole damn lot about people like me—those who can’t be tidily sorted and counted. People who are bisexual. Non-binary people. Halfies (patrilineal “half Jewish” people, and I will thank you not to call me a slur we’ve reclaimed). People with invisible disabilities. I am passionate about making sure readers like me can see themselves reflected in the stories I tell.

When I see other authors going after Own Voices as if it’s the Hand of God come to exact judgment and divine revenge on them, I search for the nearest desk to plant my head. This entirely and spectacularly misses the point.

Own Voices is not some kind of mandate that anyone stop writing whatever the hell they want. Write it! Seriously! I mean, yeah, maybe listen when people tell you it has issues, especially if you are writing about something very far from your own experiences. But truly, this is just not about you, and making it so is ignoring some fundamental realities.

The whole reason for Own Voices is not to stomp on the precious feelings of white hetero and bi women and non-binary people who write gay male romance and erotica. It really, really, really very much is not. So take a step back, remind yourself it’s not about you, and have a think about what Own Voices might actually be attempting to do.

In the publishing industry, some voices are prioritized. Not only is it harder to find mainstream, popular media about LGBTIA+ people, it’s also harder to find mainstream, popular media created by LGBTIA+ people. The same is true for just about every marginalized identity and especially if those overlap at all. We’re often told our work is “too niche” or “not as good.” Instead, publishers often prefer sanitized versions of us or stories in which we are punished or our allies are made into the true heroes.

This is the very thing Own Voices is meant to address. It’s meant to make heard the voices of people who are telling stories about ourselves and our communities from firsthand experience. It isn’t a commandment to write (or not write) about people exactly like ourselves in every single way.

The thing is, even if you identify as part of a marginalized group, it is entirely possible to oppress people who don’t share your identity. Heck, it’s even possible to do that within your own identity. A lot of us internalize a whole bunch of crap over the course of a lifetime. We can buy into stereotypes and lies about people like ourselves and then spew it back on the page. Or we might refuse to write about people who share our identities because we don’t feel secure in them. (I’ve seen people say they won’t write about non-binary people because our bodies are “gross,” for example.)

We might convince ourselves that some parts of our community are “more privileged” and therefore it is okay to write however we want about them—even if those people have said they are uncomfortable with how they are written about. In reality, we probably need to have some open conversations about how cishetero patriarchy has wormed its way in everywhere and affected our preferences when it comes to media.

The funny thing is, a lot of the anti-Own Voices folks cannot seem to take their own advice. Don’t want to be part of that, either reading or writing? Well, then, ignore it instead of making it into the supreme enemy of free speech.

If it makes me some kind of terrible person, no, I don’t support everyone writing whatever they want. I mean, in a legal sense, yes. Anyone can write what they like and publish what they like. That doesn’t mean I will read it, and it doesn’t mean I won’t argue back that “free speech” and “but some people like it” are not points in favor of it being a good thing.

However, kicking against major branches of small publishing are not a good use of my limited time and energy. So instead, I will continue to support Own Voices. I will continue to buy those books and recommend them. And I will not support, with my money or my energy, books by authors who sit in their white privilege and complain that Own Voices is attacking them.

Writing, researching, and telling our own stories

Books, Writing

You’ll have to excuse me for being on a bit of a short fuse. It’s been a rough week, and we’re only halfway in. Multiple things have left me feeling raw. When this happens, I do what I do best: I write things. Keeping them contained only leads to worse outcomes.

Anyway, this post was sparked by an odd exchange involving a conversation about #OwnVoices and researching identities different from our own. Or, in this case, researching how to write our own identities.

I have never once, not in the nearly five years I’ve been a published author, researched how to write my own identity.

In a previous post, I mentioned how natural it was to shift to writing primarily characters who share most or all of my queerness and/or medical diagnoses. It comes as easily as breathing. My life experiences don’t need a Google search; I can just write them.

Anyone who has been around a while knows that I’m a pretty strong advocate for #OwnVoices, but they might not have any idea why nor why I think that still has limitations.

I’m not against writing about someone or something outside your experience. We all bring something in with us. My own kids have asked if I’ll write books with characters like them, even though we don’t share all our identities. No one person is going to share one hundred percent of everything with a character, unless they are writing an autobiography.

What I’m against is creating a culture where:

authors primarily or exclusively write about a specific identity they don’t share
an entire community then develops around books about that identity
people who don’t share that identity are allowed to have a significant degree of control within the community, including deciding which books are good representation
that community and its books are prioritized over all similar/related identities
all books with similar/related identities are measured against the one prioritized
authors who don’t share that identity are considered authorities, experts, or spokespeople
authors who do share that identity are held to a higher standard

Not that people can’t figure out what I mean, but I’m not naming names here for a reason. It happens in more than one type of writing.

This isn’t about one author writing one book or even one author writing many books. It’s not about authors who write a broad range. It’s the collective of multiple authors over many years writing numerous books entirely about a specific something they have no firsthand experience with and often no secondhand experience either.

The problem is that because of these types of communities, where outsiders exclusively want to write about or speak about insiders, the ripple effect is large. It leads to insiders feeling we must “research” our own identities to get it “right.” It means we have to yell twice as loud to be heard, but when we do, we’re told to tone it down and not be so angry. It means if we write crappy books, outsiders can point at us and say, “See? They aren’t any better! At least MY book is good!” or “Sure, there are bad books by outsiders, but even insiders write crap!”

It means we no longer have the flexibility to write anything but perfectly-constructed #OwnVoices books.

I don’t know what the answer is because of a number of factors. It would likely take a collective effort on the part of multiple people to make change. What I do know is that I’ve felt the need to distance myself both from those communities and from people who make rules about what I’m “allowed” to write. Both sides often feel like they don’t especially care about those of us who might get caught in the crossfire.

There are 10 days left of NaNoWriMo, and I am really far behind on a novel that hits many of my identities but not all and some I don’t share. Back to writing, with the hope that I’ll at least get something right.

It’s Not About You

Culture, Writing

I’m going to say a thing. Probably a lot of people won’t like it, but I’m really at the point of saying “too bad.” Because this is exhausting and frustrating and I am just plain old sick of dealing with the ongoing fights in queer author spaces, most of which are driven by white people. So here goes.

Dear white queer non-cis-male people, it’s not about you. #OwnVoices is not about preventing you from your right to issue stories about (mainly white) cis gay men having relationships and/or sex with each other. It’s just not.

Dear white cis gay men, it’s not about you either. You don’t have exclusive rights to the hashtag. #OwnVoices includes you, and you 100% have the right to tell your stories as you see fit. I’m with you. I have your back. But do you have mine? I like to hope so, but I haven’t seen it so far.

There’s some value in having a much calmer and kinder conversation with and about cis gay men who are pushing back against other people writing their stories. I also think it’s worth talking about the cis-hetero allosexual (i.e. not asexual) women who are writing exclusively or primarily about gay cis men, even if they are not the majority.

We should definitely have a discussion about how those stories are written and whether they might be perpetuating some harmful ideas. Yes, even queer people with marginalized identities within LGBTQ+ spaces can do harm. That’s a matter of asking ourselves if a particular story, told in a particular way, might not be ours to tell.

Other things worth discussing are the erasure of women and other non-male people in literature and how certain bodies and identities have priority in queer lit. We should spend some time thinking about the number of queer cis women who are deeply invested in writing exclusively about cis gay and bi men. This troubles me as a person who doesn’t fall neatly into binary gender or sexuality categories. I rarely get to see myself in books. On the rare occasion that I do see something similar, my identity is often treated as something like A Very Special Episode when it’s written by a cisgender person.

And that is why #OwnVoices is so vital to me. I am not here to tell anyone, particularly queer folks, who they can or can’t write about. But I am here to say that there are some things distinctly lacking in any discussion that begins or ends with attacking #OwnVoices.

#OwnVoices is not now, nor has it ever been, about silencing white queer people. It was meant to do the opposite as well as making room for people of color, religious minorities, disabled folks, neurodivergent people, and more to tell our own stories in our own words. It was also meant to allow queer women (cis and trans), trans men, and non-binary folks to tell our stories in our own words. And it was meant to make space for people at the intersections of any combination of those identities.

Cisgender men are socially prioritized. In queer spaces, cis gay men are prioritized. So a queer person who is not a cisgender man writing primarily or exclusively about them is, in general, not a massive problem on its own. People have pointed out, rightly so, that transmasculine folk have used writing about cis gay men to explore gender identity. Bi women have written about bi men for similar reasons. Women’s voices, particularly queer women, have been drowned out for a long time, and this is sometimes a way to be heard (though I would argue a somewhat troubling one). Some have compared writing about cis gay men to gay men doing drag, which I think is apt (and has some equally bothersome elements, which has also been pointed out—both of those can sometimes participate in misogyny, for example).

Obviously this writing can still be done in problematic ways, and that should be addressed. I would suggest that those of us who are not cis gay men and yet are concerned by it should speak up about those elements (overuse of certain demeaning tropes, lack of understanding about issues facing gay men, misogyny, and the framing of certain topics like gay conversion, e.g.). We also ought to apply pressure on actual cisgender, heterosexual, allosexual women regarding how they write about and view our community. That’s not to say cis gay men shouldn’t speak up, but we should show our solidarity here and call-in our peers.

Following that, I would suggest everyone take a couple deep breaths and step back. We all could do with removing cisgender male as the default setting. White cis men are not “normal” with everyone else being “special.” Not in hetero spaces and not in queer spaces and not at the intersections of those with race, disability, and neurodivergence. When the primary thing going on in queer lit is boiling fury over who gets to tell cis gay men’s stories, then everyone else is forced to wonder if our stories are even worth telling.

This is particularly true if we’re not writing about cis lesbians (or aren’t cis lesbians ourselves). Lesbian fiction has its own fully-formed community, with its own issues of who is or isn’t welcome. I don’t want to minimize that or the problems some writers have faced when they don’t follow those rules. But lesfic is still by far less popular and less well-advertised than gay lit. This is magnified for people who don’t fit into a binary system and whose writing doesn’t either.

I’m about to release a new novella, a YA story that is very much #OwnVoices in every way. But because so much attention and energy is devoted to playing tug-of-war with white cis gay men’s stories, I am left wondering if anyone will care. Will they want to read about what it’s like to grow up genderqueer, bisexual, and interfaith during the peak AIDS death years? Or do they just want to fight about whether it’s objectifying to write about Navy SEALs fucking each other?

All I’m asking is that we open our eyes to some much bigger problems in both queer lit and queer real-life circles. We are not always good at being inclusive, and constantly hurting each other over who has more right to uphold the white cis male default is harming all of us.

Author Interview: Charli Coty

Books, Featured

Today I’m welcoming Charli Coty to the blog to talk about life, writing and Speedbump, which features bisexual and genderqueer main characters.

Interview

Welcome! I can’t tell you how excited I was to see a book with non-binary gender representation. And of course, bisexuals. What inspired you to write it?

When I started writing Speedbump my main motivation was to write something completely different. After spending a few years with the Buchanan House family “completely different” felt pretty subjective. A wide variety of folx live in those stories but the books focus on the cis gay and bi men. Going back to the very beginning, the idea was to write a Bi + Bi love story and to really push myself and tell a story I wanted to read but couldn’t find—even more than I had with Torque. I started with a first line, a vague idea that the main character was genderqueer, and that the love interest would be Red Long. After a lot of drafting (that often felt as though it was going nowhere) the story took on a life of its own. That’s always a relief; as a pantser, I’m never sure what I have is really a story until that happens.

As a semi-pantser myself, I can relate to that. And different is always good. Speaking of relating, is there a character in your work you feel especially connected to? Why?

To be honest, the character in Speedbump I identify with the most is Red, my washed-up musician. It wasn’t easy to explore what happens when someone’s dream in life doesn’t work out the way they’d hoped, how that affects a person’s self-image and their relationships. He challenged me to look at dreams and goals in a new light—and not only his.

I sense a lot of people these days are feeling that heartache. Seems like we all need to find ways to connect a bit more.

On that subject, have you ever been to a writing conference? If so, how was it? If not, is there one you want to attend?

I’ve been to a few and really enjoyed them. When I was a baby writer I went to a few Portland-based writing conferences and learned tons from some truly wonderful authors, agents, and editors. Those writing cons are fun and not only for the workshops and panel discussions. I’m an introvert but didn’t have any trouble chatting with complete strangers while surrounded by hundreds of writers. It would be impossible to count how many times I’ve asked and answered this question: “So, what do you write?”

Reader-focused cons are cool because you can hang out with other writers AND meet the folks who make it all possible! I attended Gay Romance Northwest (which later became Read With Pride) for the past three years, and just being there with folks who love LGBTQIA+ books was sublime. I’d never been so completely surrounded by my tribe before and will never forget what it felt like to know I could be my whole self without fear. It was a dream come true to have readers recognize my books, and having readers visit my table at the book fairs was extra sweet. I’m sad this con has been discontinued. I’d love to find another queer-centric con in the Northwest that doesn’t focus solely on speculative fiction. If anyone out there knows of one, please clue me in! <3

That does sound amazing! I’m all the way on the other side of the country, and writing conferences in driving distance are hard to find.

Okay, time for word sprints!

Plotter or pantser?

Pantser; plotting scares my muse.

Cats or dogs?

Fish! And cats. But mostly fish.

Musical theater or rock concert?

Live music—and not only rock, I’ve also seen Itzak Pearlman live and the first time I took the train from Portland to Seattle was to see Ann and Nancy Wilson and Alice in Chains with the Seattle Symphony.

That sounds so cool. Thanks for stopping by! I hope you’ll join us again for future releases.

About the Book

Title: Speedbump

Date: February 5, 2018

Publisher: NineStar Press

Length: 68,200 words

Categories: bisexual, genderqueer, contemporary romance

Synopsis

Getting broken wasn’t supposed to fix everything.

Ezra Cook is sole caregiver to older brother Tray, who was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s in his forties. They live outside the small town of Drop, Oregon, on property Tray bought with his Microsoft settlement money. For years, Ezra has been going on and off low doses of testosterone to maintain a comfortable level of androgyny. Ezra spends most days juggling Tray’s needs and the work required to survive in rural Oregon on a small income, ignoring their own needs, especially companionship and sleep.

Ellred “Red” Long escaped Drop at seventeen but returns to his hometown in disgrace after his band dumped him on the streets of LA. Coming back doesn’t seem like such a dead end, though, after he sees a guy walking along the side of the road in the rain and gives him a lift.

Ezra and Red’s chance meeting begins an uncomfortable friendship neither had expected, and both allow fear to keep it from escalating into a hookup, or worse, a romance. Red never meant to return to Drop and doesn’t want to get stuck there again, while Ezra’s protective walls may be too strong to breach, from either side.

Purchase Links

Nine Star Press | Amazon Global Link | Barnes & Noble | Smashwords

Excerpt

It had been a while since the last time a moving vehicle hit me, but I wasn’t in the mood to take chances. The night was dark—no moon and only a smattering of stars peeking between the clouds. At least the rain had finally stopped. The county road I was walking along was flat, but I’d just passed a turn when headlights flashed behind me, coming up fast. A blind turn the locals had been known to straighten now and then, especially when the weekend and low visibility coincided.

I ran toward the neighbor’s patched fence, toward safety in the form of a boulder guarding the apex of the turn, hoping whoever sat behind the wheel didn’t mean to run me down. The way my luck was going that night, with the unexpected rain and Granddad’s truck quitting, it surprised me when the car stopped and I was still standing upright.

The GTO—the 1964 stock GTO that I knew to be deep purple but looked black right then—rocked gently and then settled. It rocked again when he leaned across the seat to roll the window down. Even if he’d seen my truck, he wouldn’t know who I was. He’d left town before we moved here, and only one thing about me is at all noteworthy anyway. Everyone knew the day he’d come back to town. Red Richardson—also known as Ellred Long, the name he got the day he was born. Back from Los Angeles where he’d never really made it, but he’d come close enough to be a Big Man in this little backwash town of five hundred (give or take). What he was doing so far off the highway or any of the main roads, I had no clue.

“Hey,” he shouted. Even only hearing him shout, you couldn’t help but know the man could sing. “Let me give you a lift. It’s starting to rain again.”

Slowly, to give myself time to figure out what was going on, I approached the passenger side of the car. I didn’t want to get in—that was trouble waiting to happen if I’d ever seen it—but I wasn’t looking forward to walking for another two hours either. I bent and looked in the window, a safe four feet between me and the car. A blast of warm air hit my face, and I tried not to look too hard at him. He always wore nice button-down shirts, in videos or going to the Mini Mart in Drop—jewel-tone red, purple, black—that looked like silk.

“Where are you headed?”

“Nowhere. Just out driving.”

Even in the dark, I could see his brilliant smile. He probably paid good money for that whiteness. I couldn’t see his long black hair or whether he was clean-shaven or had that short patch of beard he sometimes wore on his chin, but the smile did me in on its own.

“Where are you headed out here on foot in the middle of the night?” Red asked.

“Home.” A few steps closer won’t hurt. Maybe. “My truck quit a mile back.”

“The white International? That’s a shame. Cool old truck.”

We stared at each other another minute, sizing up the situation, and then he reached across and opened the door. He saw a dirty guy, obviously the one who’d filled the bed of said truck with firewood. A filthy, wet, and tired guy who only wanted to get home.

He has no idea.

About the Author

Charli misspent a large chunk of her youth on the back of a Harley, meeting people and having adventures that sometimes pop up in their fiction. Mx Coty writes everything from contemporary to paranormal, always with a happy ending. Charli has survived earthquakes, tornadoes, and floods, but couldn’t make it through one day without stories.

Charli Coty is a pseudonym of the author known as Charley Descoteaux.

Social Media

Random Tuesday Book Thoughts: Representation

Books, Writing

I was scrolling through social media while sipping my coffee, and I came across an endorsement for a book. Now, this book may indeed be fantastic. It might be the very best example of its genre to come out in the last year, and I should be reading it and telling all my friends and family about it. The problem is, I can’t really tell. I have no idea what the book is about or even what genre it’s in.

The only endorsement it got was a very long list of marginalized identities (sexuality, gender, race, even religion) represented in the pages. And…that was it. No mini blurb or tags to tell me whether this was a romance or science fiction or gothic mystery. I don’t even know what age range it’s for.

Bemused, I mentioned it in a private Facebook group. I think my favorite comment was that we’re not “GLBTQ Pokemon hunters.”

Don’t get me wrong—it’s wonderful that this book has such a diverse cast. It would be great if more books had that so this one doesn’t look like some kind of anomaly. But if a book’s only selling point is the identity markers of the characters, that doesn’t pique my interest.

The other problem I had was that this book was also tagged as #OwnVoices. Now, anyone who’s been around for a little bit knows I’m a big fan of #OwnVoices books. I will yell about that until I die, probably. That’s not to say a person shouldn’t write a thing just because it’s outside that realm. But come on, you all know I champion the idea of asking ourselves why we are compelled to write outside our lane, whether we’re the best person to tell that particular story, and if similar books are being written by authors with lived experience that we might read/promote.

That said, I also don’t think #OwnVoices should be a primary selling point either. There is a big difference between wanting to be sure that marginalized voices are heard and using #OwnVoices as a marketing tool or a way to silence everyone else.

This could be a bisexual half-rooster-shifter. It’s probably not “own voices,” though. Image Description: A shirtless torso with a rooster head and a wing tattoo, on a Bi Pride background.

Look, I get it. For some of us, finding books where we see ourselves represented, especially as main characters, is an exercise in futility. Some of us give up in frustration. Others give in and write what’s popular. And some of us do our best to put our whole selves on the page, only to be told “no one” wants to read it. So yes, it’s vital that we know about books where people like us are the stars.

However, we really aren’t Marginalized Identity Pokemon hunters, and no one gets a bonus for how many they can cram into one story. There isn’t a score card for these things.

I sincerely doubt the author of the book had in mind to do anything of the sort, especially if the book is an #OwnVoices story on any of those points. Usually, “identity stuffing” is the sort of thing I see people with privilege doing, often justified with some kind of condescending savior complex (“I’m writing you a story! Be grateful!”) to accompany it. The fault for this one lies entirely with whatever marketing team thought it would be brilliant to tell us just how much representation it contains.

Moral of the story: Representation is good. #OwnVoices is good. Selling a book based on either of those, with no other information, is not.

Side note: I’m considering a career change to creating more Torso Art.

Inclusivity. Gatekeeping. Belonging.

Oh, is it time to barf on Own Voices again? Le Sigh.

Writing, researching, and telling our own stories

It’s Not About You