Happy Tuesday! We’re officially into Week Two of my pre-launch celebration before my novel releases next month. If you’re late to the party, just click on the main site to scroll back through all the good stuff we’ve had here so far.
Today I’m going to do what I do best: get a little ranty, have a little fun, and tell you about one of my super pet peeves. Buckle up, kids.
Phin blew out his breath. “Did you or did you not tell [Michael] that it was okay for him to like boys?”
“Of course. I still don’t see—”
“Did you tell him that it’s okay for him to still like girls, too?”
“I…not exactly.” Alex raked a hand through his hair.
“Right. That’s what I thought. Which version of lying did you accuse him of?”
Alex drew his brows together. “Point taken. But that’s not what he’s confused about? I don’t understand.”
Phin shook his head. “He wanted relationship advice, you dolt, not advice on coming out.”
~Lower Education, chapter 11
If there is one thing I cannot stand, it’s horrible bisexual tropes in fiction. There are no good ones. Everything from “gay for you” (i. e., straight until meeting The One) to “there are no bisexuals” (every time someone’s in a same-sex relationship, it means GAY), these are painful to read. If I had my way, no one would ever write them again.
I am a sucker for a good coming-out story. These can be so wonderful—from heartache to wholeness, from self-discovery to sweet sensuality, there is so much good stuff to be had. However, one thing I don’t tolerate well is when characters are very clearly and easily identifiable as bisexual…until they’re not.
It’s true that some people do go through a phase in which they identify as bisexual before fully embracing being gay or lesbian. But it’s truly not as common as it sounds. In fact, it’s equally likely that a person previously identifying as straight, gay, or lesbian will embrace bisexuality. There are many reasons for that, which I suggest everyone take the time to learn about. (I’m not using this space for that right now; feel free to message me if you have questions, though.)
What I don’t like is the way it’s used as a literary device. Over the past several months, I’ve had the opportunity to read and review many books under the lgbtq fiction umbrella. I’ve lost track of how many times I had to read something along the lines of:
I like boys sometimes. I like girls sometimes. Wait…I’m now with someone of the same sex. Oops, guess I’m gay/lesbian after all, since we’re now in a committed relationship.
Yikes. That’s not how it works, people. Identity is not the same as a relationship. I’m absolutely cool with monosexuality (exclusively gay/straight). Trust me, one does not become monosexual by entering a relationship, committing to that relationship, or getting married. Nope.
But it happens in books all the time, especially when characters come out. There are so many variants on that theme, including being misidentified by others and simply adopting it as fact or persistently being labeled as “confused” until some relationship catalyst comes along to rescue the character from a dreaded bisexual limbo. If we think people can know their orientation as gay or lesbian with conviction, why are we so afraid to admit one can know their bisexuality with conviction?
Here’s another disturbing one that’s perhaps a bit more subtle: Discovering one’s gay/lesbian identity because the sex is so fabulous that the character can’t help themselves. Newsflash: it doesn’t work that way, either. Sex with someone who is hurting you or doesn’t care about you can be really, really crappy. Sex with someone you love very much and want to be with can be freeing and fantastic. That should not be confused with “I guess I was gay after all.” Writers should try to avoid setting up a coming out story with that sort of scenario.
I read one—and only one—book this summer which included a bisexual character for whom it simply wasn’t a big deal. It was two small things, hidden in the rest of the context of the story. First, the character implies he’s probably not gay despite a same-sex relationship near the beginning. Then, later on, he says to the person he’s in love with that his lovers have been both men and women, but he’s never forgotten his one true love. It’s a non-thing; a part of who he is, but he isn’t owned by or defined by it. It’s so subtle some readers will probably miss the enormity of it or think it means something other than what it does.
That was a rare treat.
Maybe this is why I like to write characters who mess with binaries, be that orientation or gender. Do I write people who are monosexual and binary male/female? Yes. But I like to add variety. My first novel includes more than one bisexual character, and my work-in-progress has more than one person with a non-binary gender identity (which probably deserves its own blog post).
I don’t expect everyone to write bisexual characters; I’m not looking for that. But with so much variety to human experience, there’s no excuse for lazy writing that perpetuates tired stereotypes and myths. If you’re going to write a character who demonstrates a definite bisexual identity, please do not ruin that by having the character change their mind. Let it be what it is—a person who has discovered a wonderful part of themselves and entered into a relationship with the person they want to be with. It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that.
