I’m uncommon. It’s not just that I’m a gaymo. And it’s not just the masc of center gender presentation. It’s everything else. The dark sense of humor. The lack of social skills. The obsession with the way names are spelled. The dislike of human contact. I am an outsider.
I’m always surprised when I hear people talk about my books. The language they use is queer and shadowed and always seemingly whispered. And I forget until those moments that I write anti-heroes. I write characters placed in twilight and opium dens. Not by society, like in old pulp fic, but by choice. Characters that demand to be taken as they are. Imperfect and repulsive and charming. Characters who refuse to be defined as any one thing. Characters defined by their multitudes. The interactions between their flaws and perfections. Because people are that way too.
I learned a long time ago…
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