In a society that’s finally more inclusive than ever before, the power and impact of queer literature cannot be overstated. Queerness in literature shines a light on the LGBTQIA+ community and our unique experiences, offering a platform for their stories to be heard and understood. And, now that it’s finally Pride Month, I’m excited to talk about the impact of queer literature, some of my favorites past and present, and my own story.
Through powerful narratives and thought-provoking characters, queer literature challenges societal norms and prejudices, inspiring readers to question their own perceptions and biases. It beautifully captures the struggles and triumphs of the LGBTQIA+ community, providing representation and validation to those who have long been marginalized. Whether you identify as queer or not, exploring these powerful stories can lead to personal growth and a greater appreciation for the beautifully diverse world we live in.
My Own Story
Identity Limbo
I think every queer individual has a story of suddenly recognizing their otherness. I’ve spoken about my moment before, and I’ll probably talk about it again and again… It’s something that should be talked about, I think, as it legitimizes the experience of many young people who are coming into their own identities. Before I go into my story, though, I want to outline a few definitions.
Sexual and romantic orientation are two distinct concepts. Sexual orientation, as you may know, spans identities like heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, and so on. While these refer to whom one may be interested in as a sexual partner, romantic orientation refers to whom a person may consider entering a romantic relationship with. Therefore, it’s totally possible to be bisexual, for example, but tending toward relationships with one gender over the other. In short, the spectrum is complicated, but I think that makes it magical. It also makes it challenging to nail down personal identity, and my path reflects that.
So there I was, sitting in third grade algebra (yuck – I was always more of a words person than a numbers person) as my peers giggled about the fifth graders learning about it. You know – puberty, sex, relationships. I just distinctly did not understand what was so funny. My peers kept pulling me into the conversation, but I had nothing to contribute. I had never thought about romantic relationships, and it genuinely shocked me that my peers had. At 9 years of age, I had never thought about any of that. But my peers all had plans to get married and be parents, and there was Baby Nikki, drawing hieroglyphs all over her papers in the early 2000s and dreaming about my own personal path as a writer and archaeologist. A partner wasn’t really something I had considered and, candidly, it didn’t really fit into my plans.
I remember watching The Mummy, my favorite movie (at the time and now), and deciding that Ardeth Bay was my first love. He was pretty, like a painting. That was enough, I figured.
The more I reflected on attraction, I realized I just did not experience it. I could admire beauty, but I wasn’t attracted to one gender over any other. In fact, I wasn’t attracted to any gender. I started faking crushes to fit in at school – if one of my friends liked a boy, I’d say, “Oh yeah, me, too. He’s dreamy.” And while we’d fake a competition for said boy’s affections, everyone knew I wasn’t really interested. I was always rooting for my friends, and they always appreciated that. I was a non-threat in the dating world.
I remember one event that sort of further solidified my identity crisis, and I’m actually struggling a bit to type this up, as I don’t want to reflect negatively on my incredible, strong, powerful mother, and the feelings of that day are sort of bubbling up again as I reflect. But I think it’s worth telling for two reasons: one, it shows how fear motivates misunderstanding and, two, it shows how you truly never know who you might be talking to if you let your ignorance take center stage. So, sorry, Mom, I love you… but I’m going to talk about it.
Around the same time that I was struggling with my identity, I “married” a friend in my girl scout troop. My mother did not take it well. She screamed at me, insisting, “People will think you’re gay! This world is not kind to gay people, or anyone who is different. You need to knock it off. Stop joking.”
My mother was motivated by fear over how people would treat her daughter, which I understood. But what really struck out to me, in that moment, was the shock as a little queer kid of hearing that the world would be unkind to me. Hearing my own parent, someone who was supposed to make me feel safe and secure in who I was, telling me that people will judge me. Worse yet, I still didn’t know what I was. I knew I wasn’t gay, since, ahem, lady bits kinda grossed me out, but… I was sure I wasn’t straight, too.
Worse yet, I had accepted that I wanted a relationship one day. But with not experiencing attraction and experiencing an ick that was deeper than the typical childhood aversion to cooties, I had no idea how that would work. It was a scary, lonely, isolating time, and I was extremely depressed.
I remember crying myself to sleep many nights, just totally unsure of how I fit into the world. This binary world where people believed in a “one true love” just did not feel right. As a child, I couldn’t even find the words to express it. I was different. I just knew it.
Just Say “Ace”
Fortunately, the early 2000s was also a time where the internet was expanding and making the world more accessible, so The Asexual Visbility and Education Network landed on my radar. It was literally earth-shattering to suddenly have a word to describe myself and to realize I wasn’t alone. To have a definition at my disposal suddenly opened up a world of research and reflection, and by the mid-2000s I was aware that I was asexual, or “ace.”
Unlike many queer people, I never personally felt the need to come out. I just was what I was, and things would either work out, or they wouldn’t. As sexuality is a spectrum, I also had to reflect on what kind of ace I was. I knew I wasn’t totally sex-repulsed, but it definitely wasn’t something on my radar. On the other end of the spectrum was my romantic identity – candidly, that one I wouldn’t learn the word for until I was an adult, but I’m cupioromantic. This word refers to someone who wants a relationship but doesn’t feel attraction. I fit so comfortably in that definition that as soon as I learned it, I was like, “Yes! Finally! Another word to define me, thank goodness.”
Having a definition was so important to me. It really broke down the feelings of otherness, though it didn’t help me at all when interested parties approached me to flirt. Either I was wholly oblivious, or I was outright stunned enough to simply walk away. I apologize to the hearts I broke in high school… I suppose I owe you guys an explanation. If you think I was repulsed by you, it wasn’t you! It was the situation that freaked me out. I just don’t understand attraction, something I imagine allosexuals likely struggle to wrap their minds around.
Part of that lack of understanding, I believe, was the absence of asexual and aromantic characters in literature and media. I never saw any sort of love that blossomed from authentic connection… there was always attraction baked in. The dreamy princes, the love at first sight, the couples that just couldn’t keep their hands off each other – there was no outlet for young aro-ace kids to explore the different types of love that exist in the world. And there’s still so little out there today, hence why I’m here to talk about it. Having any degree of queerness in literature might have made a world of difference.
Enter Industrialized
When I started writing Industrialized, it was 2011. One of the things I set out to do, even before I had the story arc nailed down, was to include an aro-ace character. Saida Merymut was my performer name when I was a belly dancer, so… I just built my character off that. She had a personality totally different from my own, but she was built off my hobbies and lack of sexual and romantic orientation. I wanted to show her deep affection for her future partner, Captain – they’d found a natural bond that was not at all fueled by attraction.
Saida, I decided, would struggle a bit with her identity, too. That’s why I made her an ex-girlfriend of Titus Tarm, and one he authentically never shared intimacy with. Ultimately, I wanted to give ace people an example of someone who was badass, comfortable with herself, and in love out of admiration, friendship, and respect rather than attraction. When she dated around previously, it was clearly to meet some sort of social expectation. But that didn’t work for her. Eventually, she and Captain agree to explore their shared connection, but they’re counterparts rather than a traditional couple. There’s no goo-goo eyes or pet names, but there’s a genuine respect and deeply-rooted love between the pair. It’s almost transcendental, in my opinion.
Showing this type of relationship was important to me, as I hadn’t yet added cupioromantic to my vernacular. But for many aro-ace people, especially those who enter queer platonic relationships (or QPRs), defining love is one of the hardest challenges to face. For Captain and Saida, that craving for companionship was love. For aro-ace people all around the world who choose to enter relationships, that’s a hurdle that will eventually come along, whether as an internal consideration or a person-to-person conversation.
Finally Defining Love
Not experiencing attraction, at least for me, meant I didn’t date. I didn’t experience butterflies, I didn’t have crushes. I could tell if someone was attractive, but to this day, it’s in a way I might admire a painting in a museum. Sure, that sunset is pretty, but I don’t have any desire to get jiggy with it, you know?
Finally, in 2014, I was at a party. I was inebriated, and I saw my best friend of a year or two stumble outside for a smoke. I went to sit with him, and he – of course – was also inebriated. I had just finished my Associate Degree and was on to my Bachelor’s, and I was talking about my plans for the future and how these writing gigs were just rolling in. I remember him looking at me with sparkling hazel eyes as he confidently (read: drunkenly) said, “I’m really happy for you. I wish I knew what I wanted to do with my life. All I know is that I want to spend my future with you. I don’t know where I want to live or what I want to do for a living, but in every scenario I imagine, you’re at my side. The worst part is, I’m afraid to talk to you about that because I don’t want to impact our friendship.”
At that moment, another friend (we’ll call him Jonathan for this story, since I referenced The Mummy earlier) came outside. I grabbed his arm and said, “Jonathan! Josh has been looking for you all night.”
My best friend rolled with it and struck up conversation with Jonathan, sparing me an awkward discussion and giving me an escape. I ended up grabbing the host, telling her I was going to bed if anyone was looking for me, and locking myself in the parlor room. Laying on a chaise lounge, I cried. I hurt for Josh – I was about to break his heart. I went through a million different scenarios as I tried to imagine how I could let him down gently. After all, he was my best friend. I loved him a lot, just not like that. Ya know, because I don’t really like anyone like that.
Anyway, the next morning, I went upstairs to get ready with the girls. After a brief conversation and a lot of dry shampoo, hungover and makeupless, I started to head downstairs. Not even a few steps down, Josh materialized at the base of the staircase holding two coffees and beaming at me.
The look on his face made me literally stop in my tracks as my reflection from the night before bubbled to the top of my mind. He was gazing at me with unabashed, barefaced adoration. I’d never seen that look in anyone’s eyes. Any words I had planned to say died right then and there. All I could hear was, He’s my best friend. I love him.
I spent the next few weeks reflecting on that. The love we shared as two close friends, I realized, might be enough. I wanted companionship, after all, and he was great company. And he was a genuinely good guy – the kind of guy us gals would tell, “You’re going to make someone so happy one day.” I started warming up to the idea of a relationship, especially when I framed it from the perspective of our friendship. It wouldn’t change, I reasoned. I’d just have to be firm in maintaining the dynamic I needed to be comfortable.
During those weeks, Josh never brought up the drunken conversation we’d had. As it turns out, he did not remember it. Thank goodness. It gave me time to reflect on what love meant to me, what I needed, and if I was comfortable with allowing our genuine, natural love to continue growing as it had been. And I was. He finally brought up the conversation again (sober, this time) roughly two months later.
As we were already inseparable and close, he knew I wasn’t into romance. He was, though, so I’d get him flowers. He respected my ick around all things romantic, so we kept doing what we were doing – watching TV, going shopping, getting food. There’d just be some cuddling, hand holding, and so on. It was very rigid, at first, as I got used to it, but he was patient and kind throughout it all. Eventually, he brought up sexuality and said, “Do you want to talk about the fact that you’re ace?”
Not having told him that fact, I shrugged. “Not really. Does it bother you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then there’s nothing to discuss,” I said. “It doesn’t change how much I love you. It just makes it a different sort of love. You’re my best friend. My favorite person.”
To this day, we often exchange little reflections on how special our relationship feels. Our friendship, rather than romance, remains at the core of who we are as a couple. We hang out. We have fun. There’s no need for romantic declarations of love when you’re so deeply comfortable with where your relationship is blooming from. To a degree, that makes it feel all the more effortless. And, yes, I still buy him flowers.
To the untrained eye, it’s a straight relationship. But assuming that cis-male-female couples haven’t experienced the struggles that come with being queer ignores the many hundreds of words I just threw at you, times however many people in the world are in similar boats.
Gaydar and RACEdar
You know how everyone just seems to narrow in on the gay kid, knowing they’ll one day come out of the closet? Humans can also sense asexuality, I’ve learned. They have radar. R-ace-dar. I don’t know.
Aside from Josh just knowing I was aro-ace, I’ve had friends over the years reach the same conclusion. One friend even correctly narrowed in on where on the ace spectrum I fall – demisexual. When I asked her how she knew, she went, “I mean, it’s kind of obvious. Said with much love.”
And when I did answer questions about my sexuality with friends who asked, they’d always say, “Huh, aro-ace. I guess it should have been obvious.”
On the other side of the spectrum, there is some harshness toward aro-ace people that, I believe, is rooted in misunderstanding. I have been asked, “Do you think this stems from some sort of trauma?” Of course I don’t. Just like any sexuality, asexuality is innate.
So, long story short, discovering identity is a journey for many queer people. Being kind and patient goes a long way, not just with other people, but with oneself.
And that also takes me back to the importance of diversity and queerness in literature. One thing I would like to do with my career is showcase the various spectrums of human identity, because everyone deserves to see themselves in literature and popular media. It starts with normalizing these identities and experiences, and it turns into celebrating them.
If we do this right, we may even be able to spare young queer people the suffering that comes with struggling to find one’s own identity.
The Importance of Diversity & Queerness in Literature
Queer identities and diversity in literature are crucial for several reasons, and not just for young queer readers. These stories help foster understanding, empathy, and inclusivity in society. Literature has always mirrored the myriad experiences of human life, so it should be just as rich and colorful as the real world we live in. Representation helps to dismantle stereotypes and prejudices, ultimately normalizing the experiences of queer people. When readers encounter characters and stories that resonate with their own experiences, it can be profoundly affirming and empowering, particularly for those who may feel marginalized or invisible in mainstream society. (Like I said – I genuinely believe that encountering ace rep in literature and media as a young person would have helped me dismantle those feelings of otherness.)
By showcasing the diversity of human experience, literature can challenge dominant narratives and broaden readers’ understanding of the world around them. This is important in promoting a culture of acceptance and support for LGBTQIA+ communities. I’ll also add – I personally use LGBTQIA+ rather than LGBTQ+ in my writings, as the intersex and ace communities are often marginalized even within queer circles. Read that again. Think about it. As writers, I believe we carry an important and heavy social responsibility, and normalizing the variety of personal identities that already exist in the world is a mission I support unwaveringly.
With all the being said, the inclusion of diversity and queerness in literature is vital for fostering a more just, empathetic, and inclusive society. It validates the experiences of LGBTQIA+ individuals, enriches the cultural and educational landscape, and promotes a deeper understanding and acceptance (or, rather, celebration) of human diversity. By telling these stories, literature not only reflects the world as it is, but it also shapes the world as it could be. As it should be.
Accurately Writing Queer Characters
Accurately writing queer characters requires a deep commitment to authenticity, empathy, and respect for the lived experiences of LGBTQIA+ individuals. One of the foundational steps in achieving this is thorough research. Authors should educate themselves on the diverse aspects of queer identities, including the nuances of gender, sexual orientation, and the intersectionality of other social factors such as race, class, and disability. Reading books, articles, and personal narratives by queer authors, as well as engaging with LGBTQIA+ communities, can provide valuable insights and prevent the perpetuation of stereotypes and clichés. Accurate representation means moving beyond one-dimensional portrayals to create complex, well-rounded characters whose queer identities are just one aspect of their multifaceted lives.
Writers should also be mindful of not reducing queer characters to their struggles or making their identity their sole defining feature. Instead, characters should be portrayed with depth, showcasing their individuality, aspirations, and relationships, allowing readers to see them as fully-realized human beings. Essentially, and I almost hesitate to say this in such a thorough text, but… your queer characters should be just as nuanced and normal as your straight and cisgender characters.
Collaborating with queer individuals, particularly through sensitivity readers or consultants, can greatly enhance the authenticity of queer characters. I’ll even go out on a limb and recommend connecting with queer authors and asking for a moment of their time to discuss your characters, to dig into their experiences as a queer individual, and to ensure you’re not leaning too heavily into making a characters’ struggles and identity their whole personality. Overall, I’ve found the author community to be very warm, welcoming, and uplifting. I, for one, would encourage anyone to reach out to me for insights into aro-ace identities – or mine, at least. Many authors are more than willing to help, and you just might spark a new friendship through the experience.
Books With Queer Representation To Add to Your TBR
I am especially excited to introduce you to some literature with strong queer representation. For this list, I’ll include books that I love, stories recommended to me by queer homies, and a few recommendations that avid readers and authors shared with me on Threads.
- Industrialized – Now, I realize I’m starting this list with my own book. If it’s not your cup of tea, don’t read it, but I do want to talk about how delightfully queer this story is. Its prequel follows Lavinia Bellamy, a gay woman who finds herself forced into a marriage of convenience. It ultimately ends rather unhappily, which sparks the events we see unfold in Part One: Experiment and the upcoming Part Two: Execution. The cast features many queer characters, including:
- Titus Tarm: Our antiheroic MMC is pansexual, though he seems to prefer romantic relationships with women. Despite his straight-facing relationship, we do see some lighthearted flirting with other male characters, especially Jacob Mertens.
- Jacob Mertens: Jacob, the Tarm Industries bodyguard and FMC’s best friend, is gay. He’s also one of the strongest characters in the book, sporting a physique that was bioengineered for intimidation.
- Celeste Simmons: Our FMC’s mother doesn’t have the opportunity to flaunt her identity in Part One, but in Part Two, we’ll get to see how this bisexual queen is more powerful than circumstance tries to make her.
- When Ivy Met Adam by Jennifer J. Coldwater – When I recently sat down and spoke with Jennifer, she mentioned, “Several moms of queer kids have reached out to tell me that When Ivy Met Adam means so much to them. Both main characters in that book are queer, and it hits readers in the feels that they find each other and love each other so hard.” Loosely based on the Biblical tale of Adam and Eve, this story features a fierce bisexual FMC and endless amounts of queer joy.
- The Guncle by Steven Rowley – Ready for a laugh? One of my work besties and modest queer community leaders recommended this one to me, and it’s deeply funny. The story follows Patrick O’Hara, “Gay Uncle Patrick” to his niece and nephew, as he unexpectedly finds himself in a position as their guardian. This story is human to the core, showcasing how one massive shift in family structure helps Patrick redefine love and find peace within himself.
- Second Chance With Tony by Felix Kurt – Sports romance is all the rage right now, but Felix Kurt mixes in a dose of paranormal goodness in this delightfully queer story. This tale follows Tyler DeLuca, a gay football player in a small Indiana town who’s trying his darndest to hide his queerness. Of course, that’s challenged when a mysterious boy moves to town and consumes his thoughts. Readers are absolutely raving about this bestseller in Amazon’s “New Release Kindle Teen & Young Adult LGBTQ+ Fiction” category.
- Miners of the Mystics by Penny Moss – As I touched on earlier, queer representation should feel casual and normal, as this is essentially for fostering an inclusive world that’s celebratory of diversity. Penny Moss does an excellent job of fostering a queer-normative world, filling the book with oodles of casual queer representation. Miners of the Mystics is a slow-burn dark fantasy m/m romance following Oliver, a miner dreaming of riches while facing a world of nightmares stemming from rather gruesome origins.
- Queer as Folklore by Sacha Coward – Let me just start by saying that I’m obsessed with this cover. This story traverses everything from ancient Greece to the main stage of RuPaul’s Drag Race, exploring the beautiful queerness that exists in myth and folklore. If you’re looking for a history of queerness, myth truly is an incredible way to capture the variety and diversity that comes with the human condition.
- Books by Jessica Lewis – When I asked for recommendations, this author proudly declared, “All my books have queer rep!” Writing in the contemporary fantasy genre, Jessica Lewis beautifully captures the splendor of diversity in magic-filled worlds.
The Importance of Queer Literature In Fostering Inclusivity
Truly, the importance of queer literature in fostering inclusivity cannot be overstated. By including diverse queer narratives, literature serves as a powerful tool for breaking down barriers and building bridges between different communities. It allows readers to step into the shoes of characters whose experiences may differ from their own, fostering empathy and understanding. Perhaps most importantly, it breaks down the feelings of “otherness” that many queer individuals face. Seeing ourselves in literature is so deeply important. That kind of representation and visibility can be life-affirming.
In fostering inclusivity, queer literature only benefits the world. After all, this inclusivity in literature mirrors the diversity of the real world, promoting a more comprehensive understanding of the human experience. By embracing and celebrating queer narratives, literature can inspire societal change. In this way, queer literature not only reflects society but also has the power to transform it, making the world a more welcoming and equitable place for everyone. In short, by including queerness in our works, we’re setting up the path for a brighter future.