When I was 13, I had a conversation with myself that basically went: “Hey, R U ghey?” Through some spectacularly blinkered motivated reasoning, I convinced myself I was straight. And I was wrong, about that and a whole lot more I didn’t know to ask.
About 20 years later, my son was born, and as he grew into a wonderful, curious, enormously happy little kid who knew exactly who he was and didn’t care what anybody else thought, I found myself thinking almost every day, “Man, he’s so great. I hope he doesn’t end up like me.”
I figured I should fix that. So I went digging and found my queerness, waiting in the darkness where I’d hidden it waving, like, “Hey–been here all along. Glad you finally noticed.”
And now I can be me.
I guess maybe you care about my writing? During those 20 years, I put a lot of effort into being a full-time fiction writer. I worked freelance gigs for years and years. I got some publishing deals under another name, worked on developing a TV show for kids based on one of my books. Did some other stuff. I learned and learned and learned. I worked my tail off and I got pretty good technically, but there was always something missing, because I was writing with half my soul tied behind my back.
I’m not anymore.
