My long-running joke is that I never really became a good writer until I came out. Technically, I put together one good short story before I officially came out (which was actually published by Carve), but the original draft was written when I was falling in love with a woman for the first time. Much of how I was writing then was in response to the feelings I had for her. They made me question how I was living my life and caused a huge shift in how I viewed the world. It also spawned a divorce, a thousand-mile move, and a total career change.
Writing is intricately tied to who we are. As we grow, our writing changes. As we mature, it improves. As we learn, it becomes more expansive. I have been out for six Pride seasons now, and through each one that passes, I become a better human and writer, aided in large part by others from my community.
It’s hard to look back at the stories I did before I came out. At times, my voice was insecure, misogynistic, and shallow. Desire is at the root of all good writing, and I had no idea who I was or what I really wanted. Connecting to my own desire enabled me to become the writer I needed to be. It also saved my life.
Happy Pride.
Excerpt of Summer of the Cicadas
A boom of thunder shakes the house. I’m turning to grab an emergency kit, some food, and drinks, when I spot something on the other side of the kitchen. Peering closer, my stomach cramps up. It’s a cicada. “Fucker.”
My immediate instinct is to smash it to death with my boots but I’m in socked feet, having taken left my shoes at the door. I’m exposed. Vulnerable.
I glance around for something to kill it with.
There’s an old phone book on the kitchen counter. I grab it and move closer. I’ve almost reached the bug when it notices me and scuttles to the wall. I chase after it, but the thing moves quickly, scampering across the wood floor, up the wall, and to the open window. The ledge is wet with rain. Droplets stain the floor.
The cicada climbs into the night, and I slam the windowpane shut after it.
I peer out, trying to see where the little fucker came from. A giant oak tree stands next to the house. It was always a danger growing up—the long branches could easily crush the side of the house—but my parents never had enough money to get it removed safely. Somehow, after all these years, it’s still standing.
I squint and spot something moving over the tree. It’s impossible to see clearly in the darkness, so I grab a flashlight from one of the kitchen drawers and shine it out into the night. At first, I don’t know what I’m looking at. Then, I spot the black liquored shell of the wings, sleek in the reflection of the flashlight. Thousands of the bugs flutter, hiving over the tree. I drop the flashlight.
I pull the curtains over the window and grab the walkie. “Mason?”
Static. I wonder if his walkie has run out of battery. Then it fizzles out and his voice echoes through the line. “I hear ya, Jess.”
“They’re here.”
“Who’s here?”
“The bugs. They’re swarming over the oak tree out at my place.”
Static crackles. Pain echoes in my chest again and touch the spot there with two fingers. “Must’ve migrated in the storm,” Mason says. “I wouldn’t worry.”
“They’re swarming, Mason.”
The walkie is silent for a few beats, then he says, “You know what to do. Stay inside. Stay locked up.”
I close my eyes, lean back against the wall. Force my breathing to slow. I can feel the storm through the house, the rattle of thunder, the static in the air. I wonder then what it felt like for my mom and dad and Meg in the car that night they crashed. It was raining, a downpour like this one, I was told. I imagine them on the old highway in the early morning light, the headlights cutting across the darkened roadway.
The tires hit a wet spot. The car slid before hitting the telephone pole, and the force wrapped the small SUV around metal and wood. Meg was in the backseat. Although she survived the original hit, she died from the swelling in her brain in the hospital. I was still trying to get there when she passed. It seemed especially cruel, to have that hope for a moment that she would pull through, and then to see it fade again just as quickly.
Some Pride Reading
Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls, T Kira Madden (memoir)
Soon to become a movie! For wlw who grew up in the 90s and early 2000s, this book will give you all the feels.
Bastard out of Carolina, Dorothy Allison (novel)
Probably my favorite book of all time. Heartbreaking and beautiful. Everyone should read Bastard at least once in their life.
Trans-Galactic Bike Ride: Feminist Bicycle Science Fiction Stories of Transgender and Nonbinary Adventurers, Assorted (short story collection)
This one was a finalist for the Lammy’s and is a joyful collection of sci-fi stories full of possibility.
How We Fight for Our Lives, Saeed Jones (memoir)
Beautifully written, poignant, and inspiring. This is another book I think everyone should read at least once.
Stop Writing Wack Essays, Sheree L. Greer (nonfiction)
Sheree is a mentor and friend of mine. Her advice is always spot-on, and I would suggest reading her amazing essay “None of this is Bullshit” on The Rumpus in conjunction with this book.
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