Growing up as a queer kid in the 90s/00s in Canadian conservative country was, at the best of times, an incredibly isolating experience. There were no Gay Straight Alliances in my schools, many of my peers stayed in the closet longer for fear of rejection, and the bigoted jokes that played on loop across mainstream TV left the impression that I was a queer island in a sea of heteronormativity - separated from kin by thousands of miles. The only thing that helped bridge the seemingly endless distance was fiction - the few published books I could find featuring LGBTQ+ characters, as well as the budding online communities where queer folks could freely gather and share their stories.
I lived in those online queer spaces, but I kept going back to the bookstore, seeking out titles that maybe, just maybe, featured someone who felt like me. Whether the book was excellent or terrible, I found myself flipping to the author bios, searching for some evidence that the author was queer. I was always skeptical, and a little disappointed, when the author appeared to be straight and cis, or there was no indication as to their orientation. It felt like a sort of appropriation, and I was desperate to find the raw authenticity of queer stories told through an author's queer perspective.
So I get it. I get the queer fans calling for writers to come out. I get the editors and agents who are seeking the security of marginalized authors who write in their lanes. With a limited number of books that can be published in a year, everyone with stock in the game wants to ensure the author they’re betting on is a safe gamble. Everyone wants authenticity. They wants to know: who are you to write this story?
But do they have a right to know?
When I entered the world of publishing in the late 2000s, young, bright-eyed and bushy-quilled, the
Over the last ten years, there's also been a growing cultural acceptance of and expectation for LGBTQ+ representation in media. As more queer kids grow up seeking queer stories, publishers quickly realized there was more money to be made appealing to the interests of queerdos than burying any mention of LGBTQ+ characters or themes under vague back jacket blurbs. All of this, in turn, changed how editors and agents evaluated potential clients and acquisitions. Industry professionals began looking for writers whose potential (or already constructed) author brand would align with the target audience's value system, reinforcing a parasocial relationship that would boost sales. #OwnVoices launched with the intention of supporting marginalized creators and connecting fans to the authenticity they were seeking, but was quickly co-opted by industry professionals into a catch-all branding term that identified more "marketable" clients. Fan and writer communities also weaponized the hashtag against marginalized creators to scrutinize their identities, histories, as well as gatekeep communities. (If you want to read more, BitchMedia wrote articles on the pressures on queer authors and authors being forcefully outed by the industry. R29 also wrote on the effects of #OwnVoices on books.)
Despite the retirement of #OwnVoices, this pattern of identity policing shows no signs of slowing down. On the one hand, readers aren't wrong to ask what an author's relationship is to the community they choose to write about. Young readers may do this as they attempt to find the same safety and solidarity from within the book in the real world, so it makes sense they would start with the author of the escapist fantasy that has already comforted them. On the other, the expectation that some of the most sensitive parts of our identity must be integrated into an author brand so we may be "allowed" to publish stories about marginalized communities feels ridiculously authoritarian. Not only does #OwnVoices not guarantee authenticity or credibility (as two people with the same identity may have vastly different experiences and perspectives), but the enforcement of authenticity above all harms and chases away marginalized creators, while limiting an author's career. An author’s consent in disclosing their identity should be prioritized above all, and silence should not be assumed to mean they don’t belong. I do hope more authors reveal more of who they are for the sake of representation, especially for YA and MG authors whose audience are likely looking up to them as role models, but no one should be pressured to build their entire brand—or identity—around a single diversity trait. Maybe by policing author brands, we'll catch the occasional con artist who seeks to insert themselves into marginalized communities to profit off them, but we'll harm a far greater numbers of allies, closeted people, and marginalized creators in the process.
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| Cat Tax |
As much as the idea of turning yourself into a 'product' still makes me uncomfy as all hell, I've seen a lot of value from building a brand that centers on you. I tend to be a bit of an oxymoron when it comes to self-disclosure. I don't like to talk about myself, but I wear everything on my sleeve, no secrets here. When considering my own brand, both as an author and a freelancer in the industry, I had to seriously consider how much of myself I wanted to place on the internet for public consideration. How to balance privacy and minority representation. How much I wanted to build a community centered around my LGBTQ+ identity vs other aspects of my personhood. How much of my career history I wanted to sacrifice to preserve my privacy.
Some identities are easy to hide. Some aren't. Some minorities can walk into a room and blend, while others have it literally written on their skin. Being trans lets me exist in a strange reality where I'm both. At a certain point, I will pass enough that most people won't be able to tell that I'm from a minority group. Other times, it is painfully impossible to hide, and I have to put my safety in the hands of strangers in public spaces, hoping my identity doesn't upset those around me. But my personal brand grants me an opportunity: I could delete my blog, let go of my contacts and twitter, and essentially start my brand and business from scratch. It would completely disconnect me from my old name, gender, etc., yet I'd also sacrifice over ten years of work just to keep this part of myself hidden, while also surrendering a chance to provide representation for other transgender individuals.
When put like that, the answer felt simple. At least for me.
So, hi. I'm Kyle, a transman. Nice to meet you. Come in, take a seat. I’ve got cookies around here
I've been coming out slowly, tactically, in each new environment, like a solider behind enemy lines, and finally I've come to storm the online trenches. For me, being open about who I am and the changes I’m going through grants me the space to be a more authentic writer, which is why I’m choosing to publicize this change and my thoughts with this blog post, instead of quietly changing over my name and hoping no one notices. During my rebranding, I seriously considered whether I wanted a trans pride flag in my new banner, an easy way for other trans people to recognize the solidarity and connect, if they wanted to. Yet I hesitated, and ultimately chose not to include any identifiers in banners or bios, other than the vague title of "queerdo.” I know I’ll talk about it quite freely, so it will by no means be a secret, but I don’t want to advertise myself based on that feature and build an expectation with my audience that LGBTQ+ rights are a main focus of my art. Cause they are and they aren’t, and I don’t want to pigeon-hole myself artistically or have to publish under multiple pen-names, each with their own authorial branding.
While coming out in this way works for me, the expectations of author transparency need to change. That disclosure of identity should be treated with respect – as the gift that it is, instead of something we’re entitled to. To help let go of this entitlement, the reigns need to be loosened on who "owns" what stories, and we need to let go of this desperate grab for an imaginary supreme authenticity. I believe very strongly in research, authenticity readers, and seeking to elevate representation of minority groups, but that can be achieved through criticizing the work, not the person. Somehow, in our push for more diversity, we expect marginalized individuals to act more alike than ever: conforming to single narratives about what it means to be gay, lesbian, Indigenous, an immigrant, etc. and labelling others as "bad rep" for not assimilating their own experiences into the dominant narrative. Author consent and autonomy needs to be central if we want to reverse the assimilation trajectory and get back to, you know, actually supporting and celebrating diversity.
As Alanis Morissette would say, "Isn't it ironic..."
