I finished my first novel when I was 16. Wrote it in pen in a notebook. I didn’t have a computer, but when I entered university, I could finally type it up and spent a few nights being the suspicious weirdo in the computer room. Once done, I had a book with a “straight” artist who meets a beautiful lesbian gallery owner and promptly realises she’s sapphically inclined. She comes out and is disowned by her family, finds out she’s pregnant with her ex-boyfriend’s baby, and her lesbian lover has cancer. In the end they both die. A murder and a suicide. It was grim.
I was 19 when I kissed a girl for the first time. Up until then, all my experience of queerness was from the media I had consumed and it had subconsciously painted a very bleak (at times sadly realistic) idea of what it meant to be queer to this day. That my main characters were both white, even though I’m not, was also telling.
