Not the Plan, But the Point”
I believe LGBTQ+ stories deserve to exist on the page—not as punchlines, sidekicks, or cautionary tales—but as full, complex lives with agency, nuance, and joy.
We are firefighters. Nurses. Teachers. Cops. Parents. Grocery store managers. Everyday people. And the more we tell our stories—ourselves, for ourselves—the harder it becomes to flatten us into tropes or reduce us to someone else’s comic relief. I don’t want to be the quirky gay friend in someone else’s narrative. I want us to be the damn lead.
Growing up, I didn’t have those stories. I found bits and pieces in subtext, in coded characters who always seemed to die, or suffer, or get fixed. There was no queer representation that looked or sounded like me. And even now, in an era of allegedly broader inclusion, it often feels like what gets published is filtered through marketing optics instead of lived experience.
That’s why I write. Because queer lives aren’t trends. They’re truths.
Back in 2015, it felt like I was finally being heard. I was writing regularly for The Huffington Post, and my words were landing—especially on Twitter. My voice resonated with people. I had a following, momentum, and the growing sense that maybe this could become something bigger.
Then the digital landscape shifted.
Social media became less about connection and more about performance. Algorithms buried authenticity under clickbait and reaction spirals. What I built—earnestly, slowly—started to feel like it was unraveling. My audience thinned. My reach collapsed. But my writing never stopped.
Over the years, I’ve completed or outlined more than 25 manuscripts—closer to 30 if you count the ones that are damn near there. I had a plan: finish them, sign with a respected publisher, and finally bring them to life with a real team behind me.
But like everything else, publishing changed too. The deal I hoped for fell through. The math stopped working. When I pitched to other mainstream publishers, the response was always the same: “We like your voice, but…”
But do you already have an audience?
But can you handle the marketing yourself?
But can you make this go viral first?
In other words: Do all the work, take all the risk, and maybe we’ll reward you later.
It was exhausting. It was disheartening. And frankly, it felt like a slap in the face. I wasn’t some 22-year-old influencer with a ring light and a pitch deck. I was a queer man in his thirties with lived experience, dozens of manuscripts, and a voice honed by trauma, healing, grit, and grace. And that still wasn’t enough.
Then I watched my sister Terri do something quietly radical: she self-published her book.
She didn’t wait for anyone to greenlight her voice. She didn’t beg for validation. She believed in her story and brought it into the world on her own terms. Watching her take that leap made me rethink everything. It made me ask the hardest question:
What am I waiting for?
So I stopped waiting.
Self-publishing wasn’t Plan A. But maybe it was the most honest plan all along.
Is it lucrative? Rarely.
Do people read like they used to? Not really.
Is it worth it? Absolutely.
Because I believe in stories. I believe in the power of lived truth over polished branding. I believe in leaving something behind—not just for me, but for the queer kid who’s still looking for a mirror. For the survivor who’s never seen their grief given space. For the everyday people who’ve never been the protagonist of a novel, even though they’ve survived wars no one ever saw.
I want to write for them. For us.
I want to crack something open that feels real. Not sanitized. Not gimmicked. Not filtered through a corporate lens of “acceptable queerness.” I want to tell stories that burn and bite and heal and howl and still, somehow, end in light.
So yeah, I’m self-publishing. Not because it’s the easy road. But because the other roads kept closing. And I realized the only gate I needed was the one I built for myself.
If you’re still reading this, maybe you’ve got a story too. Maybe you’ve been told you’re not marketable enough. Not timely enough. Not viral enough. Maybe you’re scared that your words won’t matter unless someone with power says they do.
Let me say this:
Tell it anyway.
Write it anyway.
Print it anyway.
You don’t need to be approved.
You need to be brave.
Terri was. And now, so am I.
Not the plan.
But absolutely the point.