We need to write freely

I am proud to say that my latest novel, One Love, is my queer-est yet. And it includes my first-ever gay sex scene—the first gay sex scene a publisher has let me write. But I had to overcome a nervousness that still exists in the industry about representing authentic queer experiences in commercial fiction. I believe we need to get over this and stop trying to sanitise queer fiction in an attempt to appeal to the mainstream. In doing so, we’re not just underserving LGBTQ+ readers, we’re also underserving straight female readers.

I first had the idea for One Love in 2018. I’d turned to Unbound to crowdfund my first queer-themed novel The Madonna of Bolton—a route I chose after 10 years of rejection. In 2017 we reached our target in seven days, breaking Unbound’s record for a novel. But so many years of being told my queer-themed book was too niche to appeal to straight female readers had left me with a fear of alienating the mainstream. I took out some of the novel’s edgier, spicier material and beefed up the role of the gay protagonist’s female friends.

When the book was a success, I was invited to meetings with publishers who wanted to hear my ideas for further queer novels. But I discovered that, while the industry had woken up to its responsibility to represent queer life in fiction, it still hadn’t woken up to the opportunities in the market—or properly understood them. The belief that readers of commercial fiction weren’t open-minded enough to empathise with queer characters persisted, as did the belief that queer stories belonged in the literary sphere. I presented publishers with a treatment for One Love, which is the story of a gay friendship complicated by blurred boundaries and misread emotions over a 20-year period, all of which comes to a head over the weekend of Manchester Pride. I wrote the first 10,000 words for one editor—but it was rejected.

My fingers burnt once more, I picked myself up and wrote The Secret Life of Albert Entwistle. This is a much softer, gentler story. Crucially, there’s no sex. I found a mainstream publisher and the book did well.”.

Two years ago, I was once more prepared to go into battle. But I was delighted to discover my new editor wasn’t scared of One Love

After this, I went back to One Love. But again, it was deemed too edgy for a straight female readership. So I wrote Becoming Ted, a novel about second-act self-discovery inspired by the film “Shirley Valentine”. Like its cinematic inspiration, I didn’t think my novel needed a sex scene.

Turning points In the meantime, I read a lot of successful commercial fiction written by straight female authors, paying particular attention to the tone and sexual content. Discovering Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams was a turning point for me. As the central character has all kinds of sex, this gave me the ammunition I needed to keep fighting for One Love.

Another turning point came when I heard about the experiences of other queer authors of commercial fiction. There are still only a handful of us so we pretty much all know each other. And each of us had stories about publishers wanting to show off their queer authors to tick a diversity box, but failing to put any spend behind them. I also heard stories of attempts to “straightwash” queer fiction, with cover designs that shied away from depicting same-sex love, or back-copy blurbs that referred to a “long-held secret” or a character’s journey “to be true to himself”. This only stoked the fire in my belly.

Two years ago, following a change of editor, I once more prepared to go into battle. But I was delighted to discover that my new editor wasn’t scared of One Love. She wasn’t put off by the messy details of contemporary queer life. And, to my utter joy, she loved the sex scene.

One Love was published in hardback this January and already it’s getting the most positive responses I’ve ever had—both from LGBTQ+ and straight female readers. This has bolstered my conviction that straight female readers don’t want a “wholesome”, neutered version of the queer experience that’s been concocted especially for them. They want the authentic experience, however edgy it may be.

Today, when I think of my straight female readers, I see them as the girls who stuck up for me when I was being bullied in the school playground. I see them as the strong women who’ve been some of my closest friends, women who feel a kinship with gay men who’ve also been disrespected, women who feel comfortable discussing their sexuality with gay men as they know they won’t be subjected to censure from other sectors of society.

Not a week goes by when I’m not contacted by one of these women, wanting to tell me that my books have resonated with them. After studying their comments, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s precisely the queerness of my novels that is making an impact. Because, although they all have different settings and situations, each of them depicts a queer character who in some way struggles to fit into the conventional modes of behaviour that society tries to force on them and breaks out to construct a way of life that respects their uniqueness. But we’re all unique so why should being able to live or love freely and authentically be a privilege reserved for queer people? If the industry as a whole were to reflect on that question, I feel the battle we queer commercial authors are fighting would finally be won.