Haven’t been able to write since Tuesday. I’ve been too hurt, too confused, too angry to spin up my imagination and write about what’s happening in that other world.
It doesn’t help that it’s supposed to be a light book, full of whimsy and humor.
I don’t feel very funny anymore.
But I’ve got to get back to it.
Maybe the book will turn out a little darker than I’d intended, now. Or maybe I’ll find a way to recapture the fun spirit I started with, and use the book to remind myself of the good things that are still out there: the wife that loves me, the friends that support me, the peers that understand what’s happening, and forgive.
But most of all I need to finish it because this book has suddenly become more explicitly political than I intended.
My main character is a lesbian, which when I started out was just the way the character came into my head. Now it feels like writing her is an act of defiance, a way of pushing back against Trump and his ilk.
No one else may ever read this book, and it may never be good enough to be published. But damned if I won’t finish it, and make it as good as I can make it.
Because the importance of minority representation in fiction has just hit home to me, and I want to do my part.
