The Struggle of Being an Inferior Storyteller

I debated long and hard about writing this post, but I had a need to get my thoughts out. If I deemed to post it than that’s why you’re reading it now. Let me start at the beginning, when I started this creative process of putting words to paper. Yes, I started writing back in the day when it was nothing but notebooks and those chunky word processors. Not everyone had a computer or internet, that was mainly for libraries and school computer labs.

I fell in love with the written word early in life due to my dad’s parents. I’d go to their house every weekend or every other, each night they’d lie down in bed before going to sleep to read and it was the start of a lifelong habit. Yet I didn’t read kid books, they loved detective stories and horror. I don’t know if I even understood them or the words, but I remembered loving them. It was getting lost in worlds where the good guy always won. I developed a fascination with Zane Grey and the mystique of the old west.

When people ask when I knew I wanted to be a writer, I always say at 8 when I wrote the worst poem know to the literary world. And maybe it did start there, but my life changed with one book. Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs. He created a gritty world with all the nastiness and horror, surreal and realism combined. All I knew is I wanted to write one day. Be a published author.

Did I know what I wanted to write back then: no. The first romance I ever read was one my mom had stashed away underneath the entertainment center. Sweet Fury by Catherine Hart. Even today I have a copy of Naked Lunch and Sweet Fury on my shelf, a reminder of the first two books that still exist in my hazy memory.

I ruined a lot of what I remember from my past with alcohol and drugs. I have Bipolar, Borderline Personality disorder and a long list of other disorders. While I loved getting lost in the pages of a book, it was the drugs and drink that were sufficient for me to lose myself. To not be the person I loathed. Even through it all, I loved words. The way they were formed, expressing so much in a few lines. I could experience emotions through these books that I had so much difficulty doing in real life.

You see, I don't think or feel like everyone else. There's a lot about human emotion that I don't get. I don't know what not to say. Sometimes I handle emotions because they're alien. I write about love and I have no concept of what love is. My brain screams it's a chemical imbalance to wear off when the body chemistry rights itself. I study, listen and try to form what all these feelings are from my point of view. I just hope I get it right.

My first book that I wrote to get published was a short call The Amazon later to be known as The Amazon: Jack’s Submission. It was a company called Horny Devil Publishing that’s long defunct, but it began my journey into being a published author. As much as I loved my first book, those words never felt quite right.

You see for as much as I read, I never saw anything other than the tragic Queer character and then I discovered some MM Romances. I thought that I could do the same with Lesbian characters. So, I wrote lesbian stories with HEA and normal lives, nothing tragic. Sappho’s Kiss was born. Then I started a series called Dysfunction at its Finest, the first book was a FF paranormal with a badass anti-heroine. I felt as if I’d found my place. Writing stories that I loved to read with characters that I wanted to see.

That was until I received my first royalty payment. How depressing that was that my Ladies weren’t selling. So I wrote the second Dysfunction book, MF with a larger woman who was confident in her shape. I told myself this would be the one, and nothing. Don’t get it twisted, I loved my words and the worlds I created. They were my safe, happy space where I didn’t need chemical help to function. They were my therapy to get all the nasty shit out of my head so that it didn’t fester and lead me down the path of old.

After years of writing every day, one day I just didn’t and then another day passed, another until six months went by and I didn’t know what I was doing with myself. Maybe it was time to hang up the dream of being a writer/storyteller. Then I saw a book, I was so excited for this book, the cover was perfect and as I started to read, one of the main characters didn’t find his complete HEA until he was skinny. I was so fucking disappointed that a larger character with an amazing personality couldn’t be happy in his own skin and still find love.

I’d written larger women characters, I love my fluffy ladies. Anyone who knows me gets that and will vouch for my obsession with thickness. So, one day I opened up a new document and I wrote a story. MM Romance. A genre I never thought I’d find myself in only for the fact that I didn’t believe I’d do it justice.

But as I formed these words into sentences and paragraphs, and chapters started to add up I found that I didn’t feel as if I was writing about gay men. They were people with stories like I’d always told. And one of them happened to be fat and hairy. (Before anyone begins to grimace. Fat is an adjective. A descriptor and nothing more. It’s how it used that makes it an insult. I am a fat, gender-nonconforming Masc lesbian. Nothing about that insults me.) Zerk was amazing and Landon loved him for all his parts.

In that moment I realized that I’d found my place. Body Positive/Diverse stories where I didn’t write the typical hero/heroine. As with people characters should reflect who they are. Their beliefs and be happy. Size whether a 0 or a 22 (or larger) shouldn’t negate someone from being loved. Curvy or not. Beautiful/Handsome or not. Every Body was Worthy. I branded myself a Body Positive/Diverse Author. It was my place. I was excited as fuck. I would celebrate all sizes with the characters I wrote. Skinny or fat, they'd all end up being loved.

The words were flowing again. Within two months I’d written four books which became the Twirled World Ink series, then morphed into the Brawlers, Executioners, and I was happy. I’d found the place I belonged.

I was determined to write people and not parts. Then I realized something about a year into my happy place. Just as in real life we’re not all created equal. These people, this entire tribe of characters who existed in my head weren’t treated equally. I loved them all. Every nuance to their personalities. That they were all broken yet beautiful in some way. My persons of color didn’t sell as well when they were featured on the cover. My MF and FF stories weren’t getting bought or reviewed. My Trans characters weren’t as praised.

This to someone who embraces difference and uniqueness was a hard blow. It was a sledgehammer to the nuts and my inferiority grew. I wrote women characters the way people seemed to want them. They wanted strong female leads. Trans stories where there was a happy ending and acceptance. This made me rethink every word I’d ever written.

In the end, I couldn’t imagine doing it any other way. People not parts. All worthy of being accepted and loved for their individuality. Mental health never bearing a stigma. Size not reduced to a diet or exercise plan to lose or bulk. Some women have penises and some men have vaginas. A size 0 doesn’t equal anorexic and some are blessed with an abundance of softness.

Love didn’t come in one shape, shade or size. Every Body was Worthy!

And even though I accepted that I was more well known for certain books, I still lost my spark. I felt pressured to write certain stories because that’s what my readers wanted. Not long after I’d built up a readership, I realized that my readers were a beautiful kaleidoscope of perfection. All genders, races, and sizes. As perfect in their uniqueness as the characters I created. I adored them. Appreciated the time and money they spent on MY words. I’d receive emails and messages about how my stories touched them—changed their perspective on themselves. Had them looking in a mirror with their eyes on accepting themselves.

There is great power in that. It’s the reason I started writing the stories I do. I needed for my readers to open a book and see themselves on the pages or screen. To see themselves being loved beyond the superficial.

Yet, over 20 books later, I still feel as my characters and myself are less than. Less than for their specialness. Less than for the fact they don’t fit a mold. I refuse to put out a story I don’t love or feel. Even reading my own books back to start the next in a series, I can see and feel the moment I forced a sentence or an entire paragraph.

I don’t want to feel as if I sold out. That I wrote to some market strategy. To tell myself I need to write this because it will sell. The moment I cheat myself out of the joy I get from my stories is the moment I go back to flipping burgers. To spending hours in a hot kitchen. I’d gladly start back to writing in my notebooks where my creativity was pure and not about profit margins.

You see, I don’t see myself as an author. Even though I labeled myself as such, it’s not a fit. I’m a storyteller. Where words are my canvas to paint a beautiful masterpiece. It doesn’t have to be an award winner or priced beyond belief. I write the supposed Lesser Thans. The ones who don’t fit. Who throw their fists in the air and rebel against the status quo.

What did I mean by writing this post? We all have a place we fit. We all find our uniqueness when the time is right. I adore people. The ones who rebel for the simple fact they breathe, they love and they overcome. Rebels from birth who take pride in their differences and who celebrate the differences in others.

We’re all human with our mistakes and our bad days. All worthy of a story. All worthy of that sometimes fabled happy ever after.

For the time I have left on this planet, before my body becomes worm food I will write those stories for the forgotten, the written off, and I will take pride in every one I write. Whether I attain my dream of writing full-time or going back to an evil day job and snag writing time between sleeps. I will write with the belief that Every Body, Shade and Shape are Worthy.