Writing as a bisexual; being the quiet one.

 Last month, it was talking about my relationship to gender. This time, writing with my own sexuality in mind in a modern world where performing sexuality is...a thing, unfortunately. This post was inspired by Emily Inkpen's own article on the topic, "Writing Queer Experiences as a Bisexual Woman". It's only within the last five years that I realised there was nothing wrong with being attracted to both men and women. I found women attractive and alluring, but then I started having the same feelings for men and wasn't processing it well internally. I wasn't acting out, I just kept it bottled up to work through. And I found that just because I liked both didn't mean I was potentially promiscuous or anything. I was just me.

I fully admit, my experience with real life is limited. Due to various factors, I don't get out a huge amount, so many of my experiences of queer representation have been through media. And on the whole, bisexual characters have it pretty rough. Either they are labelled as gay or straight if they settle with one gender or the other, or are given negative character traits such as commitment issues or some variant on classical depravity and personal issues. Truth be told, one of my upcoming stories has elements of that, which will need to be addressed during edits.

Something that I've ended up being conscious about with regards to my characters, as I tend to put both men and women in my casts, is the inevitable "shipping". Obviously "shipping" happens regardless, but it's more the tacit assumption that of course man and woman will get together. It's not a fact of life, but it's a dictate of the society we inherited from the Victorian middle class that man and woman must get together at story's end. Some of the great narratives have been permanently crippled by this pressure.

I've also found a penchant for writing a certain type of character dynamic; a duo where one is gay, the other is straight, and they aren't the same gender. Or having the only real romantic element be outside the straight zone. I used to be concerned about this kind of thing, wondering what people would think. Then I realised that I shouldn't have to care about it, and if I just wrote what I wanted to and stood my ground, that would be better. Not just for others on the LGBTQIA+ spectrum, but for me. If I could write bisexuals with stable lives and characters, gay and lesbian relationships that weren't tragic or traumatic, trans and intersex characters living their best life, and asexual characters able to be who they are without being judged.

It's genuinely tricky to write about the queer experience when you haven't been that greatly immersed, having spent a lot of time online and living in an out-of-the-way part of the world where I don't know if someone being very openly queer would go down well. It helps that my usual gender presentation is very subdued male-coded, to the point I've heard some people surprised when I mentioned my orientation. But I've also learned through that and my tastes in fiction to never, ever judge someone by their external appearance. Because of that lack of stock or weight in external looks, I tend not to gravitate towards extravagant or extroverted characters. Instead, I've found myself writing people who are...just people.

That can make me feel almost guilty, combined with the fact that as a white man, I've got several engrained cultural prejudices working in my favour. Surely I have to be loud and proud, it's the expected thing, it's the norm! I say, who sets that as the norm? The more I looked, the more it felt like what started out as a genuine sign of rebellion against the establishment is now being encouraged by the establishment to act like an ID tag, and because of that I don't see people like me. I see angst and flamboyance, which is all well and good, that does happen. But it's still saddeningly rare to see.

I guess this is less about writing as a bisexual man, and more about writing as me; someone retiring, shy, a listener and writer who still likes to talk a lot, but also likes his quiet times. I'm not a party animal, I'm comfortable in my gender. I don't fit into the 'pattern' that it feels like queer romance or queer existence is still being squeezed into. I understand there's an appeal of seeing any kind of queer representation, but it's starting to feel rather one-note. I'm pleased there's increased diversity being pushed through, especially now with basic freedom of expression under attack.

I write as a bisexual man regardless of what I look like, and write to include as much diversity as my stories and characters will allow. And I try to write about my own experience of bisexuality; the sort who's just part of the crowd, walking down the street in everyday clothes, but still able to--to appropriate a phrase--have my emotional bread buttered on both sides.

Looking back at my study books...

 So, I've been going through the process of getting myself an English Language and Literature degree with the Open University. Still got stuff to do (not the end of Academic year yet), but in the name of education, I needed to read through not one, not two, not three, but...FOURTEEN books. As a reader, on the one hand, that was great. But as someone who had to read Dickens during my Level 1 studies last year, I also know that some of these pieces were likely to be something I didn't enjoy and would be going on an out/charity shop pile. So I'm deciding to make use of them outside my education and post my opinions on these fourteen books I had to read through between October last and now.

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray: This was easy to assess. I enjoyed it. I also enjoyed the greater academic insight given into this definitive piece of Gothic literature. I'd already read through the story via audiobook, so this was an easy yes in terms of keepers. I still think most people focus far too much on the sexual elements of the story, which if you actually read the darned book play third fiddle to other themes, but it's still interesting.

Zadie Smith, White Teeth: Our first dud destined for the out pile. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure this book has fans and it's interesting to look at how it's written. But it's also a prime example of a culture I wasn't part of, and I don't mean it's Muslim Indian and Jamaican diasporas (the former actually resonated with me a lot because Batley, where I grew up, had a Muslim Indian community dating back to the Partition). I mean how White Teeth treats subjects like suicidal depression, marital relationships, Islamic radicalisation, and cultural pressure to conform. It treats them all...as jokes, ala lowbrow 90s comedies. Seriously, the opening chapter plays a suicide attempt as a joke. The 'wit' in this book either hasn't aged well, or was always in poor taste. Also the ending... Very Dickensian in the worst way.

Sylvia Plath, Ariel: The Restored Edition: I'd never encountered this poet's work, and it's not for the faint of heart. Even untangling it from the context of Plath's own struggles and tragic death which followed hard upon completing this collection, these poems aren't for the faint of heart. Self-doubt, dark pasts, familial strife, all feature as themes here. This edition also comes with Plath's reproduced type-written versions of the poems, complete with amendments to the rhyme and metre. I'm stull not sure whether I'm keeping this one, but it...has something. Just not something I'd dive into for comfort reading.

Colston Whitehead, The Colossus of New York: Another one I'd never heard of, and one I'm definitely keeping. This exploration of New York City, dated to around the same time as White Teeth, explores not from the POV of a travelogue, but more akin to a bird's eye view. As if the city itself is guiding you. And in this case, the wit of the writing has aged pretty well, and the context is deliberately ambiguous enough that you can see more than just one demographic enjoying this. This book doesn't self-isolate through being of its time, it makes itself timeless. A keeper for sure.

Wordsworth and Coleridge, Lyrical Ballads: I'm gonna say it, Wordsworth is one of the most boring and uninspiring poets I've come across. There's only one of his poems in this absolute slog of a tome, 'Michael, A Pastoral Poem', that I think even vaguely enjoyable. The book as a whole is standard, droning, and if you know anything about real rural history insultingly patronising and romantic. And don't even get me started on Wordsworth's 'Introduction', which says with fifty words what could be said with ten. Coleridge's 'Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner' is its one redeeming property, and I don't need to keep one book for one poem. Out pile.

Anne-Marie Fyfe. No Far Shore: Described by Fyfe herself as a book of 'lyric essays', this is a strange little thing and not one I expected to enjoy as much as I did. Baring one poem about a dog trapped in a harbour, I found everything enjoyable, engaging, and entertaining. There's a distinct quality to this book that's difficult to quantify beyond; it's good. Being someone who lives near the coast myself, it resonated with me strongly, and how Fyfe incorporated poetic elements into her prose was something else. Keeping this.

Patricia Grace, Potiki: A story I didn't know I needed in my life. I've had some mild contact with Maori culture through pop culture influence, but this in-depth piece of work from someone within the Pākehā (colonial white-Maori) population was truly eye-opening. There's a fine dance along the line between low fantasy and social history, immersing you into the culture. It also has a strong anti-colonial message, and ultimately a hopeful message. A keeper for sure.

William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure: This doesn't need much space. It's just the notorious problem play in an academic edition with a massive introduction and footnotes galore. I enjoy Measure for Measure, and this book has good reference material for writing essays and similar, so keeping it.

Abdulrazak Gurnah, Gravel Heart: Again not an author I'd encountered, and once again I was impressed. It's not a read I'll go back to in a hurry, because oh boy is it a hard read. If White Teeth is the over-optimistic and jokey view of the immigrant experience, Gravel Heart is a more realistic and occasionally cynical one. The main draw for me was its examination of a broken family, familial expectations and abuse, and the outsider finding something of value in a place they're othered in. Keeping it, but not re-reading for a while.

George Orwell, Essays: You can really tell a lot about Orwell as a person from this collection of his essays. From his anti-colonial stance to the complete lack of faith or belief in any kind of governance, to the remnants of Imperialism that colour how he sees and talks about non-English groups. Many of these essays are also quite funny to read through, and led me on a bit of a rabbit hold about his life. So, yeah, keeping.

Thomas More, Utopia: This book...is such a waste of space in my shelves. I didn't connect with it. I got it a bit more after having gone through the first half of the book, not just the second fictive half as most seem to. But still, it feels more like something for academia than pleasure reading. Interesting to see how the concept of 'utopia' emerged and how different it is for a Tudor man compared to today, but... Yeah, out pile.

Mary Elizabeth Braddon, Lady Audley's Secret: A crown jewel of sensation fiction, and one of the best books from the Victorian period I've ever read. The writing is so good, sparkling even, and the story kept me hooked even when it strayed into the stereotypes of its day. Braddon has crafted one of the great anti-heroines, and her writing has aged magnificently compared to others of her day, or even most others that came decades later. Keeper. I also got her Aurora Floyd for good measure.

Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden: This is a good piece of writing, no question. A classic, indeed. And I'm keeping it. But... Some parts of how the story changes during its second half really don't sit well with me. I came to this after having watched in my youth the 1993 film version, and there's a shocking amount of context they add without actually changing the narrative. They also keep Mary Lennox as the focal character, while the book basically boots her into the chorus in favour of REAL PROTAGONIST COLIN NO FOR REAL HE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT CHARACTER IN THE BOOK FOR REAL WAIT COME BACK HE'S REALLY IMPORTANT. Can you tell I don't like this shift?

Isabel Allende, The Stories of Eva Luna: My very first exposure to South American literature, and also my first dip into what has been called 'fantasy realism'. And I couldn't have struck a better first time. Written in a Scheherazade-style narrative of loosely-connected short stories, this book hooked me hard and wouldn't let go. I was lost in its stories of love, connection, innocence, and the subtle magic of reality. A keeper for sure.

And that's it. Fourteen books, fourteen opinions, and only three definitively going on the out pile. Quite an achievement. Here's to reading for pleasure and for learning, and to not hating books after needing to study them.