So essentially, the story I’m currently writing–Roller Coasters–is taking over my life. And I’m still worried that I’m doing it wrong, that my genderqueer kid is just gonna read all over the place, and that he’s not perfect enough, or too perfect, or humorless, or hiding behind humor. The bitch of it is he’s all those things, cause he’s twenty-five, and he’s figuring himself out, and therefore he’s all kinds of insecure, all kinds of awkward.
I want him to be likeable. I also want him to be real. Which means he can’t be too likeable. Except, how many people who read this story will have never encountered a genderqueer character in fiction (or a genderqueer person in life)? So then I want him to be awesome and perfectly in balance and some kind of horrible perfect character who makes everyone want to go hug a genderqueer pal today.
I know. It’s sick.
And he doesn’t get a happy ending, which just kills me. We may revisit him. Later. So he can have a happy ending.
What this really makes clear to me is that I need to write more gender fuckery. And I need to write trans characters who are real, who have real struggles, and real relationships. I need to write drag and androgyny and people who identify as “none of the above, and fuck you.” I need to write so many non-cis characters that this particular kid will just be one representation along the developmental spectrum of becoming who you are (a spectrum that applies to everyone, regardless of gender or non-gender). Because right now he feels exposed, as if he’s the only one standing, which makes me all kinds of uncomfortable.
So, back to work. But so far we’ve been climbing the roller coaster, and we’re at the pinnacle now. Time to start the descent, and I’m a little worried it’s gonna make me cry.