Nicholas Young: “I’m sure my sexuality influences my writing subconsciously. It would be strange if it did not.”
I WANT to welcome Nicholas Young to the Blog. Nicholas is a Canadian author whose work delves into themes of queerness, memory, isolation, and belonging through intimate, character-driven storytelling. His debut novel, Under the Covered Bridge, is a coming-of-age story set in rural Québec that follows a gay/queer teenager as he navigates grief, first love, and self-discovery.
Holding a diploma in Legal Studies and a degree in Sociology with a focus on Women and Gender Studies, Nicholas has spent over 18 years working in the legal field—more than seven of those in criminal law. His professional experience includes work on national Indigenous rights initiatives, including files connected to Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls (MMIWG) and Truth and Reconciliation.
A lover of museums and a passionate traveller, Nicholas seeks out places steeped in history. From Pompeii to the Neolithic settlement of Skara Brae on a remote island in northern Scotland, he’s fascinated by spaces that offer a tangible connection to the past. Edinburgh remains a favourite destination, with Québec City a close second.
Nicholas currently resides in Ottawa with his husband, Alex—who, I hear, considers him an oversharer, much like my own husband does of me. Which, frankly, makes him perfect interview material.
In our conversation, we discuss various topics, including the idea of narrative setting—or landscape—as character, the challenges of depicting trauma in its complexity while maintaining sensitivity, and the creative and cathartic importance of crafting a story inspired by the life of a loved one, now passed.
Check out my review of Nicholas Young’s Under the Covered Bridge here!
Nicholas, Under the Covered Bridge is a remarkable debut novel and a pleasure to read. I found it moving and beautifully written. Looking back on your writing journey as both a form of creative expression and the beginning of a career, who or what stands out as your greatest source of inspiration? Was there a specific moment when you thought, “Yes, now is the time to share my work publicly,” or did that shift happen gradually? How do you navigate that sense of vulnerability and the inevitable critiques, positive and negative (or worse—neutrality!) that come with it?
I began writing Under the Covered Bridge as an ode to my second cousin. Growing up in a small rural Québec town as a queer man, he faced a lot of aggression that inevitably caused him to leave. As a result, I did not really get to know him until I was an adult. He passed away unexpectedly in 2023, and I never got the chance to hear all of his stories. Ricky was a large part of the inspiration that began my journey. I wanted to write him a story. The story eventually turned into a self-healing process for me, and a way for me to release some emotions I never knew, or perhaps did not want to acknowledge, that were building inside me. As cliché as it may sound, I became a source of inspiration for myself.
I had started writing many stories throughout my life, but never finished them. I think, because I finished this one, I was just so excited to share it. It happened very quickly. I learned a lot from the process (more don’ts than dos). This book put me in a very vulnerable place as it contains a lot of “me” in it—a lot of raw emotions. I got nervous and anxious about family members reading it because of this. But it was such a rush of emotion when I finished and published the book that I think all those thoughts and anxieties came after. I was very proud I did it, though, and that trumped all the other emotions.
I love critiques, both positive and negative. While I am happy to say I have received more positive feedback than negative, this is a debut novel. It is not perfect. I am not perfect. So, I take it all as a learning opportunity to apply to new projects. Some of my favourite reactions stem from people being upset with characters or events and receiving DMs after midnight in pure rage over one of the many things that occur throughout the book. When it comes to neutrality, I think you’re right, it is the worst because I just don’t have anything to work with. I have found the best way to navigate all of this is to engage and be open, while simultaneously understanding that not every story is for everyone, and that’s okay.
In your novel, Kaveh Hartwell’s story is one shaped by isolation and emotional displacement; it begins with the death of his mother, followed soon by the death of his father. He is then placed with blood relatives who feel burdened by his presence and aren’t particularly nurturing or empathetic toward him, especially at a time when he most needs that support. As a result, his sense of emotional and psychological survival comes through quiet, formative friendships rather than family, both out of desire and necessity. How did you approach friendship and “chosen family” as forms of safety and belonging when biological relatives are present but emotionally distant, and unable or unwilling to offer acceptance and tenderness?
To be raw and honest, I had neither when I was growing up. I moved eight times and attended seven different schools before the age of fifteen (and no, my family was not military). I did not build friendships that lasted, and my family thrives on being “tough” and “man-ing up.” Love was obligatory, emotion was forbidden.
So, I approached family as I knew it, and I approached friendship as I learned it in my adult life. Kaveh’s home life not only represents a part of me, but a part of queer society: rejection. At its core, people within the queer community either face rejection head-on or the fear of being rejected. Kaveh faces both through family and school.
What Kaveh does have is his chosen family. I wanted to place emphasis on the fact that our energy, our love, our emotional and psychological well-being should be in the hands of those who let us hold theirs.
Expanding on this idea of isolation, is that part of the reason you placed Kaveh in a remote, rural Québec setting? Was it important to you that the landscape he inhabits mirrors the emotional and psychological unmooring of his life? Do you see the setting as primarily a literary device used to shape the atmosphere of the book, or is there a deeper intention behind it? I have my own interpretation, but I’m curious to hear your thoughts.
The isolated location stems back to my cousin. The Eastern Townships is where he grew up. A large part of his isolation and loneliness stemmed from being both from a time when it was difficult to come out, but also from a place that made it almost impossible to be different until quite recently. The location was integral in that way, because in isolated rural areas, we can feel even more alone due to the lack of resources and community centres that can often offer some reprieve for the queer community. It becomes more difficult to say you are different, even when you know perhaps others around you are as well.
It also mirrored Kaveh’s personal struggles. He was isolated geographically and also within his own home, both literally and emotionally. However, even when all these factors are true, as they were for Kaveh, I wanted to give readers a message: There is always someone willing to hold you. We just need to find them.
Thinking about the novel’s structure, memory itself feels almost animate, like something Kaveh is in constant dialogue with; it’s something he revisits and even writes toward, as if it might answer back. The act of remembering seems less about preserving the past and more about emotionally negotiating with it, a form of processing in the wake of loss. Kaveh tells his story by writing to someone from his past, revisiting and reinterpreting memories as he goes.
When you were writing his journey, how did you conceptualize memory: as a reliable truth, a form of storytelling shaped by longing and distance, or simply as a coping mechanism? What drew you to the epistolary-like structure, and how did the strategy of writing to “the boy who changed everything” help you craft your story?
I chose this structure because I think many of us have (or had) someone in our lives we wish could know how we felt. The act of writing a letter can become a way to release tension, make sense of pain, and begin to move forward instead of living in the past.
Kaveh begins writing to “the boy who changed everything” because, at the time the letter is conceived, he truly believes that that boy did change everything. But by the end of the book, Kaveh realizes that the real change was within himself. What begins as a coping mechanism, as a way of asking, “How do I move past this part of my life?” becomes something gentler and more transformative.
It becomes a way for him to say goodbye. And for Kaveh, goodbye becomes love and understanding. It becomes forgiveness not just for Niall, but also for himself. His memories become an unreliable truth. For, in fact, Niall is not the boy who changed everything. Kaveh is the one who takes control and changes the narrative.
Death makes an appearance early in your novel, and it naturally shapes Kaveh’s emotional development. Grief isn’t treated as decorative backstory; it becomes formative, influencing his identity in the way trauma often does. Violence, sadly, also enters his life. Literary tropes permeate fiction, and queer narratives are no exception. I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with tropes when they’re executed well and serve a compelling story. That said, many gay/queer coming-of-age stories lean heavily on trauma or tragedy as the defining experience.
How important was it for you to move away from that kind of “trauma narrative,” and instead focus on something more emotionally layered—even as pain and sorrow remain central to Kaveh’s evolution? How do you feel you succeeded in reworking that trope so the novel resists being read simply as a story of growth through suffering?
I agree that trauma and loss are recurring themes in queer literature. They exist differently from many traditional tropes, though, because they are rooted in real histories of violence, rejection, silence, and grief that queer communities have carried for generations. In that sense, I think there is an unfortunate truth behind the idea of “write what you know.”
More queer stories are now being written in queer-friendly worlds, with the kind of romance, joy, and storybook happy endings many of us grew up seeing elsewhere. I love that, and in fact, I’m currently reading a series that is both filled with love and uplifting. But I also think that is what makes stories like Under the Covered Bridge more, rather than less, important in 2026. Joy matters deeply, but so does memory—remembering how frightening it was, and still can be, for queer people simply to exist honestly.
Part of why I chose this narrative was to remind readers of that fear without making it the whole of Kaveh’s identity. Under the Covered Bridge was influenced by real-life tragic events, including Matthew Shepard, a tragic event that changed how many people understood hate crimes and violence against queer people. Even when someone is fortunate enough not to experience that violence directly, it can still shape their reality. It shapes what they fear, what they hide, and what they hope for, and so they never really allow themselves to become who they want to be.
So, while I understand the concern around the trauma narrative, I do not see trauma in this book as the main point of Kaveh’s growth. It’s part of the world he must survive in, but it’s not the thing that defines him. His growth comes through love, friendship, self-recognition, and the slow realization that he deserves all of that and more (as do we all). I wrote the story in a way which, I hope, does not reduce Kaveh to what hurt him. Because he is more than that. We are more than that.
For me, that was the most important part. Kaveh faces the demon, both directly and through love and compassion, but he also outgrows the idea that tragedy must define him. He shows a kind of strength and wisdom I wish I had at his age.
Alongside the novel’s lyrical prose, which gives the narrative a reflective, almost autobiographical tone, the use of Québécois French throughout feels seamlessly integrated. It doesn’t read as an aesthetic flourish, but as something carrying real emotional weight. The bilingual texture also seems to speak to the book’s broader meditation on identity—not only queer identity but also cultural identity.
How important was it to you to situate the novel not just in Québec, but within Canada more broadly, both on a personal level and in shaping the story itself? Also, the movement between English and French echoes the protagonist’s negotiation between different selves. How intentional was this bilingual layering in your writing, and in what ways did you see language itself as a way of expressing Kaveh’s internal division and sense of identity?
The French in the novel was intentional and carefully used. I did not want it to be so overwhelming that a reader felt pushed out of the story, but including it was never negotiable. Writing entirely in English and relying only on phrases like “he said in French” would have diluted the culture, the setting, and the importance of Canada’s French-speaking communities.
I think we often understand intersectionality as the meeting point between ethnicity, sexuality, gender, class, or other forms of social identity. However, language is also part of identity. It can create belonging, but it can also create exclusion. It can mark who is inside a community and who is made to feel outside of it. In that sense, language carries its own kind of cultural and emotional weight. I am happy to hear that it landed as intended, as a doorway into the culture and not simply a caricature of it.
Although the book is set in a relatively isolated place, the descriptive scenery and locations were very intentional. Places like Saint-Benoît-du-Lac, which is a real place and does make excellent cheese, allowed me to show a part of Québec that is not always centered in fiction. Everyone knows Montréal, or at least has some idea of it, but I wanted to write about the rural countryside, the mountains, the quiet roads, and the specific beauty of that landscape. I have a great deal of love for it.
On a personal level, situating the novel in Québec, and in Canada more broadly, mattered deeply to me. Canada is a beautiful country, and I think it should be the centrepiece of more literature, film, television, and games. Often, even when Canadian stories are present, they are softened, disguised, or made to feel more generically North American. I did not want that. For this story, and for the personal reasons that first drew me to write it, Canada was non-negotiable.
In truth, I did not consciously write the movement between French and English as a direct mirror of Kaveh’s internal division. But I think that is one of the beautiful things about art. Sometimes a reader sees something in the work that the writer did not deliberately put there, but it still feels true. I really love that interpretation.
Under the Covered Bridge resists easy genre categorization. It’s not solely a gay romance, nor does it sit neatly within an M/M framework. Emotionally, it’s tender without being sentimental. Intellectually, it engages with themes like language, grief, sexuality, and even geography. The level of introspection here is profound. Your novel also avoids both excessive erotic focus and melodramatic excess; instead, it maintains a quieter emotional voice. It functions as both a coming-out narrative and a broader process of emotional reckoning in adulthood. Your novel feels distinctly queer—and Canadian, yet still accessible to a wide international audience.
How do you think about genre when it comes to how your work is read or categorized, or do you consciously factor it into your writing at all? Did you keep the notion of a specific audience in the back of your mind while writing Under the Covered Bridge?
I did not really force the book into a genre while I was writing it. I let it become what it seemed naturally meant to be, which has made it harder to place in the usual categories. The shortest way I describe it now is “a queer coming-of-age M/M romance set in rural Québec,” but honestly, it took me a while to land on that. Even that description does not properly describe the book. It has romance and queerness at its center, but it’s also about grief, memory, language, place, family, violence, tenderness, and the process of trying to understand yourself after something has changed you. That is a little too long for an elevator pitch, though.
Because of that, it can be difficult to describe the book to readers who are looking for a very specific kind of romance. Some people want something lighter, or more feel-good, or something much spicier. That is completely fair, but this is not really that book. I do think Under the Covered Bridge is a book someone has to be in the right mood for, but I actually take that as a compliment. To me, it means the story is asking to be felt, not just consumed. It’s not something I wanted people to rush through and forget. I want the reader to remember it, and the characters, in a way that is long-lasting and meaningful.
As for the novel’s “audience,” I remember telling myself that if one person bought it and it meant something to them, I had done my job as an author. I wrote the story as honestly as I could, and I am so proud of that. I’m astonished at the amount of support and love it has received so far.
Nicholas, being an openly queer Canadian writer (I relate to that!), do you think your sexuality influences your writing in subtle, perhaps subconscious ways that naturally give it a gay/queer-centred perspective, or is your focus on LGBTQ+ themes something you engage with more deliberately and intentionally?
I’m sure my sexuality influences my writing subconsciously. It would be strange if it did not.
That said, I’ve been writing for most of my life, and storytelling has usually been the main driver before anything else. I wrote a post-apocalyptic version of Lord of the Flies in high school, and even won awards for that. I’ve written Dungeons & Dragons campaigns for game nights, built worlds, shaped characters, and created stories that were not always centred on LGBTQ+ themes.
So I would not say queerness is the only lens I write through, but it is absolutely one of them. With Under the Covered Bridge, those themes were very deliberate. Kaveh’s queerness was not something added later or used as a surface-level check box. It shaped the emotional stakes of the book, his relationships, his fears, his longing, and his efforts to understand himself. For me, narrative always comes first, for sure.
Your hobbies include video games (such as Final Fantasy, Zelda, and Fire Emblem), tabletop games (like Dungeons and Dragons), and board games (Gloomhaven, Eclipse, and Arydia). Now, as for books, I’d love to know what you’re currently reading—do you tend to stick to a favourite genre, or are your reading tastes more wide-ranging?
I’m currently reading Husband Material by Alexis Hall. I do tend to gravitate toward M/M romance. However, Dungeon Crawler Carl by Matt Dinniman has crept into my library, along with Callie Hart’s Fae and Alchemy series, among others.
Historical or period queer romance is probably my absolute favourite, though—which explains my favourite book, The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller. For me, that book is nothing short of a masterclass. I genuinely believe it’s one of those works that will stand the test of time.
A few other favourites are The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzi Lee and the Dark Rise series by C.S. Pacat. So, while I often return to queer romance, especially when it has historical or mythological elements, I do like it when other genres surprise me and pull me in.
So, Nicholas, looking ahead, what’s next for you creatively? Can you share any details about what you’re working on after the widely positive reception of Under the Covered Bridge?
Well, I’m currently writing a post-apocalyptic sci-fi fantasy novel set in space after Earth’s almost-destruction. It’s a pretty big shift from Under the Covered Bridge, which was so intimate and personal. This new book is much larger in scope, much more fantastical, and honestly, a little terrifying to write.
I have over 80,000 words written right now, with the hope of landing somewhere around 150,000. I’m also working with a small local writing group, going through it chapter by chapter, making sure the world-building is clear, present, and not overwhelming. With a story like this, I want the reader to feel immersed, but not lost.
I also have another book outlined and another idea floating around as well. So, I’m really hoping Under the Covered Bridge will not be the last book you see my name on. That said, there is a noticeable shift between my debut book and my current projects. The emotional core and lyrical prose will still be there, because that is just how I write, but the settings, genres, and scale will change quite a bit. But that doesn’t rule out a return of Under the Covered Bridge in the future. Kaveh has a lot more to share.
So, with that, I leave you with a direct quote from the new book, and (one of) the MMC’s names, that I have not yet released publicly:
“Dusk pressed against the tempered glass above him with a soft light that turned the air deep purples, fiery orange and soft pink. It was Earth’s sun… the same that had once touched oceans and forests alike, but here its heat was gentled, its fire controlled. Beyond the glass, the hull’s upper curvature lay flat against the black sweep of open space. Radiation shields shimmered faintly against the glare, giving the illusion that the heavens themselves trembled…
Torrance did not look away.”
Until May 31, 2026, all proceeds from the sale of a limited-edition Under the Covered Bridge, featuring a Rainbow Bridge–inspired cover, will be donated to the Ottawa Stray Cat Rescue in memory of Nicholas’ kitty, Gryffin, who recently passed. This special edition will be available exclusively on Amazon and will not be offered after this time, except through select events and book boxes. You can purchase it 
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