Back Into The Dark: Revisiting Marc Ruvolo’s Pieties

Marc Ruvolo: “…never forget what pain and suffering the queer community went through in the 80s.”

Last year during Pride Month, I had the pleasure of interviewing queer horror author Marc Ruvolo about his life, writing, and music career; we briefly conversed about the original edition of his horror novella Pieties. I also reviewed the book, which you can check out here.

Now I’m reconnecting with Marc to discuss his return to this deeply personal work of queer horror. Pieties has been revised, including a reworked ending that reshapes the story’s emotional and thematic impact. Also, check out that amazing new cover!

With Pieties: Expanded Edition, Marc Ruvolo revisits a haunting narrative and deepens its emotional and psychological resonance, offering both new readers and returning fans a richer, more immersive experience. By expanding the story’s scope and refining its conclusion, he invites us to reconsider not only the fate of Andrew Fineman but also the uneasy boundaries between reality, belief, and fear. Pieties is unsettling, darkly beautiful, and undeniably thought-provoking.

Marc, you’ve added about 4,000 words and reshaped the ending for Pieties: Expanded
Edition. What drew you back to this story, and how did you decide what needed expanding or changing?

After Off Limits Press stopped publishing and returned the rights, the book lay in limbo until Slashic Horror Press offered to re-release it. The story is close to my heart, and I wanted to keep sharing it with others, so I said yes. I’d seen a few complaints that readers wanted “more” of the story, so this seemed like a great opportunity to expand the ending. When I re-read the novella, I felt I’d told Andrew’s story, but neglected the stories of those around him, so I started there.

In my review of the original Pieties, I noted that while the story was fast-paced and thrilling, the ending felt a bit abrupt, leaving some questions about certain characters’ actions and the balance between reality and surreal/supernatural events. And I hope my commentary never came across as complaints—! We’re still friends, right? 🙂

I’m curious, Marc, how did you find readers responded overall to the original ending? And with the Expanded Edition, without giving spoilers, how does the new ending change the way the story lands? Does it make the horror feel darker, the emotions hit harder, or shift the story in another way entirely? Did reader response play a role in how you approached the revised ending?

Some people like ambiguous endings, and some don’t. I enjoy them. I also like not having everything explained and tied up with a neat bow. With the novella length, it’s always a struggle to find the best point to stop the story. Originally, the story ended with a kind of “quiet after the storm” moment, but as I revisited it, I felt I hadn’t done Andrew’s friend, Christine, the proper justice. She’s an unlikable character, and so is Andrew.

The ambiguous ending inferred she was the next to suffer, but once I revisited from her perspective, I realized this was not the case. Andrew and Dick are stuck on their own trajectories to ruin. The women are not. They’re the survivors here; they’re stronger than the religious patriarchy, which destroys both Andrew and his father.

Rewriting and expanding something that’s already finished and published is tricky. I’ve discovered this myself as I’m currently revising my first two novels for republication. What were the most challenging parts of expanding and reshaping Pieties, and did you discover anything surprising along the way? Perhaps something that turned out to be easier than you expected or more complex than you anticipated?

The hardest part was figuring out what I wanted to do with it. I discovered I wanted to expand the ending, but how? A bloody confrontation? A fight to the death? None of that sat right with me in terms of story. Andrew was already lost, either due to external forces or just because he wanted to be. The story couldn’t be about him anymore. So, I revisited Christine, and that opened up a whole new angle. One that included Andrew’s mother, Enid, who is possibly the only true victim in this story. As I wrote the new ending, I was surprised by how much I cared for Christine and Enid—they deserved better.

Thinking about the original edition and how readers responded, what do you hope they notice or feel differently in the Expanded Edition overall?

I just hope more people read and identify with the story, and that they’re satisfied where I left it. I also hope people never forget what pain and suffering the queer community went through in the 80s.

Queer horror often explores fear, otherness, and societal pressures through a unique lens. How did you approach the gay/queer aspects of this revised edition of Pieties, and did expanding the story give you more room to explore Andrew Fineman’s identity and experiences, especially within the context of the period?

I lived through the 80s, and a much smaller version of Andrew’s experiences. The book is dedicated to my high school boyfriend, Dwight Glass, who later passed away from complications of HIV. I see a lot of Andrew in my memories of him. [Image of Dwight on the right.] I think this time around, I wanted to show the fraught relations we had with straight women. The love, and the hate, and the confusion. But we couldn’t have been who we were without them.

Going a tad meta here—if Andrew could send one piece of advice back to you while you were writing the original edition, what do you think he’d say about the changes in the Expanded Edition?

His advice would be: write his story, warts and all. To not pull any punches regarding the time and people’s attitudes. I think he’d tell me he was glad that, in the end, while I couldn’t save Enid, I saved Christine.

Marc, you’re a musician who founded the Chicago-based punk band No Empathy in the 1980s and served as their lead singer. You’re also someone deeply connected with the queercore (or homocore) scene. It’s clear that alternative music, dark melodies, and pounding beats are a core part of your creative soul. Since Pieties is set in 1981, if Andrew could play one cassette tape on a boombox while all the new horrors unfold, which album from that era would it be, and why?

I think it would be Buzzcocks “Singles Going Steady” for the first half of the book and Bauhaus “In the Flat Field” for the second half. I’d choose that Buzzcocks LP mainly because of the song “Orgasm Addict,” and Bauhaus for the song “Dark Entries,” which I feel fits the mood perfectly.

Now that Pieties has an Expanded Edition, do you see yourself revisiting other works in a similar way in the future?

My first novella, Sloe, is currently out of print, and I hope to expand it as well. It received some of the same criticism, the open ending left people wanting more, so I’d like to add a bit of what I think people were after. I’m busy finishing a few projects right now, but after those, I think I’ll tackle Sloe again. As it is my first published book, it definitely holds a special place in my heart. Thanks for the questions, and thanks to everyone who reads my strange, twisted little stories!

Thank you, Marc, for taking the time to talk about Pieties: Expanded Edition! I can’t wait for readers to discover this bold, haunting new retelling destined to be a queer horror classic.

Pieties: Expanded Edition is available for purchase online at Barnes & Noble, amazon.ca and amazon.com.

For more information about this author and musician, follow Marc Ruvolo on InstagramFacebookBluesky, and YouTube. Also, visit his Website where you will find links to purchase his work.

Follow Slashic Horror Press on Instagram, Bluesky, Facebook, and visit their Website.

GAY/QUEER-THEMED BOOKS FROM 5 OWN VOICE AUTHORS!

PERPETUALLY DRAWN to the shadows (I mean, I was a goth for a reason—there are pics!), I seek out stories that not only linger in the dark but actively pull you into it. Of course, some are more successful than others. I’m always looking for authors who aren’t afraid to explore the thrills, the horrors, occasionally the erotic, and the many corners of gay/queer experience—within my own interests and boundaries.

I’m particularly drawn to Own Voice authors whose perspectives resonate with my own. Being a gay writer myself, I’m naturally curious about how other gay/queer men articulate their experiences, emotions, desires, and creativity. I’m looking for voices that feel lived-in, raw, and emotionally honest; these are stories that capture real feelings, even if the worlds they inhabit are fantastical, surreal, or completely unfamiliar. Not always neat or pretty, but always tantalizing.

Over the past while, a handful of authors have genuinely piqued my interest. These are gay/queer male Own Voice writers whose work leans into tension, atmosphere, and complicated interpersonal connections; these are stories where love is rarely easy, and often comes at a cost. But that cost is usually worth it.

And sometimes there are vampires. Love it.

Admittedly, I generally (okay, predominantly) want a HEA/HFN ending—sue me. And anyone who knows me or has read my fiction knows I’m a proponent of fairness: people get what they deserve, for good and for ill. Just like the legendary Billy Jean said. “Fair is Fair.” Oh, the poetry of the 80s.

So, here are five Own Voice authors I want to spotlight. I’m not featuring friends, the Haunted Hearts fellows, or anyone I’ve ever interviewed. Why? Because they’re all amazing; how could I choose between them? Us writers can get so sensitive!

Starting with an author whose work I’ve been reading for years, Tal Bauer continues to stand out as a compelling voice in the gay romance/thriller genre. He’s someone who achieves fantastic writing utilizing uncomplicated, direct prose, not an easy thing to do. I reviewed his novel Hell and Gone in an earlier blog post. Hush is another work that quietly draws you in with deliberate precision, showcasing his signature blend of suspense and fully realized characters.

In Hush, Tom Brewer’s decades-long closet becomes its own kind of battleground, with Bauer threading his emergence into love through a tense legal case that could ignite global conflict. The slow-burn connection between Tom and Mike deepens not through cliché, but through shared danger and vulnerability, making every chapter feel like a negotiation between fear and hope. I don’t naturally gravitate toward stories with closeted protagonists; this one was an exception, upon a recommendation from a freiend whose opinion I trust.   

There’s always a weight to the emotional stakes in Baur’s work, an undercurrent of fear, secrecy, loss, and moral conflict that feels grounded in reality, even when the subject matter is fantastical. What resonates most is how the romance never softens the suspense, but deepens both the tension and the anticipation for what’s to come. His work is morally complex, high-stakes, emotionally devastating fiction that hits my love of revenge/justice/internal conflict narratives perfectly.

Connect with Tal Baur on Instagram, Facebook, and his website.

Gregory Ashe’s work is intense, emotionally layered, and true “page-turners,” as the saying goes. He doesn’t shy away from high levels of angst, suffering, and catharsis for his characters, romance included. The first book in his Hazard and Somerset series, Pretty Pretty Boys, introduces characters who are far from perfect. They’re emotionally messy, guarded, and at times frustratingly difficult in all the best ways Ashe’s characters always elevate a standard M/M romance storyline by giving it real gravitas. There’s something refreshing about the way polish and grit coexist in his writing. It’s an approach I strive for in my own thriller work.

What’s interesting about Pretty Pretty Boys is how Ashe crafts an intense, compelling dynamic between his central characters without following a conventional path to romance, yet it remains immensely engaging. Rather than focusing on immediate love or physical intimacy, the story builds tension through sharp banter, conflict, and a slow, emotionally magnetic connection that feels both dark and gratifying.

As an enemies-to-lovers narrative, the relationship develops in a way that feels more difficult and intense, yet carries an oddly satisfying push-and-pull—an “I don’t want this—but I want this!” tension that drives the story forward. The work feels raw, with emotionally exposed characters, which aligns perfectly with my love for narratives that explore a darker emotional tone. Ashe immerses the reader in a psychological landscape where vulnerability and manipulation blur, demanding engagement with complex truths and revelations.

Connect with Gregory Ashe on Instagram, Facebook, Bluesky, and his website.

Aaron Foley’s work fits strongly within the spirit of ‘Own Voices,’ offering an authentic, contemporary portrayal of Black gay/queer life. His writing captures the nuances of identity, friendship, the pursuit of love, and social success with a natural ease. This is especially impressive in Boys Come First, where he skillfully juggles multiple points of view. While that structure can sometimes feel disjointed in other novels, Foley provides each character with a distinct voice and perspective, allowing their individual stories to stand on their own while still weaving together into a cohesive and engaging narrative.

Like the Own Voices stories I’m drawn to, the emotional core isn’t meant to be easily deciphered. Instead, the relationships unfold gradually, with angst that feels authentic rather than idealized or artificially manufactured to push a storyline toward a fixed ending.

What makes Boys Come First particularly refreshing is its focus on the fullness of everyday life and potential for excitement, rather than positioning trauma as the main catalyst for change and growth. There’s a far too common expectation that fiction about Black characters must revolve around the historical and modern impacts of pain—especially themes like police brutality or racial injustice and the legacy of oppression—to gain recognition. Foley’s novel pushes against that pattern by highlighting joy, ambition, and the complexity of modern life for Black gay/queer men trying to make their mark in the world. The story follows Dominick, Troy, and Remy as they navigate careers, romantic relationships, family dynamics, friendships, and the evolving cultural landscape of Detroit. In doing so, Foley creates a vibrant, contemporary portrayal of Black gay/queer life that, while not always smooth sailing, feels wonderfully celebratory all the same.

Connect with Aaron Foley on Instagram, Bluesky, and his website.

For readers drawn to darker, more provocative territory, Daniel May is impossible to ignore. His work pushes boundaries, always with intent, never just to be shocking. His writing leans into obsession and imbalance, exploring dynamics some may consider unsettling, yet undeniably compelling and erotic. He represents the most transgressive edge of the erotic thriller aesthetic: obsession, power imbalance, and discomfort. Nothing edges towards safe or conventional.

For anyone who reads M/M or gay thriller romance, with their focus on first meetings or reunions and a clear HEA, Princess feels like a sharp departure. There is no conventional romance here, at least not as the genre defines it, yet the connection between the characters remains gripping. The novella presents a series of intensely charged physical encounters that read less as expressions of love and more as studies in control and vulnerability. Even so, they carry a strange, unsettling sense of gratification. The result is a story that offers no reassurance and no clear moral footing, which, IMHO, some of the best thrillers embrace.

Connect with Daniel May on Instagram, Facebook, and his website.

Richard Amos is an English author whose imagination seems to live as much in his stories as in the real world. Writing urban fantasy and gay paranormal romance, his work is filled with fast-paced action, adventurous storylines, and twisty, unpredictable plots. Amos creates immersive worlds where magic, danger, and gay/queer erotic desire collide, all while developing dynamic characters and compelling romantic tension. With a playful, self-proclaimed nerdy spirit behind his work, his stories offer an exciting and escapist reading experience for fans of gay/queer fantasy fiction.

Amos’ Stone Temptation opens with a familiar, yet compelling hook, following a protagonist driven by love and loss, and immerses readers in a vividly imaginative world where gargoyles, magic, and monsters collide in a thrilling gay/queer paranormal romance. Luke’s quest to save his brother grounds the story in emotional urgency, while his evolving bond with Asher creates a slow‑burn tension that I enjoyed.

Amos’s distinctive pacing (which, admittedly, may not be to everyone’s taste) and layered plot threads spark intrigue and keep readers guessing what will happen next. This book, like his others, provides rich worldbuilding and dynamic character chemistry, making every scene invigorated with action, mystery, and romance. The novel’s cliffhanger ending perfectly sets the stage for possible future installments, promising even deeper character growth and story complexity.

Connect with Richard Amos on Instagram, Facebook, and his website.

What connects all of these authors, at least for me, is their willingness to dwell in the broader, darker spaces of gay/queer experiences. These aren’t stories that rush toward neat resolutions or hand out easy answers. Instead, they linger on grief, on longing, on desire, and on the complicated ways we relate to one another and to the world around us—even when that world is mythical, supernatural, or otherwise unbelievable. As both a reader and an Own Voices author myself, it’s precisely this space I keep returning to. These voices—distinct, unapologetic, and deeply felt—are ones I’ll continue to follow closely and engage with.

My Favourite Gay Films: Part Three

“Audiences have moved beyond tolerant of LGBT themes. I think the entertainment industry is tolerant. Audiences—a huge audience, the majority in the western world—is simply accepting of gay characters.” — Thom Fitzgerald

WELCOME TO Part Three, the final act in my retrospective celebrating my all-time favourite gay films (excluding documentaries and horror). Here are the final four entries on my list of twelve, each centring gay/queer themes and characters. Make sure you check out Part One  & Part Two

So, why do “gay movies” matter? Why is “queer cinema” a valid medium? Some filmmakers, like Canadian writer/director Xavier Dolan (a gay man), have pushed back against having their work labelled as “gay film” or “queer cinema.” Still, it matters to me because it gives shape and visibility to lives that have too often been pushed to the margins, allowing me to see reflections of my own experiences on screen in a way that feels genuine and human. At the same time, it opens a window into queer lives beyond my own, expanding my understanding of diversity.

And it’s not just about representation for its own sake (not that that’s necessarily a negative); it’s about reclaiming narratives that were once denied or distorted, and showing the full complexity of gay/queer existence beyond stereotypes and tragedy (which, at this point, for me, is exhausting). When I watch movies centred on people who are, in part, reflections of me as a gay man, I feel less alone and more understood; this was more potent in my youth than it is now, of course, but the emotion still resonates today. I’m reminded that our lives are worthy of documentation, celebration, and preservation. Queer cinema creates space for empathy, challenges prejudice, and affirms that our stories are not only valid but essential to the broader human narrative.

And frankly, as a writer myself, I take having my work described as “gay” or “queer” as a huge compliment. Those labels don’t limit a story’s audience or its themes—they just name a valid and meaningful perspective. Non-LGBTQ+ viewers can take just as much from queer narratives as we’ve always taken from predominantly straight ones, especially considering that for most of film history, nearly everything was made with straight audiences in mind. I’ve never heard of a straight writer/director bitching because someone labelled his M/F romance movie as a “not gay/queer” film.

And no, they’re not all great movies, and some embody problematic portrayals. But sometimes you have to sift through the mediocre and the offensive ones to find the real gems. I hope you’ve enjoyed the films that I consider gems.

And here are the final entries…

Girls Will Be Girls (2003)

Girls Will Be Girls isn’t your typical drag comedy where the joke is “look, it’s dudes in dresses.” Instead, writer/director Richard Day builds a world where the central idea is much simpler and more committed: these are women, period. The fact that they’re played by gay men in drag isn’t treated as a reveal or a punchline within the story—it’s just the film’s language. Unlike films such as Outrageous! (1977), The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (1994), or To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar (1995), there’s no switching between identities or reminding the audience of what’s “underneath.” The film asks you to accept its characters as women living their lives in this comedically exaggerated version of Los Angeles.

That commitment is what makes the performances feel especially authentic: Jack Plotnick as Evie Harris, a washed-up, alcoholic C-list actress (an obvious parody of the eternally kitsch Joey Heatherton); Clinton Leupp as the iconic Coco Peru, Evie’s loyal best friend and perpetually unlucky doormat; and Jeffery Roberson as Varla Simonds, a wide-eyed ingenue and the not-that-bright daughter of Evie’s late rival Marla Simonds. No one is playing this movie in a wink-wink way; they stay in character completely, and the film never pulls back the curtain. It creates a transgressive and delightful effect where drag stops being about switching genders and becomes about fully living in one exaggerated, heightened version of femininity. Once you settle into it, it actually feels pretty natural. You almost forget the actors’ truths.

But it’s that “almost,” I think, that makes it so impressive. You’re not meant to forget entirely, because the whole idea—the magic of drag, the power of gender play—depends on that awareness carrying through.

The film’s look and feel are very intentionally stylized: a present-day Los Angeles that somehow feels drenched in 60s/70s Hollywood glamour and soap-opera energy. Retro hairstyles, salty and sarcastic language, gaudy clothes, and over-the-top reactions fit right in, since everything already feels slightly surreal. That retro LA vibe gives the film its charm: flashy, yet dated (just like Evie), and totally committed to being larger-than-life. The result is a campy queer comedy where everything is dialled up, but nothing feels entirely out of step with the contemporary. The movie, like its leads, has simply been “dragged up.”

By casting gay men as women who are themselves performing exaggerated versions of femininity, the film creates layers of impersonation that constantly destabilize what is “authentic.” It’s a film about how everyone—queer or not—is performing roles to navigate desire, ambition, disappointment, selfishness, and social expectation. It’s the faded TV star who refuses to let go of her former celebrity (even when much of it was infamous behaviour and bad acting); it’s the bored, directionless housebound woman who lives in the memory of past love she may be seeing through rose-cloured glasses; and it’s the starlet who will, maybe, do anything to become famous, including commercials about TV dinners. It’s the artifice of Hollywood, baby.

The humour is loud and often absurd, but it carries a distinctly queer intelligence: it understands that camp is not frivolity but critique, and that exaggeration can reveal truths that realism often smooths over. And it’s another film full of quotable lines.

“Evie: I admit, my looks are starting to go. Coco: Starting to go? Evie, your looks are at home and in bed.”

“Varla: My mother always said, ‘Feelings are like treasures, so bury them.'”

This movie just cracks my husband and me up.

Touch of Pink (2004)

Touch of Pink, written and directed by Ian Iqbal Rashid, is a romantic comedy that explores very real tensions and (perceived?) pressures at the intersection of (homo)sexuality, cultural identity, and family expectations. At its core, the film explores the dissonance of living openly as a gay man in one sphere of life while deliberately concealing that same truth in another. Alim’s (Jimi Mistry) life in London, England is marked by freedom and self-definition. Still, that freedom collapses under the weight of his widowed mother’s expectations and the imagined gaze of a conservative muslim family structure. (Though perhaps they’re not as conservative/judgmental as Alim thinks).

The “lie” he maintains—hiding anything “gay” in his apartment and introducing his partner as a “friend” to his visiting mother—isn’t treated as a minor social inconvenience or played for comedy, but as a slow erosion of intimacy and integrity, both within the couple and in the mother–son relationship.

The film’s central tension lies in the unequal burden placed on relationships when one partner is fully out while the other is not.

Giles (Kristen Holden-Ried), Alim’s openly gay partner, is repeatedly asked to shrink himself, to play a role that denies the legitimacy of their relationship. This dynamic exposes a painful ethical imbalance: love becomes conditional on performance, and affection is filtered through Alim’s fear of being outed to his mother. The film underscores how secrecy doesn’t just hide a relationship, it fractures it, forcing one partner to become complicit in a narrative that erases their shared reality. And this may just lead to its destruction.

The cultural element is the primary source of anxiety for Alim, an only child facing pressure to marry—an expectation grounded in his Canadian family’s assumption that it will be to a woman. His Ismaili Muslim South Asian heritage, along with his mother’s more traditional values, complicates his ability to live openly within that world, particularly in relation to his sexuality, but also in navigating interracial and cross-cultural intimacy. This was a determining factor in Alim’s decision to leave Canada and live abroad, away from his family, in the first place. Factoring in that Giles is Caucasian, dating outside one’s culture and racial identity becomes further entangled with Alim’s fears of judgment and disapproval, as well as a perceived betrayal of familial expectations.

Ultimately, Touch of Pink critiques the emotional cost of asking a partner to participate in denial. Pretending a lover is merely a “friend” to preserve appearances is framed not as harmless diplomacy but as a deeply unfair demand that privileges family comfort over one’s truth. The film suggests that living truthfully is not just a form of personal liberation but an ethical necessity within relationships, because love that must be hidden or repeatedly disavowed in certain social circles risks becoming undervalued in private. This film asks a difficult question: What is the price of belonging to a family or culture if it requires the fragmentation of one’s most intimate bonds? And if Alim had the courage to speak his truth and live authentically, what might actually happen—beyond the fear of what he imagines will happen?

The most distinctive feature of this film, which is totally surreal, is Alim’s imaginary companion: Cary Grant (played to uncanny perfection by Kyle MacLachlan), who functions as a glamorous projection of Alim’s inner conflict. This old Hollywood persona becomes a way for Alim to externalize his anxiety around sexuality, cultural obligation, and his relationship with his mother.

Rashid’s choice of Cary Grant carries obvious symbolic weight. Here we have an icon of projected heterosexuality, both off-screen and on-screen, who has long been surrounded by speculation about his sexuality/queerness, making him an ideal vessel for Alim’s negotiations between identity and desire, and between public persona and private life. After all, the parallels are striking: Grant lived with actor Randolph Scott off and on for 12 years, and they were publicly known as “roommates” and close friends, mirroring how Alim presents Giles to his mother as “just a roommate and friend.”

[Richard Blackwell, then an actor at RKO, Jerome Zerbe, a photographer who took publicity shots of the men in their home, and Scotty Bowers, a Hollywood fixer, all claimed to have had sexual relationships with the pair. Blackwell wrote in his autobiography that Grant and Scott “were deeply, madly in love, their devotion was complete.” Grant’s biographer and friend Bill Royce also claimed that, in old age, Grant confided that he and Scott were bisexual, and that their relationship was the first time he’d ever been in love.]

Rather than offering stable guidance, this imagined mentor often gives Alim advice that’s contradictory or unhelpful, exposing how internalized homophobia and cultural shame can masquerade as “common sense” or socially acceptable caution. In this way, the Cary Grant figure is less a wise guide and more a dramatization of Alim’s split consciousness: one part seeking freedom and honesty, the other constrained by fear of rejection. At times, the fantasy feels like Alim trying to script a version of himself that can survive within conservative expectations: polished, charming, and non-threatening. Yet, it repeatedly fails when confronted with emotional reality.

Mistry is likable and endearing, though Alim’s whiny, “poor me” attitude can wear thin. Holden-Ried shines in his role; he’s charming, empathetic, accommodating, and (maybe too) understanding of Alim’s requests, until he begins to see a future marked by manufactured closetedness. I really love the film’s ending; it’s satisfying and heartfelt, showing that inauthenticity stifles freedom and that true love and romance are worth fighting for. Think like, if a Hallmark-style gay romance had real introspection and narrative depth—and could afford Kyle MacLachlan to co-star in it.

WEEKEND (2011)

Okay, I have a lot to unpack here. Not since John Greyson’s Lilies have I experienced a film that sent me down such a rabbit hole of existential queer introspection, especially around love and loss, and, unique to this film, the dynamics of gay male connection, casual sex, and the disposability and/or transferability (yes, that’s a real word) of intimate partners.

Writer/director Andrew Haigh’s Weekend is so much deeper and more complex than just a fleeting (doomed?) gay romance compressed into 48 hours; rather, it examines how gay and queer intimacy is navigated in contemporary spaces where casual sex, guarded emotions, and the longing for something more lasting coexist anxiously. At its core, the film explores the fragile pursuit of genuine connection within “gay culture,” where fleeting encounters are often the norm and the possibility of a profound relationship built on love and trust can feel both miraculous and seemingly unattainable.

The chemistry between the two leads is wholly authentic and unforced. Russell (Tom Cullen) is introverted and somewhat closed off; he seems used to a life in which desire is expressed briefly and then compartmentalized. Glen (Chris New) is more talkative and provocative, and appears initially to embody the archetype of the emotionally detached hook-up culture participant. Yet Haigh quickly complicates these assumptions. What unfolds over the weekend is not a straightforward transition from sex to love, but a gradual revelation that even within the framework of a casual encounter, something real and destabilizing can emerge where one wasn’t expecting it.

The film’s emotional power lies in its attention to how gay men navigate the tension between connection and disposability. In many gay/queer social contexts—especially urban nightlife scenes, as the film utilizes—sexual encounters can be plentiful but emotionally transient. Within this landscape, the desire for a meaningful connection doesn’t disappear; instead, it becomes complicated by expectation, for wanting more yet preparing for the worst. One learns to anticipate endings before beginnings have fully formed. Weekend captures this with remarkable precision: Russell and Glen are both aware, at least initially, that their time together is limited, but neither fully understands what that limitation will mean until it begins to hurt emotionally.

Glen, who’s been recording his sexual experiences as part of an artistic project, begins by treating Russell as just another subject: another voice, another story, another body. But Russell resists easy categorization. He’s quieter, more emotionally reserved, and less at ease with self-exposure. As Glen draws him into conversation, what develops isn’t simply physical attraction; Russell feels seen, not just desired, observed with interest and care. In turn, Glen becomes more than a provocateur; his bravado begins to thin, revealing insecurity, longing, deep hurt, and a kind of existential searching that mirrors Russell’s, though his is expressed in his own, muted way.

The “tragedy” of Weekend lies in its narrative design: the weekend must end. Glen is set to leave for America, and Russell must return to his lonely life in Nottingham. The film doesn’t construct artificial obstacles; it simply allows time to bring about the inevitable.

As Monday approaches, the question isn’t whether the connection was real—it absolutely is—but how to face the possibility of a deeper relationship when it emerges unexpectedly and is immediately curbed by circumstance.

Russell’s emotional arc, I feel, is particularly important here. At first, he’s resistant to naming what’s happening between him and Glen, as though naming the connection might render him vulnerable to disappointment. Glen begins as the more verbally self-aware character, more willing to theorize and/or articulate experience, but he, too, becomes affected by the intimacy they share. What emerges is a shared hesitation: a mutual recognition that what they’ve found is meaningful, coupled with the equally strong recognition that it has an end, whether either truly desires that or not.

Glen’s departure is inevitable, but it’s not emotionally clean. Both men resist closure in different ways. Glen suggests that what they’ve experienced is significant but transient; Russell, more openly emotional about what has transpired between them, struggles to reconcile the intensity of the weekend with the return to ordinary life and is less willing to see their connection as finite. The film refuses to resolve this tension with easy catharsis. Instead, it leaves us in the ambiguous space between connection and separation, where meaning is felt but not secured. It’s not HEA or HFN. Is it tragic? What is it?

This is where I’ve allowed myself the liberty to imagine a continuation of Russell and Glen’s story, in a very much “Choose Your Own Adventure” style. I’m giving in to a romantic reading of the film, to believe that what’s “real” will inevitably come back around, that if the bond is genuine enough, it will override circumstance, geography, and timing. Though Weekend neither confirms nor denies this possibility, I find myself drawn to that sense of hope. Look, Russell is hardly satisfied with his life in Nottingham; get a plane ticket and join Glen on an adventure, man. Take the time to see where this connection leads! 

Some might argue that whether or not Glen returns to Russell is beside the point that Haigh is making, that what matters, ultimately, is that something poignant and transformative has occurred in both of them. These gay men have each been altered by being truly seen and emotionally desired by another, beyond projection or physical passion. Well, I think both positions can hold true at the same time.

The reason I feel this strongly is that, in Haigh’s films, the avoidance of happy endings feels deliberate, even pessimistic. It gives audiences the impression that gay/queer intimacy is inherently fraught or doomed. It can reinforce the idea that LGBTQ+ stories must be tragic in some form to be “serious” or authentic. Haigh has often described his goal as telling gay stories “not defined by trauma, but by intimacy and connection.” He’s drawn to realism, wanting trauma in his films to inform the world, not dominate it, so that it should function as background texture rather than the entire plot. Okay, fine, but I still feel he engages in what I call “semantic sleight-of-hand.”

By rebranding sorrow and heartache as “realism,” Haigh seeks to distance his work from the “trauma trope” long connected to queer cinema. However, the audience is still experiencing pain, loss, and emotional distress, which is functionally the same in effect. Haigh’s framing of his films this way doesn’t mask the fact that the core conflicts are still rooted in suffering. It’s a rhetorical move, rather than a true break from trauma-centred storytelling. So I embrace a hopeful, if not entirely happy, ending.

In any case, Weekend remains a masterpiece, even with its open-ended, bittersweet finale.

God’s Own Country (2017)

God’s Own Country, written and directed by Francis Lee, is a quietly powerful film that explores isolation not just through landscape, but through identity.

Set in a remote rural environment on a Yorkshire sheep farm, the film underscores how being gay in such a place compounds loneliness; Johnny’s (Josh O’Connor) emotional repression feels inseparable from the expansive landscape surrounding him. His mother has long deserted them, his once hard-working father is paralyzed yet still asserting authority, and his Nan is loving but terse and, like her grandson, overburdened with responsibility. 

Johnny’s life is marked by routine, a lack of communication, and an inability to articulate his homosexuality beyond fleeting, impersonal sexual encounters. This isolation is not only geographic but deeply internal, shaped by a lack of emotional openness all around.

It’s never entirely clear whether the two elders already know that Johnny is gay and simply don’t talk about it, or if they’ve never really suspected anything until they see how he comes to interact with Gheorghe (Alec Secăreanu), with Johnny appearing lighter and, dare I say, happier. Up until the end of the film, Johnny’s “outness” feels ambiguous, though he never truly behaves as if his sexuality is tied to negative self-worth. He seems already acclimated to it. This isn’t a film about the struggle to accept one’s queerness; rather, it’s a story about learning to understand and embrace intimacy and connection on several levels.

Gheorghe’s arrival on the farm disrupts Johnny’s routine in profound ways. Johnny is rough, guarded, and often aggressive, especially in the way he initiates sex. When he tries this approach with Gheorghe, Gheorghe firmly resists but without quarrel, instead offering an alternative grounded in patience and touch rather than taking control. He introduces the possibility that sex can be tender, communicative, and emotionally driven. These moments become transformative, showing Johnny that intimacy between gay/queer men is not only achievable but deeply fulfilling when vulnerability replaces defensiveness and the assertion of dominance. Gheorghe’s quiet strength challenges Johnny not by force, but by example.

Importantly, Gheorghe’s sense of self-worth is shaped by his lived experiences as both a gay man and an immigrant, a Romanian migrant worker in a predominantly white area. Rather than internalizing shame or anger from a sense of dual otherness, he carries himself with a calm dignity, embracing both aspects of his identity. This self-assurance is most evident when he refuses to tolerate disrespect, particularly after Johnny’s lapse into old habits—having drunken sex with a stranger in a pub restroom—while Gheorghe is left alone to deal with bigotry from two locals, which he handles non-violently. Gheorghe doesn’t lash out at Johnny in violence; he responds with hurt and disgust, withdrawing to make it clear that he will not be treated as disposable. His boundaries reveal a deep understanding of his own worth.

Ultimately, the film gestures toward a longing for connection that goes beyond physical desire. Gheorghe seems to seek a monogamous, emotionally present relationship—something Johnny has never truly considered, having only expressed his sexuality through detached hook-ups. Through their evolving relationship, God’s Own Country becomes a meditation on what it means to let someone in, to dismantle emotional walls, and to recognize that genuine intimacy requires both courage and consideration. Johnny comes not just to understand, but to feel the consequences of his reckless actions, and that’s where the ultimate growth of his character comes in, when he seeks to rectify his f#ckup. Johnny does what I wish Russell would (will?) do in Weekend: go after love.

The ending is understated yet deeply moving, offering a clear sense of the status and future of Johnny and Gheorghe’s relationship, as well as how they will relate to Johnny’s father and Nan. Nothing is spoken in this scene; no words are needed to convey anything. The film comes full circle, as silence transforms from something that once separated people into a shared language of understanding, love, and connection.

Lastly, as a sort of “epilogue” to this three-part series, I want to give a shout-out to the films that, had I done a top 20 (and I almost did), would have absolutely made the list.
My Beautiful Laundrette (1985), directed by Stephen Frears
Edward II (1991), directed by Derek Jarman.
The Hanging Garden (1997), directed by Thom Fitzgerald.
Trick (1999), directed by Jim Fall.
All Over the Guy (2001), directed by Julie Davis.
FAQs (2005), directed by Everett Lewis.
Another Gay Movie (2006), directed by Todd Stephens.
Make the Yuletide Gay (2009), directed by Rob Williams.
Check them out! And I hope you enjoyed these 3 posts as much as I did making them!

My Favourite Gay Films: Part Two

“Queer cinema has always been about questioning the norms—of storytelling, of identity, of desire.” — Todd Haynes

WELCOME TO part two of my nostalgia-driven journey through my Top 12 favourite gay films! I hope you enjoyed Part One! Now, dive into four more unforgettable movies about the many layers of gay/queer relationships and experiences. Get ready for more heartfelt moments, powerful storytelling, and films that truly leave a lasting impact; they certainly did for me.

From stories of first love to explorations of identity, community, self-discovery, and even loss and betrayal, each film brings something unique to the table. Some are sensual, bold, and provocative, challenging social norms and expectations, others are comedic, intimate, and introspective, inviting viewers to step inside the characters’ hearts and heads. Yes, there’s a mix of tragedy with laughter, but nothing bleak; I don’t do bleak. Collectively, these films demonstrate the power of cinema to reveal the diversity of gay/queer experiences and the range of story possibilities, including our resilience.

Jeffrey (1995)

Jeffrey, directed by Christopher Ashley and adapted from the off‑Broadway play by playwright Paul Rudnick, is a romantic comedy that explores love, homosexual desire, fear, and self-discovery amid the AIDS crisis. The film follows Jeffrey, a witty and introspective gay man (played by Steven Weber) living in New York City, who becomes paralyzed not only by anxiety over his fear of contracting HIV, but also the difficulty in navigating sexual freedom with other gay/queer men who are also full of anxiety over contracting the virus.

Determined to protect himself emotionally and health-wise, he chooses to focus solely on his work as an actor (*cough* waiter), swearing off sex entirely. He navigates his friendships, social life, and the gay dating scene with sarcasm and a reactionary level of avoidance. The film blends comedy with heartfelt moments, using Jeffrey’s sharp observations and fears to highlight the complexity of “out of the closet” modern gay relationships.

Jeffrey’s resolve is challenged when he meets Steve (played by the hunky Michael T. Weiss), a charming, sexy, and confident man living with HIV who he’s immediately attracted to (and who can blame him?!). Despite his fears, Jeffery finds himself drawn to Steve, which forces him to confront the tension between his desire for intimacy, not just sex, and his fear of loss, even death. Along the way, Jeffrey seeks guidance and support from his closest friends: Sterling, a flamboyant interior designer with absolutely zero patience for bad taste (played to camptastic perfection by Sir Patrick Stewart) and his partner, Darius, a dancer in Cats who is HIV+ (played by Bryan Batt). They offer both witty commentary and emotional insight. Their interactions provide a window into the ways people, particularly friends and lovers, cope with vulnerability, grief, and hope, creating a balance between comedy and poignancy throughout the story.

The film stands out for its candid portrayal of gay life in the 1990s (which I lived through to the best—and worst—of my ability in my late teens and 20s) and for its endeavour to address serious topics through humour and warmth. Jeffrey’s journey is both deeply personal and widely relatable to many gay men of a certain age, illustrating how fear can shape our choices and how courage often emerges in moments of connection. Ultimately, Jeffrey celebrates resilience, love, and the human need to take risks despite uncertainty, if you truly want love, passion, and romance.

Seen through today’s LGBTQ+ eyes, some of the film’s humour could be seen as problematic. But as this film, like much of Rudnick’s humourist writing (especially in the 90s), was meant to be seen as irreverent, political, and tongue-in-cheek, but never malicious, I think we have to watch it with consideration for the era in which it was made. But you can decide this for yourself.

Now, I mentioned before that I quote a lot from To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar… well, I’d arguably say I quote from Jeffrey even more. This film is absolutely packed with clever witticisms, reads, and quips. Most come from Patrick Stewart (“The earring—fun… last year.”), but also from Sigourney Weaver’s character of Debra Moorhouse, the world’s hottest postmodern evangelist (“Why was there a Hitler? — Why are these acrylic?!”). I wholeheartedly, unapologetically adore this film, even with its occasionally dated humour. This is my 20s.

Beautiful Thing (1996)

Beautiful Thing, directed by Hettie Macdonald and adapted from Jonathan Harvey’s play, is one of the most thoughtful, heartfelt, and authentic portrayals of adolescent closeted gay teens I’ve ever seen on film. For me, this film is far more satisfying than another 90s British film with a similar theme, Get Real (1998). Although the ending is believable, I found it less gratifying than that of Beautiful Thing. And while Get Real is enjoyable overall, it feels more like a “produced” teen drama and ultimately, for me, it resonates less authentically than Macdonald’s film.

Despite the movie’s very specific cultural, economic, and geographic setting—closely tied to its characters’ lives—Beautiful Thing remains deeply relatable on many levels. It’s a story of adolescence, vulnerability, and self-discovery, both sexual and emotional, that resonates far beyond the South London council estate where it takes place.

Until the end scene of the film, our two gay protagonists’ sexuality is never openly declared to their classmates, yet the social environment around them has already marked one of them as “different.” I’ve been there; many of us have. The film carefully captures how schoolyard cruelty often operates on suspicion rather than fact. Jamie (played with sweetness and vulnerability by Glen Berry), possesses a gentle temperament, shyness, and visible discomfort with masculine norms—especially his dislike of football (I get that!)—that make him an easy target for bullying. In this way, the story reveals how homophobia can function even before sexuality is explicitly named. The trope of self-actualization and, eventually, acceptance appears across many genres, from cinema to queer fiction to poetry. Here, however, the narrative is rendered with a particular emotional precision: understated when it needs to be and deeply felt when it matters most.

Naturally, Jamie’s concealed homosexuality becomes central to the emotional texture of the film.  He exists in a space of quiet observation and guarded longing, even desire. And that, too, feels important, as it’s entirely normal and healthy for gay/queer youth to experience attraction or lust, regardless of whether they act on it. The presence of desire does not require action in order to be valid; it simply affirms the reality of human feeling. The whole, “How do you know you’re whatever if you’ve never had sex with blah blah” interrogating statement. Well, even in youth, when feelings are still emerging, the heart and mind seem to intrinsically know what they desire, and they inform you whether you’re ready to deal with these new sensations or not—or fully understand them.

Importantly, nothing in the film is overtly sexualized. Instead, affection unfolds through glances, brief touches, and quiet words spoken in moments of spatial safety. Jamie’s introverted nature contrasts sharply with the loud, performative masculinity expected by his peers, reinforcing how deviation from gender norms can provoke hostility. Yet the film refuses to define Jamie solely through being a victim, a target.

His growing relationship with Ste (portrayed with equal emotional adeptness by Scott Neal) transforms secrecy into intimacy. The boys’ nighttime conversations and hesitant gestures of affection become small acts of resistance and comfort against the hostility waiting outside the flat. When Ste comes to stay with Jamie in order to escape a violent home environment, the emotional closeness between them—and the desire both boys struggle to keep at arm’s length—becomes especially palpable.

Aside from the film’s conclusion, it is these quiet moments in Jamie’s bedroom that most strongly connect the viewer with the story’s emotional core. In this context, coming out is less about public declaration than about finding someone with whom one can safely exist. That shared solitude becomes, quite literally, a beautiful thing (pun intended).

What ultimately makes Beautiful Thing effective both as entertainment and as an exploration of human connection—shaped by the added dimension of queerness—is its insistence on warmth, joy, and hope within a narrative that could easily have been framed as tragedy. Bullying could lead to violence, to self-hatred, or to something worse. Instead, the film situates Jamie’s sexuality within a small but meaningful network of support, particularly through the compassionate presence of his mother (Linda Henry) and her on-again, off-again boyfriend (the always amazing Ben Daniels). This allows the coming-out arc to culminate in affirmation rather than punishment.

By foregrounding Jamie’s softness, kindness, and emotional openness, the film quietly challenges the rigid masculinity that fuels the bullying he experiences. Rather than portraying homosexuality as a problem to be solved, Beautiful Thing celebrates the fragile, exhilarating moment when a young person realizes that being different can still lead to acceptance and love. The two, the film gently reminds us, are not mutually exclusive. And with the inclusion of music from legend Mama Cass Elliot, we are reminded that we can “make our own kind of music.”

Lilies (1996)

Lilies, directed by John Greyson, adapted from Michel Marc Bouchard’s play of the same name, is a strikingly layered work that blends theatricality, memory, profound love, and devastating loss into something that feels both intimate and fantastical. This film is less a straightforward narrative than a premeditated act of long-overdue confrontation, one in which revenge is neither explosive nor sudden but slow, deliberate, and deeply entwined with grief.

When I saw this film in the theatre (the first time), I was blown away by its quiet intensity. I own several copies of this film, each with a different cover, and even though I know it like the back of my hand, I’m still emotionally struck by its beauty, poignancy, and tragedy every time I watch it. And no, this isn’t your standard gay love story that, of course, ends in tragedy. This is a masterfully written story about gay/queer love, betrayal, and revenge. This is a thriller, wrapped in a period melodrama, inside a doomed gay romance. Layers and layers.

Set in a Quebec prison in 1952, Lilies follows Bishop Jean Bilodeau (Marcel Sabourin), who is summoned to hear the confession of the dying inmate Simon Doucet (Aubert Pallascio), only to discover that Doucet has orchestrated a play—performed by fellow prisoners—revisiting their shared past in 1912 as childhood friends. This framing device immediately signals that what unfolds is not just storytelling, but a carefully orchestrated moral indictment. Revenge here becomes not merely performative, but almost ritualistic, definitely judicial, as the past is resurrected not merely to accuse, but to force recognition and confession.

The play recreates the love story between Simon and Vallier (played by Jason Cadieux and Danny Gilmore), which lies at the emotional center of the film. Their relationship is not framed as transgressive in itself, but rather as something pure that is soon violently distorted and assailed by external forces, chief among them is religious authority and internalized shame (though sweet Vallier feels none of this). The tragedy is not simply that they are in love, but that their love exists in a world that simply won’t accommodate it.

This is where jealousy and repression intertwine most powerfully, particularly in Bilodeau’s character (his younger self played by Matthew Ferguson, who is also in Love and Human Remains). His envy is not seen as romantic pining but existential suffering; it reflects a self-denial so profound that it mutates into treachery. The film suggests that the greatest violence comes not from desire, but from the refusal to acknowledge it (let alone embrace it) and from jealousy of those who do.

Religious interference operates as both a thematic and structural force in the film. The Church isn’t portrayed as overtly monstrous, but rather as insidiously restrictive, shaping the characters’ understanding of themselves in ways that lead to ruin. Bilodeau’s eventual complicity in the central tragedy of the film (there’s more than one) is inseparable from his inability to reconcile his faith with his homosexual desires, ones directed toward Simon.

This tension gives the film its emotional weight: the idea that self-denial, when enforced by rigid moral systems, can lead to irreversible harm. The revenge enacted by Doucett, through the medium of the play, makes this plot more than just his need for remembrance and Bilodeau’s admission of guilt—it’s ideological, exposing the devastation wrought by institutionalized repression and suppression.

The film’s use of gender performance deepens its exploration of identity and illusion. Because the story is staged within a men’s prison, female roles are played by male inmates, creating a deliberate blurring of gender boundaries. This isn’t played for novelty, but instead becomes paramount to the film’s aesthetic and thematic look and feel. Gender, like memory, can be fluid and constructed, shaped by context and performance. The result is a kind of heightened reality, a true contemporary fantasy, where emotional truth takes precedence over literal realism.

Brent Carver as Countess de Tilly and Alexander Chapman as Lydie-Anne deliver standout performances. They approach their roles with precision and absolute conviction, and because they don’t rely on exaggerated femininity, their portrayals never feel like drag or parody, you simply believe in the characters’ authenticity. They inhabit these women’s lives so fully that their performances feel completely real.

Finally, the film’s movement between past and present gives it a strong sense that time—and guilt—don’t really move in a straight line, as I noted above. The prison keeps us grounded in the present (1952), but the play keeps pulling us back to 1912, blurring the line between what’s happening now and what happened then. It becomes clear that the past, particularly when dealing with true love lost and lingering trauma, is never truly behind us; it sticks around, unresolved, refusing to be ignored. By the time the performance reaches its climax, the boundaries between actor and character, past and present, have basically fallen away. What’s left is a powerful reflection on love, betrayal, and the cost of denying who you are.

Edge of Seventeen (1999)

Edge of Seventeen is directed by David Moreton and written by Moreton and Todd Stephens (based on Stephens’ own experiences as a gay teenager in Sandusky, Ohio, in the ‘80s). I saw this film at the 1999 Toronto Inside Out Festival with my then-boyfriend, now-husband, and a couple of gay university friends (shout out to Mark and Adam!). My ex-boyfriend also happened to be there and sat right behind us—awkward. Anyway…

This was the movie I was most eager to see because it resonated with many of my experiences as a closeted (not that successfully) gay alterna-teen in the ’80s. Watching this film for the first time as a gay man who’d been out for years felt bittersweet, nostalgic for both the good and the bad, and warm all at once. I have a real love/hate relationship with the 1980s. On one hand, I’m nostalgic for the music and culture, but on the other, it was a difficult time to grow up knowing I was gay. The bullying, for one. There’s a scene in the film, during a house party, that hits very close to home.

Edge of Seventeen follows a year in the life of 17-year-old Eric (Chris Stafford—great hair!) as he begins to accept being gay. It starts with a summer fling with a co-worker at the amusement park they work at, named Rod (Andersen Gabrych), a college dude a couple of years older, who sports the classic Kurt Marshall 80s bleach-blonde hair. Eric’s exploration of his identity continues from summer through the school year with casual sexual encounters once he discovers the local gay bar and begins to embrace his sexuality. There, he finds a chosen family, led by his former boss at the park, an older lesbian named Angie (Lea DeLaria, who is FABULOUS). She becomes a mentor figure, offering guidance and experience while reminding Eric that there are no easy answers or straightforward paths to being gay/queer.

What the film does really well is capture the messy reality of “coming out” to family and friends, but especially to your parent(s). That said, I have to admit something: I never actually “came out.” I just decided to start living authentically, and if people got it, great. The whole melodrama of the coming out experience is lost on me. Plus, my parents didn’t care. I pretty much always did what I wanted, anyway. My parents did have two rules regarding my teenage self-expression. I couldn’t dye my hair black because my mom was worried I would look too pale and people would think she wasn’t taking care of me. However, she was perfectly fine with my hair being stark white-blonde or the darkest brown, which made no sense. I also wasn’t allowed to have a mohawk. Of course, I inevitably broke both rules. (I need a wicked grin emoji here!) Love ya, mom!

Okay, I’m getting off-track here…

In the film, Eric’s gay experiences are neither idealized nor unrealistic. The mix of excitement and fear, desire and panic, along with the pangs of eventual rejection, all feel deeply recognizable. His moments of intimacy, both emotional and physical, are depicted with a genuine honesty that doesn’t shy away from the awkwardness and uncertainty of teens exploring themselves and the world around them.

Where this movie differs from one like Beautiful Thing is that it has moved past the innocence part of recognizing and coming to terms with one’s sexuality. Eric is already there, and he thinks he’s ready for more adult queer experiences. It’s refreshing to see a gay teen’s desire, mistakes, and self-expression treated with the same depth and nuance as the many 80s and 90s teen films (and TV shows) centred on heterosexual characters. John Hughes, I’m speaking of you.

The 1980s setting isn’t used as gimmicky window dressing; it amplifies every aspect of Eric’s story. His gradual transformation from a more conventional teen to a flashy New Wave rebel is a visual and thematic delight. His spikey hair, edgy clothing, and small acts of defiance are more than just style; they’re Eric’s way of carving out space for himself in a world that insists on conformity. I felt a thrill watching him assert his individuality through fashion and music, and how these elements, in some way, help him embrace his (homo)sexuality. This really resonates with me. The film perfectly captures the tension between suburban pressures to “blend in” (as Eric does at the beginning of the summer) and the desire to be yourself. I was a goth-punk teen, though one time this guy had the audacity to tell me who I was, that I was “more New Wave.” Ya, sure, you understand alternative style in your brown penny loafers and Lacoste shirt. Get bent.

For me, Edge of Seventeen delivers a profound sense of catharsis with each viewing. This isn’t a story that wraps up neatly with perfection, but it celebrates the small victories: self-acceptance, the courage to be seen, and the tentative steps toward a future where Eric can truly live as himself. As a gay man, seeing a character so unapologetically explore his sexuality and individuality as a teenager in the 1980s was thrilling. This is so much more than just a coming out/coming-of-age film; it’s Stephens’ love letter to the messy, thrilling, sometimes painful experience of growing up gay.

Coming Soon… Part Three!

My Favourite Gay Films: Part One

“Art should give pleasure, and pleasure is often radical. For gay cinema, that pleasure can be a declaration of existence.” — Derek Jarman

REWATCHING God’s Own Country the other night reminded me that certain gay/queer films just stay with me over the years. It’s one of those movies I can return to again and again—and have, many times—and still feel the same emotional connection I did the first time I saw it. Sometimes the feeling is even stronger on a rewatch, either because I notice something I missed before, or because a particular moment in the film, or a line of dialogue resonates differently this time around—more powerful. I often find that I connect with a film more profoundly during the second viewing, especially if I’m alone.

Why one film over another, though? Well, there’s obviously something about a film’s atmosphere, the intimacy, and the way the relationships unfold that makes it endlessly rewatchable for me. Every viewing draws me back into its dynamic world. Finishing God’s Own Country again this time made me realize just how many films like that I’ve collected over the years, movies that feel familiar and comforting, yet still emotionally resonant each time I rewatch them.

That’s what got me thinking about putting together a personal TOP 12 list of my favourite gay/queer films. I tried for 10, but I could have done 20. So 12 it is. Oh, and I’m dividing these blog articles into three sets of four because, let’s be honest, if I didn’t, you’d be reading for ages with my loquaciousness. I’m focusing specifically on narrative films—mostly dramas or the occasional comedy—so no documentaries (like 1995’s The Celluloid Closet; excellent—highly recommend) and no horror. Horror, including erotic thrillers, really deserves its own category, and it’s a long list. I absolutely love dark, queer films like Dracula’s Daughter (1936), The Hunger (1983), and Hellbent (2004), arguably the first overt “gay slasher.” They are just a few examples of the many entries in the genre that I own, have a heart-on for, and have watched many times.

Now, I’m not claiming these are the “best gay films of all time,” not in any objective sense. These are simply my favourites, the ones that have stuck with me over the years, even decades for some. These are movies I can throw on at any time and instantly fall back into; cinematic “comfort food,” you could say.

Now I realize that these films are primarily about gay/queer men, but they were the ones I sought out as I grew into my own sense of “gay identity” over the decades, and that connection still resonates strongly with me. At the time, seeing even small reflections and aspects of myself on screen, even when exaggerated, felt meaningful and powerful. They became more than just entertainment; they offered a sense of recognition and helped me understand myself a little better through the stories and characters I encountered. It was really through horror films that I began to learn about the nuances of sexuality, including lesbianism, bisexuality, and fluidity. I will showcase more of those films in the horror entry I mentioned earlier, which I promise I will get to one day. Halloween, perhaps?

So, in year of release, here’s part one of my Top 12. Let’s go!

Maurice (1987)

Maurice is a British romantic drama directed by James Ivory, adapted from the acclaimed 1971 novel by E. M. Forster. Starring James Wilby as Maurice, Hugh Grant as Clive, and Rupert Graves as Alec, the film paints a poignant portrait of forbidden love in Edwardian England. Against a backdrop of social rigidity and hidden desire, Maurice Hall struggles to reconcile his heart with a world that refuses to accept his full, authentic self. From the intellectual halls of university to the private turbulence of forbidden romance, he experiences passion, heartbreak, and self-discovery.

This is also one of the first films I saw depicting full-frontal male nudity, which definitely added a flush of desire and fascination in a reticent gay teenager. (I’m talking about myself if that’s not clear. Oh, it is? Nevermind.)

This film is a remarkable exploration of loving authentically in a time when being gay was not only taboo but illegal. It delves deeply into themes of repression and self-denial, especially through the character of Clive. His struggle with his sexuality in light of the times and his ultimate choice to conform to an inauthentic heterosexual life starkly contrasts with Maurice’s courage to embrace his homosexual desires. The cinematography is breathtaking, complemented by exquisite period costumes that make Edwardian England feel vividly alive. The sensual chemistry between James Wilby and both Hugh Grant and Rupert Graves is electric, particularly with Graves, creating moments of intimacy that feel both seductive and tender.

Perhaps most importantly, the film’s positive ending offers a sense of hope—that two men from different social classes could find love and a life together, even if made to be lived quietly, in a society that would never openly accept them.

Longtime Companion (1989)

Longtime Companion is a romantic drama directed by Norman René and starring Bruce Davison, Campbell Scott, Dermot Mulroney, Patrick Cassidy, and Mary-Louise Parker. It was the first widely released theatrical film to address the AIDS crisis. The title comes from a euphemism used by The New York Times in the 1980s for the surviving same-sex partner of someone who had died from AIDS.

The film follows the early years of the AIDS epidemic through the lives of a group of urban gay men and the straight friend (Parker) of one of them. Presented in chronological segments marked by dates, the film beautifully and realistically—even when it hits hard—illustrates, without melodrama or caricature, how the disease transforms relationships, challenges the gay/queer community, and leaves a lasting impact on the lives of the survivors, particularly the lovers, partners, friends, and found family who cared for their ailing loved ones.

Even though I watched Parting Glances (1986) first, another movie revolving around gay relationships with an AIDS storyline, Longtime Companion is the one that stuck with me. The cast is amazing and memorable, especially Davison, Scott, and Mulroney, and I love how it presents a wide spectrum of gay relationships, not solely casual, sex-based ones, but also romantic, monogamous, and platonic ones. The film features a wide array of believable gay/queer characters, and no performance feels forced or clichéd. The ending, especially, is beautiful, even in the face of incredible loss and grief. It shows that remembering those who have impacted our lives is both a gift and a powerful responsibility, as is educating ourselves about AIDS. Longtime Companion is a movie about love, not judgment, and about gay/queer men who felt finally free to live authentically, even as disease impacted their lives.

Love and Human Remains (1993)

Love and Human Remains, a Canadian film directed by Denys Arcand and adapted from Brad Fraser’s stage play Unidentified Human Remains and the True Nature of Love, could be categorized as a thriller due to its serial-killer subplot. However, the film’s real power lies in its unflinching exploration of queer urban life in the early 1990s. The film follows David, a single, young gay man (who is an actor/waiter), as he navigates the “gay scene” while contending with emotional detachment and the superficiality of urban connections.

The film foregrounds gay/queer sexuality unapologetically, portraying desire, intimacy, and vulnerability in ways that were still rare for mainstream cinema at the time. This is unsurprising as both Fraser (an outspoken gay man) and Arcand are known for pushing the boundaries of sexual and social conservativeness. This candid representation is central to the film: the queer characters—including David’s “heterosexual” female roommate, who experiments sexually with a lesbian—aren’t side notes or moral lessons; they’re fully fleshed individuals negotiating love and desire, aware of the uncertainty of the future and compelled to live fully in the moment, as the young tend to do, anyways.

Beneath the thriller veneer, Arcand’s film scrutinizes the social walls that gay men construct around themselves. The urban setting of Edmonton, Alberta (though I assumed for years it was Vancouver, as the city is never explicitly named) amplifies a sense of isolation. Apartments, gay clubs, and streets feel simultaneously populated and lonely, reflecting how connections exist but require effort and are often blocked by fear and mistrust. The presence of AIDS is also felt, though largely compartmentalized or denied, especially by David. This invisible threat runs parallel to the active serial killer, with both capable of striking indiscriminately—though the killer primarily targets women—heightening the film’s tension and underscoring the fragility of life and connection.

David’s interactions often feel performative, though not predatory, emphasizing a landscape of emotional detachment where true intimacy over escapist pleasure is scarce. While his friend and fuck-buddy Sal, a man his own age, shows interest, David’s pursuit of Kane, a younger, inexperienced guy, speaks volumes, though no moralistic judgments are made about this. Is Sal, a party-goer, less appealing now, riskier? Does David see Kane as intrinsically safer, even purer?

By juxtaposing intimacy with ennui and desire with fear, the film exposes the loneliness and anxiety beneath the vibrancy of urban gay culture. It challenges the audience to look past the thriller genre elements to the subtler commentary on human connection. The serial killings and suspenseful moments certainly heighten tension, but perhaps they function more as narrative devices that underscore the stakes of isolation as opposed to providing just a conventional erotic whodunit. At its core, the film (and the play it’s based on) is about the difficulty of finding genuine intimacy in a world where desire is expressed but emotional self-protection is utilized as a survival tool.

Oh, so my fave lines from the movie?

“So… Candy tells me you’re a lesbian. – David

That’s right. – Jerri

I’m queer myself. – David

I know. [CHUCKLES] – Jerri

Well, we seem to have exhausted that particular topic. -David”

This is a really great Canadian film that doesn’t get its flowers nearly enough. Plus, it plays Snap’s “Rhythm is a Dancer” in the beginning, at the club. I mean…! How more gay club scene 90s can you get?

To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar (1995)

One could say that To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar brought the art of drag into mainstream cinema (along with 1994’s Priscilla, Queen of the Desert). The film, directed by Beeban Kidron and written by Douglas Carter Beane, follows three drag queens—Vida Boheme (Patrick Swayze), Noxeema Jackson (Wesley Snipes), and Chi-Chi Rodriguez (John Leguizamo)—as they journey through small-town America, spreading glamour and wit wherever they go. The movie foregrounds drag as not just entertainment but a deeply expressive form of identity, allowing its protagonists to negotiate their gender and sexuality in a world that too often misunderstands and demeans them.

Yes, it’s unrealistic for gay men to stay in drag THAT LONG (as many of my friends back when this came out ranted on about ad nauseam), but it’s a mainstream comedy, and we’re meant to connect more with the “entertaining” drag personas than with the men out of drag. One of my favourite elements of the film is the moments when one personality bleeds into the other, as when Vida asserts her manliness when dealing with two male antagonists, or when she loses her wig and the man underneath is exposed. That’s where the humour and the humanity of the film truly lie, IMHO.

The film’s costumes and makeup, along with the actors’ exaggerated gestures, emphasize that drag is both art and armour, a way of presenting many different sides of oneself to the world while simultaneously separating (maybe even protecting) one’s personal life, outside of drag. Humour is used as a fabulous flourish and a weapon. Though all the lead actors are straight men, they never performed their roles with a mocking or degrading tone. 

Building on this train of thought, beneath the glitter and humour, the film explores secrecy and performance as mechanisms of self-preservation. In navigating a largely conservative environment on their journey to Hollywood, including dealing with a racist, sexually-assaulting Sheriff out to get them, the characters constantly balance authenticity with concealment, highlighting the tension many LGBTQ+ individuals experience between personal truth and social safety; lamentably, something we still have to do this day.

This duality underscores the performative nature of gender itself, suggesting that all people, drag queens and non-queens alike, engage in varying levels of daily performance to navigate society. The film’s comedic tone softens this serious theme, showing that the act of performing can be both joyous and strategic, a shield against prejudice while also a means of self-expression. This is an American comedy, after all, not a Derek Jarman film. Don’t look for too much depth.

Equally central is the film’s exploration of friendship across lines of age, ethnicity, and gender. The bonds formed among the three drag queens are strengthened by shared experience, mutual respect, shade as humour, dependability, and vulnerability. At the same time, their interactions with the townspeople of Snydersville, particularly the women, demonstrate the possibility of deep alliances beyond the LGBTQ+ community—what we call “allyship.”

By emphasizing empathy, solidarity, and respect for our differences, even in some instances, appreciation, the film celebrates chosen families and cross-cultural/social connections, portraying friendships as spaces of affirmation and safety where differences in experience and identity are met with understanding rather than judgment. In this way, To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar not only elevates drag as an art form but also as a vehicle for emotional connection and social transformation for all forms of gender expression and sexual orientations.

And on a purely superficial, entertainment level, this movie is funny as hell. My husband and I—well, mostly me—quote from this film daily. “Oh, what in gay hell?” “I’m a comin’. I’m a getcha!” “Gurl, did you just do a uey?!” “Your mother… Thank you.” “Ohhh, the seats are like buttuh.” “Why, her daddy used to call her ‘baby ugly.'” 

Okay… I’ll stop!

Coming Soon… Part Two!

Book Review: Under the Covered Bridge by Nicholas Young

“I stared out the window, watching the shadowy patterns of the rain-soaked beams pass by. This bridge had always felt like a portal, a passage to somewhere else, a place where the world might change, where I might emerge as someone different.” – Nicholas Young, Under the Covered Bridge

WRITTEN IN a beautifully stylized, almost lyrical prose, Nicholas Young’s debut novel, Under the Covered Bridge, feels deeply personal yet widely resonant: a queer coming-of-age story rooted in grief, language, and the fragile architecture of family and community, all from a Canadian perspective.

What struck me first was the emotional authenticity of the queer narrative. I know that sounds like “flowery verbiage,” but let me explain. This isn’t a story that dramatizes “coming out” for spectacle. Instead, it unfolds in quiet realizations, painful missteps, longing glances, and self-reflection. Kaveh Hartwell’s queerness feels genuine not because it’s loudly declared, but because it’s complex, and yes, complicated. It exists alongside fear, love, resentment, and confusion; it’s typical of many gay/queer origin stories.

Young understands that the path to self-recognition and self-acceptance is rarely a singular, triumphant moment of clarity; it’s a process that reverberates through every relationship you have, beginning with yourself, which intrinsically extends to the family you share space with. And one’s family can be transformed in appearance in a flash, as Kaveh learns at a young age.

The novel’s handling of parental loss adds another layer of gravity. Grief isn’t treated as decorative backstory; it shapes identity, as trauma often does, for better and worse. Losing parents while still trying to figure out who you are intensifies everything, and Young captures that with remarkable emotional intelligence. And I do not use that term lightly. The ache of wanting guidance and tangible love from people who are no longer there, contrasted with those who have taken their place, especially when they are cold and unwelcoming, feels painfully real. There is a subtle but persistent sense of standing slightly outside the social circle of compliance, expectation, and conformity, even within one’s own home. All of this shapes Kaveh’s relationship to masculinity and femininity, vulnerability, and belonging. Sadly, sometimes queer individuals must be performative to fit in, even survive.

Along with the beautifully lyrical prose, which adds an element of sophistication to the narrative’s autobiographical tone, the interweaving of Québécois French throughout the novel feels organic. It isn’t inserted as an aesthetic flourish; it carries emotional weight. The bilingual texture reinforces the book’s larger meditation on dual identity, and not just queer identity, but cultural identity. The movement between English and French mirrors the protagonist’s own negotiation between different selves.

As a Canadian writer myself, I felt a particular kinship with this element. With my thriller work, I’ve woven Québécois language into the narrative to reflect Canada’s duality, that ongoing dialogue between English and French. Language in our country is never neutral; it signals history, power, intimacy, and sometimes exclusion. Young understands this. His use of French underscores the authenticity of the setting while also symbolizing the layered nature of identity itself. You may say I’m reading too much into this aspect, but I can only speak on how it affected me.

The rural backdrop amplifies the emotional stakes. There’s always that certain quality about small communities: their intimacy, their history, their resistance to change and that which is different. It definitely intensifies a queer coming-of-age story. The “covered bridge” becomes an apt symbol of transformation: a sheltered crossing point, a transitional space between concealment and revelation. It’s where secrecy and self-discovery coexist. The metaphor never feels heavy-handed, even when a violent scene of homophobia unfolds there. Young renders this moment with visceral honesty and exquisite precision, preserving its emotional impact without softening the horror of such violence and hatred. To prepare readers, Young includes a sensitivity warning at the start of the novel.

What I appreciated most is that the novel doesn’t tidy everything up when it comes to understanding one’s authentic self. There is growth, yes, but identity isn’t presented here as a puzzle to be solved; it’s something continually assembled. That choice gives the gay/queer story credibility. It feels authentic to lived experience, where resolution more often than not arrives in increments rather than epiphanies. Kaveh isn’t broken or fragmented. He’s doing the deeply human work of understanding his full, authentic self, both the totality of who he is and the experiences that shape him.

Emotionally, the book is tender without being sentimental. Intellectually, it invites reflection on how language, grief, sexuality, and geography intersect. Personally, I found myself thinking about my own negotiations as a gay youth and man, a queer person, as a writer, as a Canadian navigating dual cultural landscapes.

Under the Covered Bridge succeeds because it trusts readers will appreciate quiet moments alongside passionate revelations and experiences. And above all, it honours the authenticity of becoming true to who you are and not just accepting it, but loving it. It’s about realizing you were never broken to begin with. Wholeness isn’t something newly constructed; it’s something gradually recognized. That recognition is a process, and, like any self-discovery, it inevitably encounters roadblocks, both internal and situational.

Young delivers a tale that is at once beautiful and uncomfortable, a journey of discovering oneself. The novel recognizes that queer love can be transformative without pretending it erases trauma or grief. The romantic elements feel honest, sensual, and, at times, messy, rather than idealized. Young, as any smart writer should, allows his characters, like Kaveh, Niall, and Chloe, to be flawed and uncertain. This realism makes their moments of love, friendship, and connection all the more poignant. There’s a quiet ache in the novel, a sense of standing at the edge of gatherings, of translating oneself constantly, a navigation of the path between fear and courage, resentment and forgiveness. A triumphant debut, Nicholas.

Under the Covered Bridge is available for purchase online at amazon.caamazon.comIndigo, and Barnes & Noble.

For more information about Nicholas Young, visit his website and follow him on Instagram, Facebook, and Bluesky.

Beneath the Quiet: The Allure of Dark Fiction in Canada

“…if you fish for the glory you catch the darkness too… when you hook twice the glory you hook twice the fear.” — Sheila Watson

CANADA IS often portrayed as friendly, relaxed, and picturesque, but readers here have a long-standing love for fiction that dives into shadows, secrets, and emotional complexity. The stark bleakness of cold, modern cities, with their sterile glass-and-concrete towers, can be powerfully atmospheric. But there’s something about the vast landscapes, long winters, and quiet expanses that invites darker storytelling, ones that explore what happens beneath the surface of ordinary lives.

It’s no surprise, then, that dark fiction resonates so deeply with Canadian readers; it’s precisely this atmosphere that I aim to capture in my work. While I write predominantly within the thriller genre, my forays into other genres, such as gay paranormal romance and horror, are equally shaped by this aesthetic, and are better for it.

Part of this connection comes from geography itself. Much of Canada is shaped by isolation: remote towns, endless forests, cold seasons that push people indoors, and stretches of silence that feel both peaceful and unsettling. These environments naturally fuel introspection and set the stage for narratives in which physical space mirrors psychological tension. I often lean into this, using landscapes not just as backgrounds but as emotional amplifiers. In my stories, a dimly-lit office in a monstrous skyscraper or a lonely road by a cornfield at sunrise can evoke the same unease as a hidden motive or a buried secret.

Do Canadian readers embrace moral ambiguity more readily than readers of traditional hero-driven narratives? Interesting to ponder. There’s definitely an appreciation here for characters who are flawed, conflicted, or caught in situations where right and wrong blur together. I strive for depth. My characters tend to resist neat categories, even as I’m drawn to complex, even conflicting labels. Chaos is creativity? It definitely can be. Because of that, I feel they transform from two-dimensional creations into real, complex characters whose choices make sense, even when unsettling. Oh, and those times that they don’t make sense? Maddening in the best way. This emotional authenticity reflects the Canadian preference for nuance over spectacle, for character over caricature.

That preference is rooted in the country’s literary tradition. Canadian storytelling has long gravitated toward introspection, subtle tension, and emotional realism, qualities found in the works of authors such as Farley Mowat, Margaret Atwood, Ann-Marie MacDonald, Michael Rowe, Marcus Hawke, Adam Pottle, and Sinclair Ross, among many others.

I hope that my fiction sits comfortably within that lineage, blending suspense with the kind of emotional depth that makes readers feel not just intrigued, but implicated. And that the darkness in my writing never feels gratuitous; it grows from the fractures in relationships, the quiet disappointments, the unspoken pressures and betrayals that shape people, some more than they realize.

For many Canadian readers, dark fiction is not defined by shock or violence, though those elements shape its tone. It’s about exploring human vulnerability in a safe, reflective way. Themes like isolation, guilt, fear, pursuit, and identity resonate because they reflect lived experiences, especially in a country where solitude—literal or emotional—is part of everyday life. I don’t shy away from these truths. I want my stories to linger on the emotional cost of events, not just the events themselves, and that honesty deepens their impact.

As Canada’s thriller and suspense scene continues to flourish, I wish to play a role in defining its voice. My combination of atmosphere, moral complexity, and psychological insight makes my work in this genre uniquely Canadian, yet universally gripping. My goal is to capture the kind of darkness that doesn’t overwhelm but illuminates, a darkness that maybe helps readers understand themselves more clearly.

Dark fiction resonates in Canada because it echoes the country’s landscape, culture, and emotional rhythms. I seek to tap into that resonance, offering stories that feel intimate, chilling, and deeply human. And also queer, I cannot overlook that aspect. Unapologetically so. Some of my books more than others, but it’s always present. I write dark Canadian fiction shaped by queer emotional realities, like my own.

For LGBTQ+ people, isolation has never been merely geographic. It has been social, emotional, and at times internal, a negotiation between safety and visibility, belonging and self-preservation. In that sense, the Canadian landscape becomes more than a backdrop; it mirrors the experience of inhabiting vast, quiet spaces that are often not built with you in mind.

It’s the kind of darkness that doesn’t just entertain.

It lingers.

Book Review: Winterset Hollow by Jonathan Edward Durham

“The good, the bad … the generous, the cruel … the hermit, the teetotaler … the black, the white, and the endless gray in between. You know, it’s been said that you should never meet your heroes, but I say better to know whom you place on that pedestal, don’t you agree?” – Jonathan Edward Durham, Winterset Hollow

WITH HIS debut work, Winterset Hollow, Jonathan Edward Durham crafts a novel that initially appears to be a whimsical homage to children’s fantasy literature but gradually reveals itself as something far darker and more politically incisive. Beneath its pastoral imagery and storybook charm lies a brutal allegory, one that confronts not only animal rights but also colonialism, cultural erasure, and the systematic exploitation and extermination of Indigenous peoples. I praise Durham’s ability to weave these themes into a narrative that feels at once fantastical and horrifying, childlike and deeply adult when the veil of innocence is ripped away.

The book follows a group of friends who travel to a remote island to celebrate their love for a fictional children’s book series. The island, once home to the reclusive author of those beloved tales, seems to have sprung directly from the pages of a pastoral fantasy. The fact that these visitors are greeted by an anthropomorphic talking rabbit sets every conceivable notion of normal on its floppy ear!

The setting possesses that “Wonderland” quality of dream logic and uncanny displacement, where the familiar becomes unsettling and innocence turns to menace. The whimsy quickly evaporates and the reader’s initial comparisons to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (even Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows), start to fade, quickly replaced by Durham’s darker, more sinister tone.

But while Lewis Carroll’s world is absurdist and mischievous, Durham’s is predatory. The animals the protagonists encounter are not charming caricatures; they are cultured, articulate, and harbour deep hostility towards human society, which is well known for its predatory, consumptive nature. The sword does cut both ways when prey becomes predator. And these intelligent animals have every right to feel as they do, as the reader will soon see. They are deeply wounded, most in body, all emotionally. What initially feels like playful fantasy transforms into pure horror as the island’s current power dynamics come into focus. In this inversion, humans are no longer the unquestioned masters of the natural world, not on this island. At least, not anymore.

Now we see the novel’s allegorical power. By positioning humans as the hunted, Durham forces readers to confront the normalized brutality embedded in industrial farming, even hunting for sport and materialism. The polite dinner table conversations of the animal gentry become chilling mirrors of our own euphemisms around slaughter and consumption.

In doing so, Durham does not rely on didacticism; the message is not lost due to obvious moralizing. He trusts the structural reversal to generate moral unease organically. The horror emerges not from gore alone but from the reader recognizing what is always there in front of their face, a part of our lived reality, whether they choose to acknowledge it or not. (Image on Right: signed limited edition hardcover of Winterset Hollow featuring colour illustrations by Maura OConnor).

Yet to read Winterset Hollow solely as an animal rights parable would be to miss the breadth of its social critique. The island functions as a microcosm of colonial history. I don’t wish to give too much away, so I will say that there is a strong link to a culture forever changed by conquest and displacement. Regarding the animals the visiting humans encounter, their initial civility masks a violent origin story. As the dark truth of the island’s past surfaces, the narrative exposes how colonial powers often cloak domination in the rhetoric of refinement, order, and moral superiority. And never forget how easy it is for unscrupulous people to lie and deceive. The animals’ rationalizations for their actions are so much more than simple revenge, though they have every right to it. The horror lies not just in the violence itself but in the motivation behind it.

This thematic layering recalls the original tenor of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, before those stories were sanitized for modern children. The Brothers Grimm collected tales that were brutal, punitive, and morally uncompromising. Violence in those stories was not accidental; it was instructive and symbolic. The animals’ genteel speech and ritualistic feasts carry the cadence of nursery tales, yet what they describe is slaughter. That done by them—and done to them! This is the crux: justification vs justice.

Winterset Hollow is not written for children, even though it borrows the framework of children’s fiction. Its protagonists are adults, grappling with nostalgia and the desire to reclaim childhood wonder. Durham weaponizes that nostalgia. The very act of returning to a beloved fictional world becomes dangerous when the fantasy is ripped away to reveal the harsh reality. 

The novel suggests that yearning for simpler times, comfortable narratives, and stories where good and evil are neatly arranged can blind us to the moral complexity of the real world. Truth is not just stranger than fiction, it is far more insidious. The characters’ affection for the idyllic tales leaves them unprepared for the violence that awaits them.

Stylistically, Durham excels at tonal dissonance. Lush, pastoral descriptions are undercut by moments of grotesque narrativity. His words oscillate between lyrical and clinical, mirroring the novel’s thematic tension between fantasy and realism. This duality reinforces the sense that the story exists in two worlds at once: a child’s storybook and an adult nightmare.

Ultimately, Jonathan Edward Durham’s Winterset Hollow is a daring tribrid: dark fantasy, political allegory, and slasher horror intertwined. It is an adult novel masquerading as a children’s tale, much as colonial histories often masquerade as civilizing missions.

By inverting the roles of predator and prey, Durham dismantles comforting assumptions about dominance and entitlement. The result is a work that lingers long after its final page, a reminder that the most terrifying stories are those that expose the violence woven into the fabric of our own world. 

Winterset Hollow is available for purchase online at amazon.ca, amazon.com, Indigo, and Barnes & Noble.

For more information about Jonathan Edward Durham, visit his website and follow him on Facebook, Instagram, Bluesky, and Substack.

Montgomery Clift: Four Biographies Walk Into a Bar…

“I have the same problem as Marilyn. We attract people the way honey does bees, but they’re generally the wrong kind of people. People who want something from us – if only our energy. We need a period of being alone to become ourselves.” – Montgomery Clift

MONTGOMERY CLIFT: actor, enigma, and a face that made cameras linger and audiences forget to breathe. Now, there are well-written biographies, such as the three I’ll get to shortly, there are visually stunning coffee-table books, and then there’s Montgomery Clift: Beautiful Loser, which manages, rather glamorously, to be both at once. Written by Barney Hoskyns and published by Bloomsbury/Grove Press in 1992, this book is less a cradle-to-grave retread and more a slow, smouldering close-up, entirely fitting for its subject: Montgomery Clift, the profoundly talented patron saint of the beautiful and the damaged. 

This pictorial biography is elegant, intimate, and heartbreaking. Hoskyns trails Clift through the bright lights of “Old Hollywood” into the dimmer corridors of self-doubt and self-medication, stitching together a portrait of a man, a gifted actor, too sensitive for the studio machinery that profited from his unique beauty, a stunning blend of masculine and feminine. Clift emerges here (and as always) as a creature of contradictions: ethereal yet stubborn, methodical yet impulsive, a matinée idol who seemed perpetually allergic to the matinée, often frustrated with being judged on his looks over his talent.

What distinguishes Beautiful Loser immediately is that it’s a true pictorial biography. And not in the perfunctory “insert of eight pages of public domain stills in the middle” sense. The book is lavishly illustrated with lush photographs spanning his life and career: childhood in Europe, Broadway beginnings, the early Hollywood ascension, and the later, haunted years when the camera seemed to record both genius and unravelling in the same frame, the pre-and-post-car accident Montgomery Clift. The photos here aren’t merely decorative inserts.

Hoskyns also looks at the cultural context, placing Clift amid the major shifts in postwar American dramatics: the rise of Method acting and the pushback against studio polish, even studio control. Clift’s brilliant performances in films like Red River, The Heiress, I Confess, A Place in the Sun, and From Here to Eternity aren’t treated as relics from a bygone age of Hollywood; they hit with the same intensity today as they did then, as Hoskyns’ book unquestionably shows. Long before “sensitive male lead” became a marketing category, Clift was out there, trembling in close-up, making repression and quiet strength look like an art form, all of it working in conjunction with his devastating handsomeness.

As expected, the book does not shy away from Clift’s well-known tragedies: the car crash I mentioned earlier, the addictions, and the erosion of that almost otherworldly beauty. Thankfully, Hoskyns resists tabloid glee. Instead, he frames Clift as both a product and a casualty of the entertainment system that elevated him. The “beautiful loser” of the title feels less like a judgment and more like a diagnosis of Hollywood itself. Yet what lingers most is not the melancholy but the magnetism. The photographs—serious, sly, wounded, striking—remind us why Clift became an icon in the first place. The camera loved him, even when he often seemed not to love himself.

In the end, Montgomery Clift: Beautiful Loser is the rare pictorial biography that you both read and gaze at. It understands that Clift was not just a performer or a face to be analyzed but a complete human being, to be studied, a presence to be felt. Hoskyns gives us the context; the photographs give us the passion and the heartache.

Now, when you line up the more narrative driven Monty: A Biography of Montgomery Clift by Robert LaGuardia (Arbor House Pub Co., 1977), Montgomery Clift: A Biography by Patricia Bosworth (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1979), and Montgomery Clift: The Revealing Biography of a Hollywood Enigma by Maurice Leonard (Sceptre, 1997) side by side, you find three very different approaches to the same mysterious subject, and one, in particular, that emerges as, I feel, the most compelling portrait, the one I connected with the most. And you may not agree. That’s okay.

LaGuardia’s book is a solid, old-school biography: thorough and respectful. There’s a dependable clarity to LaGuardia’s writing, but if you’re hankering for some personality or drama in the telling, this one is perhaps too straightforward.

Then there’s Bosworth’s text, a biography notable for its depth and ambition, long regarded by many as the definitive “go-to” account of Clift’s life. Bosworth comes at Clift with a biographer’s scalpel and an academic’s respect for analysis. Her research is deep; she situates Clift amid the shifting tectonics of mid-century American culture and acting, and her prose leans toward the serious, less tabloid. It’s a thoughtful take, albeit occasionally distant; it’s a bit like listening to someone describe a fascinating life they have no personal stake in.

The book that truly resonated with me is Leonard’s. Now, let’s be clear, I’m not naive. A book that opens with the author reflecting on his brief, intimate encounter with his subject will immediately raise judgy eyebrows among many who find such a beginning problematic. I didn’t see it that way.

For me, it served as an intriguing bridge, one that unapologetically queered the biography from the first page. Leonard begins from a unique vantage point: a gay/queer writer who acknowledges Clift as a gay icon and a gay/queer man with whom he later shared a brief, real-life moment of intimacy. Why should such a meeting be dismissed out of hand or automatically disbelieved? Far from compromising the book, it signals a refusal to sanitize the story or pretend detachment where lived experience shapes the narrative.

Another distinction is how the three handle the visual history of Clift’s life. None of them is a pictorial biography to the extent of Beautiful Loser, but they do differ in emphasis. LaGuardia provides ample context and occasional stills, but photos often feel like annotations rather than partners in storytelling. Bosworth respects the visual archive but tends to prioritize analysis over imagery, text first, snapshots second. Leonard, though not as lushly illustrated as Beautiful Loser, uses images judiciously; they punctuate the narrative with just the right emotional cue, enhancing rather than distracting.

Stylistically, LaGuardia reads like a traditional biographical march, Bosworth like a seminar, and Leonard like a conversation with someone who gets why Clift still matters (and he absolutely does!); there’s warmth in his prose.

In the end, all three books are worth your shelf space if you’re fascinated by Clift’s life and career, but for me, Leonard’s is the standout of the three non-pictorial biographies. And if your also a fan of actor Tab Hunter, another silver screen, closeted matinee idol, check out my review of his autobiography: Tab Hunter Confidential: The Making of a Movie Star.

Montgomery Clift: Beautiful Loser by Barney Hoskyns is available for purchase at amazon.caamazon.com, and Abebooks.

Monty: A Biography of Montgomery Clift by Robert LaGuardia is available for purchase at amazon.caamazon.com, and Abebooks.

Montgomery Clift: A Biography by Patricia Bosworth is available for purchase at amazon.ca, amazon.com, Indigo, Barnes and Noble, and Abebooks.

Montgomery Clift: The Revealing Biography of a Hollywood Enigma by Maurice Leonard is available for purchase at amazon.caamazon.com, and Abebooks.

Interview with Gay Romantic-Thriller Author Thom Collins

Thom Collins: “I write what interests me, and I don’t censor myself.”

I WANT to welcome author Thom Collins to the Blog. His work weaves thriller-style tension beautifully with gay romance; the growing attraction between his male protagonists is never a side narrative but central to the danger surrounding his protagonists, shaping the emotional core of the story and intensifying its suspense.

Alongside creating complex, sexy characters in brilliantly crafted worlds of desire, intrigue, and peril, Thom is happily married and lives in Durham, North East England, with his husband.

Thom’s body of work includes the gay erotic thriller series Basic Instincts, as well as the more gay romance–driven thriller series Anthem and Jagged Shores. His career also includes several standalone novels, including his first work under the name “Thom Collins,” Closer by Morning (2016), and Show No Mercy (2024), as well as novellas, among which my favorite is Silent Voices (2017).

In this interview, Thom and I discuss various topics, including his creative process, his passion for erotic thrillers, and how he navigates the delicate balance between (gay) romance and violence in his writing.

My reviews of several of Thom’s novels can be found in earlier blog posts. 

Thom, when you reflect on your writing journey, both as an outlet for creative expression and as the first step toward a career, who or what emerges as your deepest source of inspiration? Was there a clear moment when you decided to move from writing just for yourself to publishing, or did that shift happen gradually? What was it like the first time you shared your work publicly, and how do you deal with the vulnerability and the anxiety that come with sharing your work with a global audience, many of whom are ready to praise, critique, and judge?

I always wanted to be a writer, but I went to such a bad school that it was never encouraged. When I spoke to the career advisor about it, instead of putting me on the path to taking the right courses and going to university, they suggested I get a job in a shop. I’m not knocking retail work; like most authors, I’ve done plenty of it, but it wasn’t the most encouraging start. So, I left school at 16 with basic qualifications, but I never stopped writing. In those days, I wanted to be a male Jackie Collins. I tore through all of her books, and those were the kind of page-turning stories I tried to write.

Fast forward a few years, I had a boyfriend who had a massive collection of porn magazines. This sounds like a cliché, but I used to read all the stories and articles in them. Each issue would have two or three erotic shorts. In 1992, Madonna released her SEX book, and while everyone was gagging over the naked photos, I devoured every word of the text and thought: I could do this. I started writing the kind of erotic stories I read in the porn mags.

Eventually, I submitted one to a UK magazine called Overload. I think I was only twenty when that was accepted for publication. It was a massive thrill when the issue came out. I bought multiple copies and shared them with all my gay friends. I had no anxiety at all. I was so excited to be published and didn’t care what anyone thought about what I’d actually written. That’s the arrogance (and joy) of being twenty.

After that, I started submitting to the big American magazines, and once those were accepted, I was on my way, churning out one story after another. It helped that I had a very dirty mind back then and no hang-ups. That stuff was pure filth.

You began your prolific fiction career in the ’90s, writing gay erotica under the name Thom Wolf before transitioning to gay/queer thrillers and romance under your current moniker, Thom Collins. 2016’s Closer by Morning, from Pride Publishing, marked your first work published under this new name. Was the move driven by a desire to craft more complex, narrative-driven stories while also broadening your audience commercially? How has your approach to storytelling evolved across genres? Are there lessons or themes from your earlier sexually explicit work that continue to shape your current writing?

Having left school with few qualifications, I spent a bit of time studying with the Open University and completed a diploma in creative writing. It was on the back of that course that I wanted to broaden my horizons. I wanted to write more novel-length fiction, and that is a very hard format for erotica. I’d previously written three erotic novels that required a sex scene in every chapter as well as moving the story forward, and I didn’t have another one in me.

I’ve always loved the erotic thriller genre, so Closer by Morning was my first attempt at a murder plot that also contained a significant amount of sex. But with that one, I was very conscious of not making it too much like porn. So much so that the editor suggested I needed to add more sex scenes once it was done. I just wanted to write a book I could tell all my family and friends about, and not just the gays. But there will always be sex in my writing because that’s what interests me. I love reading sexy books and watching sexy movies–that hasn’t changed at all as I’ve gotten older.

Your stories place gay/queer characters in real danger, where secrets, fear, and desire collide, typically under threat of physical harm, even death. What attracts you to writing thrillers where gay romance unfolds in those high-stakes moments? As an own-voice author, how do your personal experiences as a gay man shape the way you write vulnerability, survival, and emotional connection when everything is on the line? How does your sexuality influence the characters you create, the dynamics of their relationships, and the themes you choose to explore?

To be completely honest, I don’t consciously take those things into consideration. I like to plot out the thriller elements and create characters that interest me, then the rest of it just comes out. It’s obviously influenced by my own experiences. I’m fifty-two and came out in an era that was not as tolerant as it is now.

Queer bashings and homophobia were all part of going out to bars. There were no apps, so we hooked up with men in dark parks. Most of the time, you couldn’t see what they looked like and had to feel your way. If you chatted up a man at the bar, there was always a chance that you’d judged the situation wrong and he’d turn on you. Those informative years were quite dangerous, so I suspect that feeds into what I do now.

On the other hand, I’ve been with my husband for thirty years, and I have no desire to write about happily married middle-aged guys. I write to entertain myself as much as anything. It’s an escape, so I go for the things that excite me.

Violence is a core part of the thriller genre—political, spy, and legal thrillers all rely on it. But queer thrillers have a trickier path to navigate. Like queer horror, they can trigger LGBTQ+ readers who’ve faced real-world violence or trauma because of their sexuality or gender identity. Your work, especially the Jagged Shores and Basic Instincts series of books, includes storylines involving hate crimes, partner/spouse abuse, violence against gay sex workers, and grudges that lead to attacks on gay men.

Do you feel that, as a gay man, writing in this genre, you have a special responsibility to handle this content with extra care, or does that expectation risk being unfair and creatively stifling? How do you approach depicting violence toward gay/queer characters in your work, and what strategies do you use to balance authenticity and sensitivity while still producing quality fiction that is both creatively thrilling and marketable to an LGBTQ+ audience?

As I mentioned earlier, I came out at quite an intolerant time for queer people. My day job is within the Criminal Justice System. So, I suspect that I have a warped view of these things. I deal with cases of violence every day. To me, it’s everywhere, and I have to keep reminding myself that things aren’t always that bad. The climaxes of my books are always a bit OTT, but a lot of the stuff that leads up to it is taken directly from real life.

I suffered PTSD a few years ago when a guy we were supervising developed an unhealthy fixation on me. It resulted in him breaking into the office and setting fire to my desk. The aftermath of that left me with a lot to deal with. The fire gutted the office, and we didn’t get back for almost a year. He later went on to stab another man in the neck, which triggered all sorts of feelings I wasn’t equipped to cope with at the time. I suspect a lot of what I write is probably just me working through my own issues. The PTSD experience has definitely fed into some of my characters.

I don’t feel any expectation to handle it sensitively. All the books come with trigger warnings, so I don’t let that get in the way when I’m writing. I let it all pour out, but if an editor later told me that something was too much, I wouldn’t hesitate to change it. I want readers to be entertained, not traumatized.

Continuing this line of discussion, action and violence are standard components of the thriller genre, whether queer-focused or not, and your writing often leans into vivid, visceral imagery. Early in your novel, Now Comes the Dark, the first book in the Basic Instincts series, the main character, Roman Ballentyne, is the victim of a hate crime and is severely beaten. Were there moments in this book—or in any of your series—where you felt the violence became too graphic and chose to revise, reduce, or remove scenes?

More broadly, do you believe there is a line that can be crossed when depicting violence in thrillers—particularly in queer narratives—or do you see the genre as one where few boundaries exist as long as the violence serves a clear narrative purpose? And to what extent can romance and violence coexist in this type of thriller fiction without one diminishing the impact of the other?

That first Thom Collins book, Closer by Morning, was marketed as a romance, and there’s one particular incident in there that some readers found upsetting. Looking back, I can see that it verged into horror and was too much for a romance book, even one that was tagged as a thriller with lots of trigger warnings. It was also written while I was still working through my own issues, so I probably did go too far at the time. I try to match the violence to the audience. If I ever wrote a horror novel, I would go a lot further.

I sometimes feel a bit of a fraud when I’m marketed as romance because the thriller elements are more exciting to me. I have written a handful of things that were pure romance, no murders or psycho stalkers, but I didn’t connect to those stories in the same way or particularly enjoy writing them. It felt less authentic. Like I was trying to conform too much.

As for boundaries, it’s not something I actively think about. I write what interests me and don’t censor myself. I can’t think of an instance when I’ve felt the need to tone something down or have been asked to.

Working in the thriller genre, you know that pacing and tension are key to a story’s success. We all love that big “AHA!” moment at the end, but it’s the thrills and chills along the way that really make or break a novel. How do you create that? Do you plot your significant terror and revelation moments in advance and build suspense around them, or do you start with a general idea of where you’re headed and let the anxiety and anticipation develop organically, putting yourself in the shoes of both writer and reader as you go?

I plot and outline everything, even short stories. I can’t start until I know exactly what’s going to happen and how it will end. I usually brainstorm a few ideas, then develop them into a thirty-point plan. That’s where I figure out the highs and lows of the plot and try to make it like a roller coaster ride. Then I do all the character work, and then a chapter-by-chapter breakdown. Once I’m happy with all of that, I’m ready to start. I’m quite a control freak. I’m the kind of person who goes on holiday and has every moment of the day planned to a timetable, and I’d get really anxious if it started to run behind. I’m exactly the same with books. Planning is everything.

Plotting in advance really paid off last year. I’d just started writing the fourth Basic Instincts book when my dad’s health took a massive downturn. Suddenly, all my priorities changed, and I didn’t have a dedicated day each week just to write. It was an hour here, a couple of hours there. Some weeks, I didn’t write at all. But because of the detailed outline, each time I picked the book back up, I knew exactly where I was, what was happening and where it was going next. If I’d been pantsing, I would have given up on the book entirely and not started again. It took twice as long as my usual first draft, but because of the outline, it got finished.

I get a sense that, like me, you’re a fan of the ’90s cinematic “erotic thriller” genre, with Sharon Stone and Basic Instinct being standouts for us. I mean, you have a series you titled Basic Instincts, which is fabulous, btw! What inspired you to push the erotic elements in your storytelling further and embrace a darker, more violent tone with your Basic Instincts series? This seems especially noteworthy compared to your Jagged Shores and Anthem series, where romance tends to take the lead over the more sexual and violent aspects.

Looking back at your earlier gay erotica work, do you feel that explicit sexual content can distract from the core story or automatically shift a book into the “erotic thriller” sub-genre? Would you classify the Basic Instincts series as gay erotic thrillers, and have you ever worried that sexually charged narratives might be taken less seriously than straightforward nail-biters?

To say I love Basic Instinct is a huge understatement. It’s my favourite movie of all time. When it was first released, it blew my mind. I think I saw it six times at the cinema that spring and summer. Then I’ve owned it on every available physical media format in the years since, together with books, soundtracks, and posters. I even love the berated sequel from 2006. [I’m obsessed with the sequel. We should talk.] I wish we’d gotten loads of sequels. The first time I went to see it was on a date, and the guy I went with didn’t enjoy it at all. That was the end of him. 

My first pen name, Thom Wolf, was inspired by Catherine Trammell’s pen name in the movie. [I made the connection immediately—love it!]

I’d always wanted to write erotic thrillers and had a minor go at it with Closer by Morning. But the genre was so out of fashion, and I thought I was the only person who still liked them. After the Anthem and Jagged Shores books, I just thought fuck it. I’m going to do one. I actually wrote Now Comes the Dark between Jagged 4 and 5. It was entirely for my own pleasure, and I was certain I’d have to self-publish it as my publisher wouldn’t be interested. After Jagged Ends, my editor asked what else I was working on, and I sent her the book to get her opinion. If she’d asked me to make a lot of changes and tone everything down, I was going to stick to the original plan and self-publish, but she loved it as it was. I got a contract for it about three days after I sent it to her. It was very fast. I thought it was pushing my luck calling the series Basic Instincts, but then why not? That movie has probably influenced me more than anything else.

I wouldn’t classify the series as anything other than gay erotic thrillers. I’m proud to be writing them, even if no one else is. As for being worried about not being taken seriously, the genre has never been taken seriously by the majority of people. Even the big hitters like Basic Instinct, Body Heat and Fatal Attraction are sneered at. I don’t care. I love them and would write them just for myself.

I’d love to see a return to big-budget erotic movies. There have been a couple of attempts over the last few years, but they didn’t go anywhere. It seems like Hollywood is afraid of putting sex in the cinema. There’s plenty of sex on streaming services, but a raunchy TV show isn’t the same as a twisty, sex fueled movie. I’m a big fan of the French film Stranger By The Lake. That’s the closest I’ve seen in recent times to getting anywhere near what I want to see.

In many of your novels, nautical settings act as rich emotional landscapes, from the Atlantic coastline between England and Portugal in Anthem of the Sea, the first in your Anthem series, to the fictional fishing town of Nyemouth on England’s North-East coast in your Jagged Shores series, with North Point and Safe Harbour being personal favourites of mine. The vast expanse of open water, together with cliffs, headlands, and pebbly beaches, blends with solitude and reflection to create a vivid atmosphere that carries real emotional weight, evoking freedom, isolation, danger, and even the possibility of rebirth—a second chance at love.

How do these backdrops serve your characters and shape their emotional journeys, and in what ways do you use sensory details to heighten the romance, suspense, or tension in your stories? For instance, the cove scene with the incoming tide in the latter half of North Point is charged with tension. While there’s the obvious connection to England and English characters, do you also feel a personal affinity for the sea or for seaside living?

It’s just a case of writing what you know. I grew up in a small seaside town. My parents’ house is about sixty yards from the beach. I spent my childhood playing in the bay or among the rocks and caves, and my dad was a fisherman. The sea has always been in my blood. I live a little way inland now, but the move was always on the condition that when we retire, we’ll sell up here and move back to the coast. I’m hoping that will be within the next ten years.

The Jagged Shores books are set in a fictional town in the area where I grew up. I don’t consciously think about how the setting reflects the characters’ journey. It’s more that I see the stories in my head, like a movie, and translate that to the page. I do things more intuitively rather than overthinking it.

I hate flying these days too, so whenever I go abroad, it’s always by ship or ferry. I just love being on the water. I had a Reiki session this morning, and afterwards, the therapist asked if I had any naval connections. He said the whole time he was giving the treatment, he kept getting images of the sea coming off me. The sea is in my blood.

What is the best and the worst advice you’ve ever received about writing or publishing? Based on your own experiences and lessons learned, what guidance would you give to other authors, whether they’re tackling thrillers, queer fiction, romance, or writing in general?

Write what you love. If your heart isn’t in it, if you’re writing to a market just because that’s what’s currently popular, it will show. And you won’t enjoy the experience. The joy for me is actually writing the first draft, letting the story unfold. Everything else, including being published, is a wonderful bonus, but the real pleasure is in the writing.

The best advice I got was around the time I was doing all those Open University courses. Because I felt like I’d been denied a good education, I felt pressure to get a degree before I’d be taken seriously.

It was just as I completed the creative writing diploma that I told a successful writer about the course I was intending to do next. And he told me not to bother. He said, “You’ve learned all you need to know about processes; now you need to put it into practice.” He was right, too. Rather than sign up for the next course, I wrote Closer by Morning. And I think this advice might have come from Jackie Collins: You have to finish what you’ve started. You can’t publish an incomplete manuscript, so make sure you finish your WIP’s. A folder full of unfinished novels and stories is no good to anyone.

Worse advice? I’ve forgotten it. I’m so old now my brain only wants to remember good things, so it junks the shit.

Thom, what book(s) are you currently devouring? Do you have a preferred genre, or are your reading preferences quite diverse?

I’ve just finished Whitley Strieber’s The Hunger, which I loved. It was very different from the old Tony Scott movie. And I’ve just begun a re-read of Anne Rice’s Queen of the Damned. I’m into all things vampire at the minute.

I’d say I read quite broadly, but I tend to gravitate to horror and thrillers. Your Haunted Hearts book, I Will Always Find You, is on my current TBR pile. I visited Pompeii for the first time last year and can’t wait to discover your epic story that begins there. [To say I’m flattered is an understatement.] Some of my favourite authors are Jackie Collins, Harlan Coben, Stephen King, James Herbert, Paul Tremblay, Kristian Parker, Eric LaRocca, Alan Hollinghurst, Melanie Blake, Ian Fleming and Guy N Smith.

Those are all established names, so I do try to dip into unknown authors too, and I usually alternate every fourth or fifth novel with an autobiography. I also listen to audiobooks at the gym and on long car journeys, but I find biographies much easier to follow than fiction when I’m doing something else at the same time.

So, what does the future hold for author Thom Collins? Can we expect even more danger and eroticism in your upcoming work? Or perhaps a 180-degree turn toward a cozy Christmas or autumnal romance is on the horizon? Give your fans a little glimpse into what’s next!

Ha ha. You can certainly strike cozy off the expectation list. And I’d only ever write a Christmas book if it involved a Santa slasher or an orgy. The fourth Basic Instincts is out in July, then I have one more book to complete the series. I’ve got some great ideas for the last book: for new characters and to bring back some older ones. To maybe kill some of them off. It’s still at the ideas stage, but I want it to be bigger, sexier and a lot darker for the series to end on a bang.

Before I start work on book 5, though, I want to take a month to write a vampire novella. It will work as a tester for a potential new series. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time, but I’m not sure what form my vampire series would take. I’ve already mapped out the rules and lore for the vampires and have developed a handful of characters already, but I’m unclear about the direction it will take.

It will definitely veer more towards horror. I’m pretty certain it won’t be a paranormal romance. But I can’t decide exactly which direction to take it. At the minute, I’m inclined to go with a trilogy storyline, centred around a central couple. There will be sex, there will be violence, the vampires won’t be cozy or sparkly, but other than that, it’s all to be determined. This novella will be an experiment to feel my way through it. It will likely never see the light of day, but it will help me decide where to go next. That’s the reason I’m reading a lot of vampire fiction right now. I want to get a feel for what I like and what I don’t in the genre, and I’m already gravitating towards horror more than Romantasy or Paranormal MM.

I decided at the end of 2025 that I wanted to challenge myself and do something new. I adore writing erotic thrillers and will continue to do so even when the current series ends, but I’m ready to go down another road. The vampires books could require a whole new pen name. I don’t know, and that’s what’s exciting me right now. I don’t intend to even submit to a publisher until I’ve written at least two books, so I’m not influenced to tone anything down.

Last year forced me to slow down, and as a result, I took stock. I’ve been writing two books a year for the last ten years, and I want to ease up on that a little. Take some time to enjoy it more rather than meeting the next deadline. Experiment more.

Thank you, Thom, for taking the time to speak with me so openly and enthusiastically about the Gay Thriller genre, both in its romantic and erotic forms. It was truly a pleasure to hear about what drives you as an author and the passion you bring to your work. Our conversation has only made me more eager to dive further into your thrillers and future projects.

For more information about this author, follow Thom on InstagramBluesky, and visit his Website

To purchase Thom’s books, head to Barnes & NobleIndigo, and Pride Publishing. Also check out his Amazon Author Page.