Marc Ruvolo: “I feel if a person is able to survive and thrive in the face of homophobia, it makes them stronger in relation to horror scenarios.”

Marc Ruvolo is an exciting and innovative OwnVoice writer, and in these suppressive times, we need more like him. He’s an exceptionally versatile artist whose creative journey has spanned decades. He engages audiences with a deeply personal artistic style, inviting them to experience the world via his unique perspective. Marc’s talent for conveying a broad spectrum of emotions and ideas makes his work impactful and relatable to many people; it resonates with anyone who has ever felt different and judged—an outcast.

As an instrumentalist, singer, songwriter, fiction writer, and poet, Marc expresses his unique understanding of the world through a multi-faceted language style. His storytelling talent encompasses both long and short prose, immersing readers in diverse narratives reflecting his imagination and insights from his experiences, particularly as a gay/queer man.

Marc founded the Chicago-based punk band No Empathy in the 1980s, serving as their lead singer. In the 80s/90s, the relationship between queer individuals and the punk subculture was—complicated. The punk scene, particularly its hardcore, often more aggressive factions, definitely grappled with issues of homophobia. Some queer punks faced pressure to assimilate and downplay their queerness to fit in, leading to frustration and the desire for their own space.

Ruvolo founded the influential Bucket O’ Blood bookstore in Chicago. His poetry and fiction have been featured in various publications, including Cynthia Pelayo’s Gothic Blue Book Series, the anthologies Slay and Slay Again: A Queer Horror Anthology, as well as in Nocturne Magazine, among others.

His chapbook, Creep & Crow, released in 2022 by Alien Buddha, marked the beginning of a series of notable longer-form horror works. This started with his debut novella, Sloe, published in 2023 by Unnerving Books. He followed this with his queer horror novella, Pieties, which was published in 2024 by Off Limits Press, and Waste Ground, released in March of 2025 by Slashic Horror Press.

In this interview, Marc and I discuss various topics, including queer identity in the 80s & 90s, the mysterious quality of “gray” characters in horror fiction, and the supernatural in relation the idea of the other/otherness.

My reviews of Marc Ruvolo’s work can be found in earlier blog posts.

Marc, how challenging was your journey to accepting your queer identity, both personally and while navigating the punk scene? At what point did you realize you not only could but would allow yourself to mine your growth, your evolution in self-expression, and your individualism for narrative material? It has to be a significant source of inspiration for your work in fiction, just as it is with your songwriting. For character creation, personality, mannerisms, and quirks, certainly.

Or do you see a distinct separation because your songwriting and poetry are far more reality-based, perhaps even autobiographical at times, than the narrative fiction you create, the inventive storytelling?

I was out to close friends in high school and had a boyfriend (who passed in the 90s; Pieties is dedicated to him). My parents are immigrants (Germany and Sicily) but tried to ignore my sexuality until my Senior year when their friends started talking, and they could no longer look the other way. They were quite unhappy, crying, screaming, and commanded me to “stop,” but that was about as far as it went. I am the only son, so that made it worse. No grandkids from me, death of the family name, etc. We became estranged due to their homophobia, but we reconciled a few years later.

Starting in 1982, I was already going to punk/new wave/goth shows in Chicago, but I passed for straight and didn’t readily offer up my sexual orientation for fear of being harassed. I mean, it was the 80s, and homosexuality, especially with the advent of AIDS, was a scarlet letter to most people. I was writing and doing a little bit of indie publishing, but music took over my life, and I began to focus on that.

It wasn’t until 1992 that I came out publicly, embracing my queerness as the frontman of No Empathy, a melodic punk band, and started writing queer lyrics. Most everything I write, reality or otherwise, is grounded in my experiences of touring, travelling, and being part of various creative communities. I love new experiences, meeting new people, and hearing their stories. Many of my characters are amalgamations of people I’ve met or hung out with over the years.

You have a history with something I’ve always found fascinating: Queercore. Queercore was born in Toronto (my old stomping grounds) in the 1980s—soon to spread across North America—emerging as a counter-movement, resisting the adoption and reinforcement of heteronormativity within the Punk scene. This movement offered a space for queer punk artists and musicians to express their identities and challenges through music, zines, and other media.

In the ’90s, I remember that the first floor of The Beguiling, a Toronto-based bookstore located (then) in a two-story Victorian building in Mirvish Village, featured many underground and alternative comics and zines, including those related to Queercore. Marc, how would you characterize your experiences with homophobia within the Punk scene? I’m particularly interested in how your desire for self-expression and involvement in Queercore have shaped you—or stifled you, creatively, then and now. 

I was introduced to Canadian queercore by my boyfriend at the time, Davey Houle. He published a queer cut-and-paste fanzine called Fuh Cole. He was friends with GB Jones and Johnny Noxzema and also introduced me to his writing buddies, James Robert Baker (Boy Wonder, Tim and Pete), Scott Heim (Mysterious Skin), and Vaginal Davis (who I later did a 7” with). Finding a community I didn’t know existed was liberating.

I started booking No Empathy on more queer rock shows (through my involvement in Homocore Chicago) and put on my own min-fest called the Queercore Round-Up. The response from the greater punk community wasn’t great. Over the next few years, No Empathy went from drawing crowds of 500+ to struggling to bring in a hundred. My bandmates (all of whom were straight) were berated by some for being in a “fag band”. But the box was now open, and there was no way I was going back. My next band, a wild, reckless hardcore band called Traitors, was explicitly, and even militantly queer, and did quite well into the 2000s.

Marc, what sparked your desire to convey your thoughts and imagination through the written word, transitioning from the melodic world of songwriting to the evocative realms of poetry and, later, prose? Were you finding lyrical presentation becoming somewhat constraining compared to the creative possibilities for expression that fiction could give, especially in terms of length and scope?

As I mentioned, I did a bit of publishing with small presses while in high school. So, I’ve always written. My best friend was also a writer, and while I split off to chase the music world, he kept writing. He’s still a professional author today and won the World Fantasy Award. I kept writing poetry, and published a few non-fiction articles, but it wasn’t until around 2014 that I started trying to improve my fiction skills in earnest. I had opened a book and record store in Chicago called Bucket O’ Blood, and sitting there waiting for customers seven days a week gave me plenty of time to write.

I started with short stories, and then about five years ago, inspired by Nathan Ballingrud’s North American Lake Monsters collection, I set the goal of writing and publishing three horror novellas. The shorter length made this seem possible as opposed to jumping into a novel-sized project. I’ve found that I enjoy longer forms and have been concentrating on that ever since. I just finished what I hope to be my first novel, a gothic horror thriller set in 1905 Washington State.

How does a post-punk aesthetic, your unique, visceral, and intensely personal approach to intertwining the stark brutality of raw truth with the complexities of perception, experience, literature, politics, culture, and sexuality, flavour your fiction, specifically regarding your work in the Horror Genre?

I think visceral is the keyword. Punk and post-punk are visceral mediums, and it’s the same with horror. None of them flinch from the dark; in fact, they often revel in darkness, levering the brutality of human existence and trying to make some sense of it. I imagine I began identifying with punk rock and horror at roughly the same age.

Obviously, Marc, you’re familiar with the concept and practice of counter-culture, challenging societal norms, such as heteronormativity, and mainstream ideals regarding various issues, like gender stereotypes. Have you ever worried about being defined by a specific label as an artist because of an aspect of yourself that openly challenges these very societal norms and expectations, such as your gender presentation and sexuality? Do you worry about being labelled as a “gay/queer writer/singer” or a “cisgender male (with a masculine persona) artist/performer?” or do you not care a lick about how others perceive you in relation to your art? 

I’ve learned not to worry about what people think. That’s not to say I don’t hope people enjoy what I do, but it’s not a motivating factor. You can’t please everyone, and if people see me as just a “queer writer” or “queer musician,” that’s fine. I can’t change who I am. I try to be kind and judge people by their character and actions, and I hope they’d do the same for me. I also enjoy my own company, so seeking out new social groups is not a big thing for me anymore. I write stories I enjoy and have my friends, family, partner, and dog, and that’s enough to keep me content.

Do you think these designations or labels restrict artistic expression by being too narrow in focus, creating bias and prejudgment? Should they be disregarded as descriptors imposed on a writer—or any artist, really—by others, which are ultimately beyond their control, similar to reviews? Or should these labels be embraced as significant markers of diversity and powerful tools for visibility?

I don’t mind labels, as it helps me know what I’m getting into with a book. It also helps readers sort through the millions of books out there. It’s interesting to see books that could be considered “queer fiction” transcend their initial audience and become mainstream. I write queer characters, but I also write straight ones. Their sexuality is integral to who they are, but it does not define them. It’s the way I view myself; my sexuality does not define me—yes, it’s important, but it’s only one facet of who I am as a person.

Some writers may feel that making a character gay—or some aspect of the LGBTQ+ community—shows a thoughtful embrace of queerness in their narratives. Whether their queer-identity is three-dimensional, however, is too often open for debate. What are your views on the elements that define meaningful and nuanced representation of queer characters in fiction, irrespective of the genre? How diverse do you feel a work of fiction must come across to be considered queer or, at least, queer-inclusive? How does a writer’s sexual and/or gender identity factor in? Should it?

I think “meaningful and nuanced representation of queer characters” would vary depending on what you were trying to get your characters to convey. I’ve always liked mysterious characters, “gray” characters who you can’t surface-read. Heroes and villains are fine, but I like portraying people as hidden and nuanced, even if it seems contradictory on the surface. If there are at least two non-stereotypical POV queer characters, then I would call that queer fiction.

The gender identity or sexuality of the author doesn’t matter to me if what they are writing rings true. It’s more that a queer person writing about queer experiences in fiction would most likely have a more interesting and original take than someone who was only using queerness as a personality trait of their character.

Queer Horror explores unique aspects of the human experience by intertwining fear with queer identity in both exciting and terrifying ways. The typical fight or flight response and the instinct to survive are present. However, what does it mean for a gay character in horror fiction when the nightmare they face includes homophobia rather than, say, simply being in the “wrong place at the wrong time?” Oh, and there is a killer (or many)!

Marc, in your novella, Pieties, you explore several queer issues related to social and medical stigmas and prejudices that were all too common in the 1980s. You address dysfunctional familial and societal relationships toward homosexuality, leading to homophobia, rejection, and loneliness. Regardless of whether your reader has personally encountered any form of verbal or physical homophobic aggression, your work resonates deeply and strikes with unflinching honesty. The way you portray the character of Andrew invites readers to step into his shoes, making it effortless to connect with his journey. I willingly admit that, as a gay man, I found it challenging at times to (re)experience the homophobia that Andrew faced alongside him. That’s powerful. 

Despite the decade in which the story takes place, Andrew’s experiences of judgment, fear, ostracization, and isolation are sadly still ones queer people deal with today. Marc, what does it mean to you as a writer and as a queer person to depict queer fear, dread, and anxiety within a supernatural medium? What captivates your imagination about horror and the paranormal as a fan and a writer in these genres? Do you feel that working within the Horror Genre allows you free reign to explore darker, more sensitive, perhaps even polarizing, queer themes and issues without the fear of alienating readers? Does a reader’s understanding from the onset that horror is meant to make one uneasy, uncomfortable, sickened, and terrified inherently allow for exploration into potentially-triggering content?

I feel if a person is able to survive and thrive in the face of homophobia, it makes them stronger in relation to horror scenarios. I’ve been told I am inherently wrong, that God hates me, or created me strictly to send to Hell, that I’m evil, ant-humanity, but I faced all of that and rose above.

I sometimes see rampant homophobia as a mental construct that affects bigots, much like a haunting. The things they were taught to hate and fear may be real—or they might just be in their heads. But until they let the fear go, they will never truly know peace. Hate corrodes you from the inside.

On the other hand, exploring horrific themes has been quite freeing for me. I’m fascinated by the supernatural and the idea of the other. Queer people are the original “other,” we often live on the fringes of established norms, and many of us freely embrace the strange and unconventional. Let’s say I’ve seen a lot, I’ve done a lot and experienced things most people might be repulsed by. And once you’ve gone through all that, horror fiction is like a walk in the park.

In your fiction, the setting—the physical environment itself—is an active participant in the narrative, as vivid as any flesh-and-blood character. In Pieties, one only has to look at the suburban landscape of Andrew’s family home, especially the backyard with its eerily beautiful and obsessively manicured Japanese Garden.

In your novel, Waste Ground, you skillfully capture the essence of urban decay. The atmosphere is bleak, with the flickering glow of broken streetlights casting an eerie pall over the litter-strewn sidewalks and crumbling buildings, their facades marred by graffiti. Weeds sprout from cracked asphalt, and the air is thick with the smell of rust and neglect. And we can’t overlook your novella Sloe, where the backdrop of rural Kentucky and the untamed wilds of the Appalachians verily sweat secrets and dread. This natural element witnesses, even participates in, after a fashion, the horrors within the novel. 

In your writing, what is your process for crafting the visual aspects of your work, creating dread, tension, fear, and mystery through the setting? It’s one thing to give presence, but how do you also successfully give voice to those narrative elements without a physical voice—because let me tell you, you have! 

I’ve always been an explorer of off-the-beaten-track places. I guess it’s the fantasy adventurer in me, but the less inviting a location appears, the more I want to see what’s there or what was once there. Abandoned buildings, desolate wilderness, caves, sewers, sunken wrecks, and dangerous mineshafts draw me in like a magnet.

Certain locations can feel like places of power—mountains, the ocean, rivers, ancient and not-so-ancient cities, all rooted in a sense of primal awe, uneasiness, and fear. They have a history that we can’t see, and that makes them special, timeless. When writing, I think of places that have given that feeling and then try to convey it in words.

What is the most helpful and detrimental advice you’ve received about writing and publishing? As you reflect on your journey and the lessons learned along the way, what pearls of wisdom would you share with fellow queer writers, new and established, particularly those interested in writing in the Horror Genre from a queer perspective?

Most helpful advice was to write the books you want to read and don’t judge your tastes along the way. You have to find joy in the creative process. Your book will never be perfect, but get it as close as you can, then set it free. Write the next one. For horror, you need to think about what unnerves you personally, as everyone is scared by completely different things. Then, you hold your fear up to the light and examine it from all angles. Why does it scare you? Where does your fear come from? How does it affect the people you love? The worst advice I ever got was that only novels are worth writing, and people aren’t interested in novellas or novelettes. This is simply not true. If it sounds good and is written well, people will read it no matter the length.

What books are you currently reading? Do you find yourself drawn to specific genres that you don’t usually write in? Or do you prefer to stick to your usual style, opting for darker, more fantastical, queer-centric narratives? Do you naturally gravitate towards books written by queer authors? 

I read mostly genre fiction, SFF and horror, plus a little historical fiction and literary fiction. I’m currently reading When We Were Real by Daryl Gregory and The West Passage by Jared Pechaček. I frequently read short stories online and enjoy science and history essays. I don’t specifically seek out queer authors, but if a queer book looks like I might enjoy it, then it often goes to the top of my TBR.

What does the future hold for author Marc Ruvolo? Will we see more long fiction from you, like Waste Ground, or are you more drawn to writing novellas and short stories? Any thoughts on stepping outside of the Horror Genre into other queer literary spaces, like Gay Paranormal Romance (and feel free to go hard on the edginess, the scare factor!)?

I’ve just finished my first novel (well, the first that didn’t go straight in the old trunk). It’s called CLARE DE LOON, a gothic horror thriller set in 1905 Washington State. It examines compulsion and revenge, murder, and a very specific form of necrophilia. I started a second book (not sure of the length), and it’s near-future queer dystopia mixed with government agents who use blood magic.

I may do another poetry chapbook. All fun stuff, for me, at least. As for Gay Paranormal Romance, while I do enjoy reading it, I’m not really the romantic type (other than dying as a glorious martyr for the revolution! I kid). Thanks for reading my ramble, and go read more horror!

A Final Thought: I see a lot of myself in Marc Ruvolo and relate to several of his formative experiences. Reflecting on my younger years, I found myself navigating the space between Punk and Goth, fluctuating between a masculine, industrial look and a more feminine or queer aesthetic. Although I wasn’t officially “out,” everyone knew I wasn’t straight. I understood that fully embracing my unique aesthetic could—and did—lead to bullying and difficulties, but I chose to express myself anyway.

Within my small alternative community, I noticed the tendency among some Punks to distance themselves from the softer, often more feminine aspects of the alternative scene, such as Goth and New Wave. I eventually moved away from Punk and, for a time, became far more enamoured with the Goth scene, embracing a more genderfluid persona. To paraphrase Mario Diaz, “I was Goth when Goth was called ‘Hey Fa##ot!’”

Thank you, Marc, for engaging in such an open and enthusiastic conversation about your life, your past, your career, and especially the compelling work you do in Queer Horror. May your artistic endeavours continue to thrive, and I look forward to reading more from you!

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