IN A WORLD that’s increasingly aware of the importance of representation (and “bollocks” to those seeking to dismantle it), the value of authentic queer narratives cannot be overstated. LGBTQ+ stories have routinely been filtered through heteronormative lenses by non-queer writers, often resulting in portrayals that are exoticized, misrepresented, oversimplified, and, unsurprisingly, maligned. Unconscious/implicit bias in writing is just as harmful as deliberately inflammatory content, as both contribute to the perpetuation of stereotypes and marginalization.
Own Voice authors are more than just storytellers. We are cultural truth-tellers, reclaiming space in a literary tradition that has too often erased or distorted our voices. In this piece, I’m speaking specifically about writers who, like myself, are openly gay/queer and who write not only from their own lived experiences but also, more broadly, from the collective experience of their marginalized community.
At the heart of the Own Voices movement is a call for truthful representation: unfiltered, intimate, and rich in both diversity and complexity. When gay/queer authors write about gay/queer characters, they offer a lived reality that no outsider (not meant pejoratively), however well-intentioned, can fully replicate. There’s a vital difference between observation and embodiment. When a gay author writes about coming out, falling in love, facing discrimination, or finding joy in a chosen family, they draw not just from imagination or the research of others’ experiences, but from the emotional and social journey they have personally navigated.
And let’s be clear: there’s absolutely nothing wrong with authors writing beyond their own experiences or “lived realities.” Authors can and should write beyond their own lived experiences. That’s what fiction is, how we grow as writers and as people: by unboxing ourselves and expanding our creative perspectives. However, this must be done with genuine interest and respectful engagement with the people, topics, and situations being represented.
At the time of writing my first novel, Vindictive, I knew nothing about martial arts or fight choreography beyond watching films like Ninja 3: The Domination and Bloodsport countless times
growing up. I wanted to replicate those incredible moves for my book so I conducted extensive research on the subject. I didn’t want to come across as sloppy, lazy, or culturally disrespectful—especially to those who live both physically and spiritually within martial disciplines and who are profoundly shaped by their philosophy and practice.
I knew I had succeeded in my goal when Literary Titan wrote, “Readers will recognize that Lawrence did a fair share of research or is a subject matter expert when describing fight scenes.“ I’m definitely not a subject matter expert, but having pulled off engaging and believable fight scenes means so much to me.
That said, I’ll never claim to fully understand what it’s like to live the martial arts or combat experience. To do so would be a display of arrogance and ego. Although I’m well-versed on the topic, I’m not personally connected to it; I have not lived it. I can only attempt to illustrate it as authentically as possible in my fiction.
Authenticity fosters empathy and connection. It enables queer readers to see themselves not as side characters or cautionary tales, but as whole, dynamic human beings. For non-queer readers, it offers a window into the authentic lives of LGBTQ+ individuals, free from caricature, stereotype or moral lesson. And we queer people are not all the same, living exact experiences.
For example, I will never know the trans-experience, as I’m not a trans person. If I were to write a transgender character, I would strive to portray them as a fully realized individual, not a caricature. And if I were to get something wrong, I would accept criticism with humility and strive to improve. This is where one can benefit from sensitivity beta readers prior to publishing.
In my interview earlier this year with author Tal Frost, a gay trans man, I used a term in our preliminary discussion that did not mean what I believed it did. Knowing I had no ill intent, Tal thoughtfully educated me on the problematic nature of that term so that I could improve my vocabulary and social consciousness. My misuse of this term was a natural mistake, based on a misinterpreted piece of research. This is why “lived experience” is so vital.
Language is constantly evolving, and it’s our personal responsibility to grow with it. In the mid-to-late 1990s, during my time at university, I studied Queer Theory extensively, with a particular focus on gender and sexuality, as well as its application in literature. Today, some of the terms I learned back then, along with aspects of the ideology itself, have shifted and evolved, including racial elements. Learning doesn’t stop once you get that Graduation Diploma.
For decades, the publishing industry has upheld gatekeeping practices that marginalized LGBTQ+ voices, often deeming gay stories as “too niche” or “not marketable.“ When gay characters were included at all, they were frequently written by straight authors and framed through tropes of tragedy, deviance, or comic relief.
Own Voices authors challenge this pattern. They disrupt the tokenistic inclusion of gay characters by writing rich, diverse narratives that reflect the full spectrum of queer life, its joys, struggles, and everyday experiences—not just trauma. I’ve seen too many non-Own Voice authors portray queer suffering as ultimately insurmountable and attempt to find grace or poetry in the trope of resigned darkness or “dark fate.”
Moreover, Own Voice authors reclaim the right to tell their own stories without compromise. They resist the expectation to center heteronormative audiences or dilute queerness for the sake of palatability. By doing so, they not only expand the literary canon but also affirm the importance of queer perspectives as central, not peripheral, to the human experience.
When gay/queer authors write about queer lives, they draw from a shared cultural memory and deep emotions that speak across generations. These stories offer connection, validation, and hope for young queer readers. They also serve as a record of queer history, from the AIDS crisis to marriage equality and the ongoing fight against anti-LGBTQ+ laws and censorship of queer books in libraries and schools.
While I write Canadian thrillers with a strong queer edge, I’ve also authored two novels that some might
categorize as M/M. As part of the Haunted Hearts Own Voices series, with my 2024 novel The Night Belongs to Lovers and the upcoming I Will Always Find You, I’ve explored gay romance themes more deeply than in my thrillers. That said, I don’t personally consider my work to fall neatly into the MM category. I see them more as Gay (Paranormal) Romance.
Though often used interchangeably, M/M romance and gay romance are, in my opinion, distinct genres with different focuses and audiences. M/M is typically written by and for women who enjoy romantic stories between men. These stories tend to prioritize emotional melodrama, fantasy, and romance tropes, often without fully engaging with the real experiences of queer men.
Gay Romance, on the other hand, is more rooted in authentic LGBTQ+ experiences. Often written by gay men or queer authors, it explores not just love, but also identity, community, and the realities of queer life. While both genres have value, Gay Romance generally offers more queer cultural nuance and depth, whereas M/M leans more toward escapist storytelling. Understanding the difference helps readers choose stories that reflect either fantasy or lived experience.
That’s not to say that Gay Romance can’t explore escapist themes (mine certainly do) or that M/M can’t deliver emotional profundity. It’s really based on the author’s “agenda” and creative direction with their storytelling. Even their exposure to gay life in all its variety.
From James Baldwin to Tal Bauer, Edmund White to Andrew Grey, Andrew Holleran to Christopher Rice, Rita Mae Brown to Sarah Waters, Charlotte Charke to Janet Mock, and Jack Halberstam to Tal Frost, these writers have created literary spaces that both affirm queer identities and challenge dominant narratives around masculinity, femininity, desire, family, and romance. Their work exemplifies the transformative power of storytelling deeply rooted in lived experience.
Supporting Gay/Queer Own Voice authors, like myself, is not about exclusion or gatekeeping; it’s about correcting long-standing imbalances and championing authenticity in literature. It recognizes that those who live within marginalized identities are best equipped to articulate their nuances and experiences. Their stories are not optional; they are essential. They educate, heal, empower, and most importantly, humanize.
I will always give flowers to those non-queer authors who step outside themselves and write fully developed, resonant gay/queer characters. Anne Rice, my favourite author, had a profound impact on queer literature and readers, myself included. As a cisgender straight woman, she had an incredible ability to write queer characters with depth, empathy, and nuance. Her work revealed that she was more than just a skilled researcher; she was a writer capable of absorbing and translating the accounts and experiences conveyed to her by her gay friends and colleagues into compelling and relatable fiction. Still, she never claimed to understand queerness at its core, only a desire to represent it to the best of her ability and humanize it.
Anne Rice had an uncanny ability to tap into themes of identity, otherness, forbidden desire, and existential longing, all elements that often echo the lived experiences of LGBTQ+ people. She didn’t just include queer-coded or queer-adjacent characters; she gave them center stage, dignity, sorrow, passion, desires, and agency.
My two favourite queer characters in fiction are both Rice creations: Louis de Pointe du Lac from Interview with the Vampire (Knopf, 1976) and Julien Mayfair from The Witching Hour (Knopf, 1990). Louis’s introspection and moral conflict, alongside Julien Mayfair’s sensuality and charisma, resonated deeply with me as I saw parts of myself in these characters.
In an era where queer lives are still politicized, criminalized, and misunderstood, amplifying gay authors who write from an Own Voice perspective is a necessary act of resistance and reclamation. It serves as a reminder that representation isn’t just about being seen—it’s about being seen honestly and as authentically as possible within a myriad of fictional narratives.
At the end of the day, I would never tell anyone what they can or can’t write; I believe in exploratory storytelling. That said, I will always hold a writer accountable for their work, just as I expect to be held accountable for mine.
