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Q: How would you describe your work?
The stories I write usually center on characters who experience the world from a distance, even though they’re living in it. They’re doing the best they can to make their lives work in a world that seems designed to prevent them from doing that. Sometimes living in that space is traumatic, but it can also be absurd and funny. I write about the experience of just trying to gain a sense of equilibrium amidst the chaos of daily life.
Q: What drew you to writing, and what keeps you coming back to it?
Writing grew out of reading. My paternal grandmother would take me to the library and let me check out whatever I wanted. I read The Exorcist, The Omen, The Amityville Horror, Carrie and The Shining by the time I was 12, which is one of the many reasons I turned out like this. I experience a very high vibrational hum when I’ve conceived of something, created it, and refined it into the form I imagined it being in. It’s the greatest feeling I have. I keep coming back to it because that’s what I’m here to do.
Q: What’s the most misunderstood part of your identity that writing has helped you reclaim?
My interior life is at maximum volume like 99% of the time, but I usually present on the outside as chill & reserved. It’s a weird contrast. Writing helps me express the chaos and the busyness of what’s happening on the inside.
Q: Who are the writers or other people who gave you permission to be bold?
My favorite authors are Stephen King, Margaret Atwood, and William Gibson. I also love reading Jack Womack, Raymond Chandler, Christa Faust & John Steinbeck. I’m inspired by Marsha P. Johnson, Harvey Milk, Larry Kramer, Divine, Madonna, John Waters, Elvira-Mistress of the Dark, Scott Weiland, Barbara Stanwyck, Joan Crawford, Jinkx Monsoon, and Veruca Salt from the first Wonka movie. She’s my honorary spirit animal.
Q: Do you have any official spirit animals?
Yes: Giraffe, Sea Turtle, Fox, Dragonfly.
Q: What’s the worst writing advice you’ve ever received—and did you gleefully ignore it?
I was told that I should turn my first novel “forever ago.”, which is the story of a sex worker in 1990s Los Angeles dealing with the trauma of childhood sexual abuse, into a murder mystery to raise the stakes. Not only did I ignore her advice, I stopped returning her calls.
Q: What’s the most unfiltered truth about you that your book quietly confesses?
That the voices I write don’t have filters. They don’t avoid telling the truth as they see it, unless it’s a strategic choice. They don’t believe in sacred cows.
Q: What does “unfiltered” mean to you—and why does it matter in queer storytelling?
Unfiltered means rejecting erasure. There’s room for all the points of view that aren’t toxic or harmful. Especially the weird points of view, which aren’t even necessarily weird. They’re just not the herd norm.
I’m not here to blend in. Being weird is a feature, not a bug. The people who can’t deal with me being weird are the defective ones. They need to work on that.
Q: What role does humor play in surviving trauma, heartbreak, or just a terrible Tuesday?
Humor makes life bearable. If I didn’t have humor to get me through some of the circumstances I’ve faced as a queer person, I don’t know where or who I would be.
Q: What do you hope someone whispering your book title in a queer bar late at night is saying about it?
Wait, queer bars still exist? I hope they’re saying it tastes good.
The plugs stories all gave me pause, but Plugs 2 was the one I avoided writing for as long as I could. I knew where I had to go to access the experience so I could write about it effectively. It was the last chapter of the book that I wrote.
Revisiting the experience, and reengaging with the emotions it produced at the time, and over the years until now, was difficult. But processing it through the lens of the man I am now was therapeutic and healing. For years, I’ve put a lot of energy into avoiding the memory of that experience, and now I’m not doing that. I’ve been able to release it and it’s opened up a lot of energetic space for me to utilize for more important things.
No one ever expects to be S.A.’d, and when it happens, you have to make a series of choices at a moment wherein you don’t have much agency, if any. There’s no one way that S.A. happens, and there’s no instruction manual on how to be S.A.’d correctly. Our legal system is set up in a way that requires victims of S.A. to have no sexual history, to have never said or done anything to or with their rapist that may be conceived of as friendly or flirtatious. Because that can be characterized as consent to sexual violence. Which is B.S.
Also, in the queer community (just as in broader U.S. society), victims of S.A. are routinely blamed for being S.A.’d. If I had a dime for each time I’ve heard a queer man say, “You can’t rape the willing!” I’d be about $5 richer. Because we’re men, we’re expected to avoid ever being S.A.’d by other men. If we are, we’re expected to just man up, learn from the experience (which was probably our fault to begin with), and STFU about it, because no one wants to hear it. This practice of sweeping it under the rug does nothing but keep S.A. between queer men normalized. It’s not normal.
I kept it in the book because it’s important to share my experience: how I got to that point, how I navigated it while it was happening, how I eventually extricated myself from being entangled with a very dangerous man. Putting it out there just makes it more likely that someone who’s dealt with a similar situation will see it, and know they’re not alone. It’s also a cautionary tale for everyone else. If I can prevent it from happening to anyone, even if it’s just one person, then it’s a story worth telling.
If your life had a soundtrack, what song would play when the credits roll?
“Sweet Happy Life” by Peggy Lee
What’s one line or moment in your book that means the most to you—and why?
“In space, no one can hear you nut.” Why ask why?