Writing heroes for people scared silent by pain
My work is not for everyone, but it might just be the savvy, sensitive, terrifying staircase you need.
This is not going to be like other articles I've written where I hiss ferociously about everything and sometimes nothing. This time, I want to bring it in and make it personal.
The LGBTQ+ indie series I'm writing isn't for everyone. The themes are intellectually masturbatory. The characters, loud and chaotic. The prose, beautiful yet imperfect. Full of empathy, but hopelessly meandering, you can lose the plot if you wait too long between books. Or chapters, for that matter.
Even the symbolism is obtuse, but for an important reason. That important reason is I write for just two people. One of those people is me.
The other is my heart.
Let me say a difficult thing:
I write because I failed people in my life. I write because people have failed me. But the biggest failure of my life isn't my temporary villainy, or the people who failed me, which lead to that dark moment.
It was not being there for someone who I would destroy the entire world for, if it simply made them smile.
In writing my books, I hope to reach people like them. People like me, lost once—maybe even now—scared silent by pain.
I don't write stories to hide inside of
I write stories to help those I love leave pain behind
I love someone in a way that's not easy to describe.
I have a husband, my hero, my cherished one. I've constructed his doppelgangers as bushy-browed, quiet, sensitive men in multiple stories. He holds a piece of me that nobody can touch, as the love of my life.
But this other love is something different.
It's not unlike how older siblings love younger ones they helped raise. This is a love born out of two extremely traumatic lives. A love that I'm illustrating over a total of 10 books in a series. All of them do something different: socially, politically, thematically.
Yet all of them do exactly one good thing: they gift lessons to just one person who I have tried, since I was very young, to reach.
I will spend the rest of my life burying us both in books, hoping you'll find me—and yourself—when you see our stories.
In some way, I hope to reach a sea of people just like us, but not only for their sakes. Maybe, if you see how others are moved, you will be moved.
Maybe you'll climb through the pages like a staircase and be set free.
I know my work isn't for everyone
It is, however, for the best of someone's
My writing is for the heroes who don't know they're heroes—yet. It's for the people who crawled out of hell and need to know someone else has, too. It's for the people currently in hell, so they know their pain is real—yet so is true hope. That there's life beyond the empty void of stars.
That love is possible after hell and they're still good.
You are still good.
I can't write utopian fiction where reality's evils don't exist. I can't imagine that. I can't write unproblematic characters. I've never been that and neither has my other heart.
Authors who pen those optimistic stories are heroes. They can imagine a world where evil doesn't exist and give that to their readers. That's beautiful.
I can't, but I can imagine messy people joining forces to overcome every pain reality can dish out. I've lived that and that's what I can give.
Heroes who are as imperfect as you are. Heroes who fail in big ways, who suffer and struggle, but love despite everything. Who are good, despite everything.
You are still good.
I don't know if people are ready for the type of stories I write
But they will be, someday
Someday, publishing will be ready for messy queer characters that make every mistake, yet learn, grow, love and thrive. Someday, readers will be ready for horrifying/beautiful adventures with imperfect characters, just like them.
Someday, the other person I write for will be ready.
Someday, they'll take a breath, pull the books to their lap, and feel me speaking directly to them as they read. They'll feel that I listened.
Someday, I have hope they'll take reality in, hold it until bursting, then part their lips. Then, they'll never, ever, ever again be silent for as long as they live.
My work is not for everyone, but if this resonates, it's for you. It might just be the savvy, scary, messy staircase you need. It might just be hope through your pain, love through your fear and it might just give you characters to cling to.
It might just be all of that, but my true hope is it does this for just one person. One person is enough.
Because they are everything to me.
K. Leigh is an ex-freelancer, full-time author, and weirdo artist. Read their lgbt+ sci-fi books, connect on Twitter, visit their site, or send them an email if you’d like to work together. 🌈 🏳️⚧️
