The Aesop Queer Library

What has it been like seeing your words out in the world? Has it impacted your relationship with your own identities and how you understand your place in the world?  

I'll confess, I walk into bookshops and deliberately look to see if they stock any of my work. When they do, it's this incredible feeling of, ‘Wow, I did that, and it's here in this bookshop in this city or town that I've never been to before.’  

It's an incredible thing because so much hard work goes into putting a book together, editing a collection, or even if you've just submitted one piece to an anthology, so much of your essence, your soul, and your spirit is in that work. 

The way I write is dictated by my emotional state or psychological place. My work used to be very heavy and very centric to the holding on, the yearning, the loss, the missing or wanting. But now it's about celebrating who I am and where I belong.  

Someone told me many years ago that one of the most powerful things about writing and being published is, you'll never know or understand how your words will impact the lives of people you’ve never met. 

There are times when I still think, ‘Am I writing the right thing? Am I writing about what people want to read?’ Then I remember, that's not why I write. 

I write for myself, and I write to leave some form of a legacy to my black identity, and to my queer identity. 

Tell us about your published work in the Aesop Queer Library. What was the process like, getting published in Australia?  

My writing features in The Aesop Queer Library as part of an anthology called Nangamay Mana Djurali – which takes its name from the Gadigal words for ‘dream’, ‘gather’ and ‘grow’.  

It’s a very important book, edited by Alison Whittaker and Steven Lindsay Ross, that comprises powerful voices from the black queer community around Australia. It’s an incredible body of literature that captures so many different perspectives and experiences from that intersection of identities – it paints this wonderful picture of what life is like for an Aboriginal queer person in contemporary Australia. 

At first I thought my pieces were too dark or too intense for the theme. But my angle was, this writing is about dreaming and growing from dark places into something more positive. 

One of the most interesting things is the fact that it was self-published by BLACKBOOKS. The publishing industry is commercialised and, these days, words are attached to a dollar value.  

But that’s not the value that matters. Readers don’t care about what’s marketable, or what sells – they care about where they belong, what they can relate to, and what can help and empower them in their own communities. 

How does literature contribute to inclusivity and visibility for queer identity and experience?  Literature has the power to save lives. Growing up, I didn’t know the way I felt had words I could apply to myself – words that mean I’m not alone and that I’m part of something magnificent.   Every time we experience literature that lights up another hidden part of humanity, we are all better off. To know one another and to be true to ourselves happens first with feeling, then with noticing, finding joy and peace in what makes us who we are, and then being vibrantly real.  

Seeing queer characters across literature makes my skin hum. There are words for these feelings and ways of being! The energetic power of those words on a page has endless capacity to heal and create a more inclusive world. 

Tell us about your published work. What was the process like, getting published in Australia?  

You’ll Be a Wonderful Parent is the book I needed so many years ago. I bought many parenting books but didn’t end up reading them because they were intimidating and inaccessible to me. My brain can’t make sense of large blocks of text and goes into a panic trying to understand. It’s not a great time. But I know that making anything accessible to people who need accommodations is ultimately good for everyone.  

My friend Ailsa Wild asked me to do a sensitivity read of her beautiful manuscript for You’ll Be a Wonderful Dad, and I’m a blunt person, so amongst the parts I loved and enthused about in our meeting, I let her know that there was nothing in this book for our community. That there was no need for her to be anything but authentically who she is, which is a loving person with all kinds of people in her life, and perhaps to mention something about ensuring your child knows a wide range of people. That they see you loving and building community with people different to you in all sorts of ways. That way, whoever they grow to become, they’ll know they’re safe and loved. That they belong.  

I suggested Ailsa tell her publisher that there needs to be a queer version of her beautiful book, and before I knew it, I had a contract to sign and a book to write.  

The book has been published internationally, and I’ve heard from people all over the world who have found belonging in this book I created along with illustrator Quince Frances. The relief has been palpable, and quite emotional. To know that when what you’re doing isn’t really seen or valued by the mainstream, or the majority, it can be so frightening to set out on the path of creating a family as a queer person. The book is the hand on your arm, telling you it’s going to be okay, that it will be beautiful and you’re doing great.