Five books and lessons learned.
Yesterday, I could finally put all my books on a shelf. It’s been a comedy of errors getting my author copies of the Rent book (which, let’s face it, is reminiscent of writing the thing), so it was a particularly satisfying moment.
It’s also a moment to take stock and be proud of that collection. It’s been an exciting week, writing-wise. I’ve had self-doubt and a minor breakdown over a creative project. Then, I had to fight back on an academic project that at one point would have felt like the end of the world; now, it just feels like a matter of principle. And finally, I got all my books in a row. So this felt like a point before moving on to the next, to reflect on these five and how we got here.
Angels in America at the British National Theatre
This was my first book contract, but ultimately, it was my second book. This one, at the time, felt like everything. I worked in Waterstones as a Christmas temp after my office job ended in October. I was trying desperately to get a contract with an academic publisher, and as I was already three years post, I felt like a failure. But I managed it- and while I might not have gone for the shiniest or most prestigious academic publisher, I went with one who wanted what I was offering. I went with McFarland, too, because they had published other books on Kushner, and it just makes sense to work with a publisher who knows and wants to publish on your topic.
It took me a long time to write. When they’re not paying for it, the thing in academic publishing is that at least they give you the time if you need it. Ultimately, it took another four years, but there was a casual pandemic in the middle (dramatic irony, given the subject matter). Writing this one wasn’t easy- again, casual pandemic and all. It also wasn’t challenging in the writing. I know this play and how to talk about it, and nobody ever called into question any of that, and I was allowed to write about it my way.
And my journey with it and writing throughout the writing of it was fascinating. In the early years, I was still fighting with what jobs looked like and trying to be part of theatre as a playwright and the fight and juggling felt too immense. I was constantly asked to choose between being an academic writer or being creative; there can be neither. I felt like too everything was the end of the world or a disaster (oh, sweet summer child, you did not know disaster at this point). Or crucially, that I had no power. Actually, in writing this and in being able to assert my voice in the process, I found that instead of the dismissal I was previously met with in academia, I was listened to by editors.
I am forever grateful to Gary at McFarland, who dismissed robustly the peer reviewer’s comment that I ‘write like a journalist’ (academics’ favourite insult) by saying, ‘If he means it’s clear and jargon-free, I’m inclined to agree with him.’
Gary is forever a legend.
There are many reasons to play the academic publishing game and many ways to play it. I’m glad I did dip my toe in and publish the one monograph of that part of my PhD. But I’m so happy I did it with a publisher who let me do my version. There’s nothing in the content of this one I’d change, and I said what I wanted to say how I said it. It’s not trying to be groundbreaking or the definitive text on Kushner; it’s just another slice of talking about his work, and I stand by proudly. I am incredibly proud I got to capture Marianne Elliott’s work on the play, as nobody else has so far and to preserve that part of its history.
I’m sad that this book is too expensive for many to read (though, cough, if you want to, cough drop me a line…).
This book was what it needed to be. I’m glad that the academic game isn’t one I have to be in, and I don’t think this one is any ‘better’ a book for being in that category. But I’m proud of my messy Angelic book of the messy angelic play.
Love that Journey for Me; the Queer Revolution of Schitt’s Creek (404 Ink)
This was the happiest of accidents and the kickstart of my writing career. I’m aware that, as with much in life, it was all in the timing. I saw a call for the first of 404’s Inklings and submitted one on Schitt’s Creek on a whim. I’d toyed with wanting to write something on the show but was leaning towards pitching an article somewhere. But what could it hurt to chuck one in (shoutout to 404 for making it super easy and accessible to pitch them, too)?
Writing this one was a bit different- partly because I was the first Inkling, so we were all learning what the process looked like and because the book is a cross between a long article and a book, so getting the balance was a new experience.
But the book itself was a moment of ‘right book right time’ in that Schitt’s Creek was still riding high on the final season success, the fandom was super active, and there was still genuine interest. Add to that a tremendous bite-sized affordable book that was a mix of good timing and content.
What I also learned from this book was my love of the marketing side of things. It’s somehow not seen as ‘cool’ to enjoy that side of it; I guess as writers, we’re supposed to want to sit musing on important things and putting together words rather than crassly whoring our wares. Well, call me a whore then because I enjoy getting the work to people. I always say I’m as much in it for the stuff that comes with writing as the writing itself, and this book was an absolute joy of a thing in that respect. I enjoyed the hustle and the challenge of getting places and talking about it, and I found I’m good at that, too.
Sadly, the only downside to this book was fandom's downside. You can’t please all the people all the time, and while it's not the book that people were angry at, I made the mistake of being too deep inside a thing I was writing about. I suffered a backlash from fans; I suffered a bit of bullying, to be honest. But lessons learned in fandom, boundaries and standing up for what’s right!
Seasons of Love, why Rent matters
Next in contract order was this one. This was the ‘well I’ve done one half of the PhD guess I should do the other then’ one. And while I was as passionate about getting this one done, I’d be lying if I also truly wish I hadn’t bothered.
If there’s one book I regret, it’s this one. But at the same time, I also knew I had to write it. (Though in hindsight, I could also happily never have written it now, not because of what happened but because things shift and feel less important.) It’s such a difficult book for me to talk about right now; it all feels raw. At best it is my ‘evermore’ my sad forgotten second pandemic album. But maybe if it’s my evermore, there are some gems in there, too.
Writing this in the first instance was, in fact, a joy, not so much in the writing of it, which, if I’m honest, I found a bit dry after already writing a PhD and having little new to add (unlike Angels, which I had a whole new production to dissect in). But more importantly, for this, I got to speak to show fans and interviewed dozens of people for whom Rent was important. And they are why this book exists, and I fought for it to exist. I wanted their stories to be shared and the book to exist for them. As much as I now never want to open this book again, those interviews are why it’s important.
I find it hard to be proud of this book. I’d go as far as to say I’m not; I’m ashamed of it on some level. I didn’t write the book I wanted to. Objectively, it's probably not as bad as I think it is. But in my head, it’s awful, and that’s not false modesty. That’s genuinely how I feel about it. And that’s a really difficult thing to sit with when, ultimately, the buck stops with me; there’s little to do but do better.
I cried so much over this book during the worst of the process. And while now my heart is hardened to it, I hate it and wish I hadn’t fought that hard…I also know I fought that hard because it mattered, if not to me, then to others. So we’ll take that.
Anyway, the cover is pretty.
(A side note on covers: I’ve also been extremely lucky to pick and design or at least influence most of my covers; if you can push for that, it’s worth it).
Gay Aliens and Queer Folks, How Russell T Davies Changed TV
This book came about due to the little Schitt’s Creek book. I got a foot in the door to talk to the publisher (via their lovely editor, Amy) after I wrote that book. And to me, this was a testament to my work speaking for me- my previous work had been good enough to prompt that conversation and get a foot in the door for the next conversation instead of cold-pitching. That felt significant in terms of career development.
God I love this book. I mean look at her for a start, that’s just the gayest of books and I love it.
There were SO many books I could have pursued at this point, with Calon and book gods willing, and some of them will eventually still happen. Still, again, this was a lucky ‘right book, right time’ in that I pitched the RTD angle, and I shit-us-not on the day I signed the contract, the man announced he was going back to Doctor Who.
Once again, promoting this book and all the stuff that has come my way has been a joy, more so than writing it. I love getting to dive further into the thoughts and themes of the book; it feels like an ongoing conversation. And that’s so exciting to me. This is what gets me excited, the ‘yes and…’ of it all. I wrote a book and because of that I get to have so many more conversations about something I love…what’s better than that?
I'm proud of the book and thrilled with what I talked about…but there’s so much I had to leave out for space and time. So it feels…unfinished. But also, RTD is far from finished, so maybe it’s just a sign, and I haven’t finished either (that sounds more threatening than I intended. Love you, Rusty).
I feel incredibly proud, though, to have been part of the conversation on his work, on queer TV drama and more. That feels like where I want to be; this book felt like another step towards that.
You are My Happy Ending Schitt’s Creek and the Legacy of Queer TV
On the one hand, this book was entirely an indulgence piece for me…but also, what are you to do when you have an entire book’s worth of things still to say on a TV show? Luckily, I had two very understanding publishers who let me say it.
I also don’t say it lightly, but I would change nothing (bar the odd typo) in this book. I said everything I wanted and could say, ‘I’m done’ in a good way.
And it was fun, and this book was lovely to write. I got to write about how a joyous TV show had a positive influence and how it was a force for good. What’s not to love?
This book also feels like putting my flag in it. Both this show, I think I’m the only person to write a book on it (I think I’m certainly the only one to write two and as Noah Reid said to me that is a bit dorky, but we’ll take it). But for me this book firmly put me in the ‘TV writer’ category. I defer to those who have done it longer than I still, but I pivoted from Theatre to TV or at least ‘cutlure’ more fully in this one. I feel like I belong there now. It feels as Patrick said, ‘right’.
I’m also really proud of the writing- in this and the RTD one, I feel like I hit my writing ‘voice’ (vom) properly, and also that as much as we do, I know what I’m doing now. And that feels great.
What now? What have I learned?
What now is…more queer books, I hope. There’s one under contract (with the glorious Calon) and one out on submission via my lovely agent (Frog Literary, ribbit). And a few ideas are bubbling under as well. And one unhinged idea that bless everyone involved for nodding and smiling at for now (please let me be back here in a year telling y’all about that).
But in this process, I’ve learned what is important to me and what to fight for.
First, what to fight for; fight for your voice. Fight for writing about what’s important to you. Don’t be difficult for difficulty’s sake, obviously, but if someone has trusted you to write the book, then the chances are you know your stuff on that subject, so for goodness sake, fight for the content you want to have in it. So, own what you know, your instinct and fight for what you want to write about.
Similarly, if you think you’re being done dirty by a publisher, speak out, get others to support you, look over documents and generally sense check you, and stand up for you. The author is the person who the industry cannot function without, but also the person who is most easily fucked over. As much as speaking up is scary because it feels like it can all be taken away at any moment, sometimes it’s better to lose than do it a way you’re not happy with. Don’t get fucked over by your contracts, and remember this is a business; put the artistic or emotional element aside and make sure you’re getting treated relatively (if you don’t have an agent, you can still get help from the Writers Guild or Society of Authors, or ask your friends who have published, or ask me, we’re all in this together).
And that’s my other lesson: learn what not to fight for, learn when to walk away. When you start, it feels so desperate to get that contract that you’ll do anything they ask. It’s not worth it. Books are a long game; you don’t want to drag a book you hate over the finish line. But also, while it seems now or never do or die, publish or perish at the moment, I promise you it’s not. Books are like productions of Rent; another one will come around eventually. You might have missed one, but chances come around, and waiting for the right one is better. Or for you to be suitable for it.
Plans are overrated
While somewhat begrudgingly for my chaos demon approach to life and publishing, I am getting to a point where a plan for the future and things like ‘aims’ and a ‘five-year plan’ might be useful. But I have also done all this while behaving like a racoon on meth loading a dishwasher. That is to say, there was no plan, rhyme, or reason for it, and in doing that, I think I’ve fallen into what I’m supposed to do. If I’d been playing by a plan, I’d have been steadily publishing chapters in other people’s edited collections or strategising what monograph, with what academic press, best fit my ‘career aims’. Luckily for all of us, by the time I got my first book contract, I had no academic career aims, zero plan, and frankly, the racoon on meth probably thought things through more than I did.
Would I be more successful if I did plan? Define success. Could I have maybe strategically gotten that Big Five publisher book by now? Maybe. But will more people read my little pink book by a small but mighty publisher I chucked a proposal in for on a wing and prayer? Yes. Will I get more work off the back of my book on a 30-year-old musical because people still study it? Yes. Will I write more articles, do more talks, and build a sustainable career from the TV books put out by smaller, yes, but caring, quality-driven, and author-centred publishers? Maybe, but even if not, I’d rather work with them than be an anonymous author forgotten for the next celebrity in line.
But above all, writing these books isn’t my full-time job. And while I do it in part to hopefully build up other work, I’d rather have spent all those evenings, weekends and lunchbreaks doing something I love than creating some master plan to be the next big thing. I’d rather that my legacy, such as it is, comes from saying something I truly believe in. From creating work I’m truly passionate about to creating even a small contribution to how we understand things, Or you know what? I’m just glad some folks enjoyed reading my thoughts.
So, in closing, this is what I’ve learned; you might as well write what you love, and hopefully, someone else will love it too.