always running away (from gender).

Every time the “who can/should write/read MM romance” discourse surfaces, I want to write something about it. And every time, I don’t. But last night I read a sequence of posts and ended up really, genuinely upset – the kind of horrible, anxious, nauseous upset – and I wanted to work out why.

(I should say – I don’t particularly like divvying up queer romance into “MM” and “FF” romance, for reasons I explain below. I’m using the term “MM romance” in this post because that’s the language that is generally used.)

I usually work things out by writing about them, so that’s what I did. And then I decided to post it, almost as an act of catharsis. I wrote it, I said it, I can let it go.

Writing and posting something about this feels precarious and vulnerable. I asked myself a lot of questions as I was writing. Am I being unduly defensive? Am I centring my own experiences in an unhelpful way? Is my discomfort because I was being called in and needed to sit with it?

To be honest, I still don’t know if the answer to those questions is yes. But I also know I’m not the only trans/non-binary/bi person who feels shitty about this discourse, so I decided I’d write down my thoughts and put them into the world. Maybe nobody will read it, and that’s fine. Maybe some people will read it and talk to me about it, and I’ll learn new things or realise ways in which my thinking was flawed. That would be great.

(There are also lots of interesting and incisive pieces written and made about this issue. Maybe at some point I’ll compile a bibliography, but that feels like a task for another day).

In some ways, it’s odd that this discourse hits me so hard, because I’m not a woman. Definitionally, those posts aren’t about me. Except, it’s hard to know that. A lot of posts on this topic don’t seem to acknowledge that there are categories of people outside “women” and “men”, or that both gender and sexuality can be messy and fluid. They leave me feeling unsettled partly because of what goes unsaid.

By the time I finished writing out the first draft of this post, I’d worked out the heart of my discomfort: it can feel like the discourse in this space puts gender as the most fundamental touchstone of identity.

(I also have a big problem with the idea that anyone needs to be swiping their identity credentials to write something. But that’s not what this post is about. I knew how I felt about that, but something else was bothering me.)

Before I get into what I mean, I’m just going to put my baggage on the table. I’m ace, biromantic and non-binary. I’m painfully aware that the majority of people who interact with me immediately (mis)gender me as a woman. Cisgender queer people – and especially cisgender gay men – do it as much as straight cisgender people. It just hurts more from queer people. It’s a reminder that I can’t assume that LGBTQ+ communities and spaces are places where I will find acceptance and community.

I’ve also never been told bi now, gay later by a straight person, but I’ve been told that by queer people. I was told that about twenty seconds after coming out to a gay friend of mine, while I was still anxious and uncertain about my sexuality. I have no doubt that part of my own reaction to this discourse is because I’ve had plenty of negative experiences in supposedly inclusive spaces, where it’s been made clear that in fact it’s a space for queer men (usually cisgender gay men). Or where lesbians have made their contempt for bi women palpable, assuming that I’m also a lesbian.

It gets fucking tiring, feeling that initial glow of wow, my people, my place followed up by the sinking sensation of oh, I guess not.

So yes, I absolutely understand why, as a queer man writing about queer men, it would really, really suck to rock up in a space that should celebrate and affirm and promote your work and be told it’s not your space. That’s fucked up. It shouldn’t happen. But I also don’t know that it’s helpful to be carving up queer romance into gendered categories and deciding who those categories belong too.

Let me explain what I mean when I say I feel like this discourse puts gender as the most fundamental touchstone of identity. I have seen posts explaining how women writing MM romance are “visitors” in a space that belongs to queer men. But I never see it suggested, for example, that gay men writing about bi men are visitors in a space belonging to bi folks.

The discourse often states or implies that you’re a tourist in someone else’s space if you’re a different gender to your protagonists, and that any other commonalities in identity are less significant than that one difference. It troubles me that gender is positioned as the most significant part of identity, of sexuality, of attraction.

Sometimes the discourse skirts very close to equating gender with genitals. I’m going to proceed on the assumption we can all agree that that’s transphobic. I’m also proceeding on the assumption that we can all agree that when you’re writing an identity that doesn’t align with your own it’s important to do your research and be respectful (e.g., the fact I’m non-binary doesn’t give me a carte blanche to write non-binary characters without doing the work).

Perhaps you are thinking: but Darcy, the reality is that gender is fundamental to how people interact with us on a daily basis. Trust me, I know. Maybe this whole post is me desperately trying to push back against the unfortunate reality that being gendered is inescapable. Maybe I just resent that reality intruding into every facet of my life.

I was talking to my wife about all of this last night. I was pretty tangled up in my thoughts. Then she said: well, to me, queerness is liberation, and I don’t know why you’d reimpose all these binaries on queer spaces. (Yes, she is very smart.)

I write queer stories because I’m queer and I want to write romantic comedies about queer joy. I write primarily about cis men because writing other romantic pairings tends to trigger my dysphoria. I’m not claiming the stories of my characters as my stories. But I like to think that the queer romance space is my space. Not that it belongs to me, but that I belong in it. That it is a space I belong in without having to show a gender identity and sexuality card, and no matter the gender of the characters I’m writing. I don’t want to be told by anyone – but perhaps especially by men – that I don’t belong.

That’s what I feel when I read some of these posts. A shriek of don’t tell me I don’t belong here building under my ribs. And that’s complicated, right? Because sometimes defensiveness or discomfort is a sign that I need to check myself. But sometimes hurt is a sign that something is wrong.

Maybe I should assume that people posting about this aren’t talking about me or other trans folks, but why would I assume that? I can’t assume that in offline queer spaces.

Cisgender women can undoubtedly be shitty to queer men. Queer men can also be shitty to women. Cis queer people can be shitty to trans and gender diverse people. Social power dynamics are messy and intersectional, including those dynamics in offline and online queer spaces. Then there’s the added complexity that romance has historically been primarily (though not exclusively) written and read by women, and is a genre that has been dismissed and denigrated for that reason.

In the end, I don’t disagree with most of what people say about MM romance. We should celebrate queer men writing stories about queer men. We should champion diversity in bookish spaces more generally, because those spaces can be super white and ableist and fat-phobic and lots of other shitty things. There are lots of problems with representation in queer romance. We should talk about them.

None of what I have said is dismissing the value of all authors of queer romance talking to other queer authors/people about representation and how to get things right. I am very grateful to the queer men who have read my book and were willing to answer questions outside my lived experience (there are some really good message exchanges, let me tell you). I want queer authors to find community with other queer authors. I want us to talk about the problems with representation. I want queer men to feel welcome and championed in the queer romance space. I want the queer romance space to be more diverse.

But I would also like people, and especially cis queer men, to think about the language they use, and the extent to which some of this discourse reiterates or re-entrenches a binary idea of gender, or mirrors patterns of exclusion in offline LGBTQ+ communities. I would be grateful if cis queer men made an effort to be clear in their language, because lots of non-binary and trans folks can’t assume that we’re welcome, even in overtly queer spaces. It would be nice if posts acknowledged that there are men writing queer romance who can’t be out as men because that’s not safe for them. It would be nice if they left room for the fact gender and sexuality can be messy and evolving.

And if you do want to exclude me: say it to my fucking face, ok? Don’t make me read it between the lines. Go on, tell me why the fact I don’t have a dick means I can’t write about queer people who have them. It would honestly be refreshing.

I have rebutted myself so much while writing this that I probably should have written it like some sort of Socratic dialogue. Part of me wants to delete it immediately. But I’m going to post it, because the worst thing that happens is I’m wrong and I learn about why, and there are worse things in life than being wrong.

I have found so much of myself through being a queer romance writer and reader. I want to belong in a community of queer authors writing queer romance. I hope I do. I wish I was certain I did.

Darcy xx