Imogen Markwell-Tweed's Blog

Across the campfire, Neil’s laughing.

In the short amount of time that Neil has been a part of their merry gang of knights, a terrible nickname for their childhood friend group that never really filtered out of use despite aging, David has gotten used to hearing Neil laugh.

Neil’s always laughing or chuckling or giggling or, occasionally, snorting air through his nose when he finds something particularly sarcastic funny. He’s got a big, goofy grin that takes up half his face, and eyes so blue that when they sparkle, David thinks there might be literal diamonds inside of them.

David’s gotten used to it, in his own way. Sure, it still almost fells him each time, like a punch to the chest, watching the way his eyes scrunch up and his chin tilts towards the sky, bright laughter spilling through the dark night. But he’s developed a response — which is to look pointedly away, but still keeping Neil right within his peripheral so that he can witness it without outright staring.

Tonight, bathed both in starlight and the flickering orange glaze of the flames, Neil looks so happy that David’s chest tightens into a painful, twisted knot. He keeps his fingers curled around the hot tin mug, the warmed wine in it almost painfully hot against his fingertips. It’s good. It’s distracting.

It was Greg’s idea for them to all go camping. A New Year excursion, he’d said brightly, and when Daniel, Tom, and Peter agreed, David had no choice but to yield. He hadn’t wanted to — but it wasn’t like he could say that he was afraid of what he’d feel tonight, drunk and under the stars with Neil on the knife’s edge of a new year.

Neil was Peter’s friend first, then Greg, then Daniel and Tom, and then David had met him, and he’d been…

Well, floored isn’t the right word. Floating wasn’t, either.

It had been steadying. Like he really was planted firmly on the earth — for the first time, after seeing Neil’s diamond eyes brighten as he recognized David from the stories their friends had shared, from the way he said his name in introduction, tongue curling around the letters so softly, David had felt entirely steady for the first time in his life.

It’s a difficult feeling to shake. When Neil is here, David feels entirely sure in his own bones. Falling in love with the man had been inevitable, after David realized that.

“Are you ever going to tell us,” Neil says, head tilting to the side as he grabs David’s gaze, pulling David up as he straightens his neck again, bringing David with him with nothing more than eye contact. “What happened with you and Kate?”

David starts. His eyes must be comically wide and he regrets every last drop of alcohol he’s had tonight — his cheeks are way too pink, and way too visible in the firelight, for Neil of all people to be asking him about this.

I had to break up with her because I realized I was in love with you, you asshole.

“I… don’t know what you mean,” David replies, then chugs the rest of his wine. He waves his cup in the air until Peter sighs and refills it.

Daniel watches him with a furrowed brow. “C’mon, David. We all know you dumped her out of the blue.”

“I did not dump her,” he bristles. He had loved Kate. Just…

What’s love compared to a soulmate?

Jesus, he sounds like a thirteen-year-old. This is why no one can ever find out. Not just that Neil could never be interested in him like that, but because the absolute way that David is gone for him is humiliating.

“You sort of did,” Greg adds, but he’s grinning. He’s had a thing for Kate for ages; this is good news, as far as Greg’s concerned.

“David,” Neil says, and damn him, because David’s head swings immediately, eyes locking. “You can trust us.”

David’s heart does a funny flip. He coughs and distracts himself by taking a large gulp of the hot wine. It burns a little going down, and he’s not quite able to break his eye contact with Neil, but it’s something, at least.

“I just… figured out that it wasn’t what it was meant to be.”

The words burn in exactly the same way the alcohol did; unpleasant, but bearable; necessary.

Neil’s expression softens — just at the edges. The quirk of his lips because a smile rather than a grin, the corners of his eyes widen, and his head tilts just a little bit forward, a jut of a nod. It’s barely perceptible; David sees it right away, of course, as he’s catalogued every expression Neil’s made in his presence over the last six months. But no one else even really glances at Neil, let alone notices the shift in his eyes.

The topic changes, as it always does, and before long, any thought of David and Kate are forgotten.

Neil, though, keeps watching him. It’s just a flickering glance here and there, nothing open and obvious. If it had been, say, Peter watching him this way, David probably wouldn’t have even noticed. But David was too well-attuned to the feeling of Neil’s gaze — firmer than a caress, but just as fleeting — and he couldn’t drink enough or say enough to distract himself from it the whole night.

They ring in the new year with shouts and shots — Daniel and Tom kiss and Greg pouts the rest of the night that Neil didn’t kiss his but Peter’s cheek when the alarm went off on their phones. David studiously says nothing and busies himself getting drunker.

When Greg finally begs off for sleep, Peter and Tom follow him toward the tents. Daniel fell asleep a half hour ago cradling a bottle of rum, and after taking several photos for blackmailing purposes, they covered him with a blanket and let him be.

“David,” Neil says, and David’s head snaps up. He prepares himself to hear Neil bid him goodnight, too, and braces himself when Neil smiles. “Come sit by me.”

It takes a second, but even before David’s mind catches up to his thoughts enough for him to understand, his feet are scrambling. His cheeks burn and he’s grateful for the darkness to hide the blush as he crosses the small camp they’ve made and settle against a fallen log beside Neil.

On accident, he sits too close. On purpose, he doesn’t scoot over.

Their legs are stretched out in front of them, thighs pressing, and David’s throat is swelled with the beat of his pulse.

David watches the fire until his speeding heart steadies. He can feel the heat of Neil’s leg against his own, almost hotter than the flames only a few feet away, and it’s only from the months of practice that he doesn’t say or do anything.

Now that they’re alone — or, as alone as they ever are, really, with the sleeping bodies of their friends only a stone’s throw away — David can’t help but drink the sight of Neil in. He pulls his knees to his chest, resting his cheek on the curved, cool denim there, and just… stares.

Neil lets him.

Better, Neil stares back.

David feels warmer with Neil’s gaze on him. When Neil’s lips twitch into a smile and he lets it still there, just spread lightly like he’s so pleased his face can’t help but relax, David feels it like the lapping water of the ocean, warmed by the day’s sun, and he feels just as powerless against Neil’s eyes as he does against the sea.

“You’re so quiet,” Neil says, eyes sparkling. His fingers are twisting around a beer bottle, tearing at the label, but he doesn’t glance down at all. His eyes are locked on David’s — David can see the flickering of the flame in them.

Then Neil has to go and ruin the moment, as he always does, by grinning cheekily. “Mind you, I could use the break. You usually prattle on endlessly.”

David rolls his eyes. “Like anyone can get a word in edgewise around you, Neil,” he scoffs. Neil laughs and David can’t help but beam brightly at the sight of it. He feels something unfurl in his chest, halfway between peace and excitement, and he’s sure that if anyone could hear his pathetic inner monologue right now, he’d be laughed out of the whole city. Or, forest as it is, he thinks wryly.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” Neil says, finally tearing his eyes away. He looks at the fire. It’s dying — the embers burning low, the heat barely reaching them anymore.

David startles. “What are you talking about?”

“Earlier,” Neil elaborates uselessly, huffing when David rolls his eyes again and gestures for him to continue. “About Kate.”

Oh.

The tips of David’s ears burn a little. “Don’t be,” he requests, trying to make it more a command than a plea.

Neil, oblivious as always, doesn’t notice. “I just mean, it was clearly hard for you, and we shouldn’t be making it harder by prying, and—”

“Neil,” and, there, David’s begging.

Neil shoots him a scowl with narrowed eyes. “David, I’m trying—”

“I’m aware and I’m asking you to not.”

Neil throws the label from the beer bottle to the fire. It doesn’t make it. David laughs and so does Neil, and the tension bleeds out from the moment as quickly as it came.

“I’m…” David hesitates when Neil’s eyes find him again, wide and earnest and so pretty that David thinks he might keel over right here and now. “I’m a bit ashamed. That I couldn’t… be enough for her.”

“She said that?” Neil’s jaw drops and a fierce, almost steely, look passes his eyes.

David’s so surprised, he scrambles to correct him. “No! No. Just… Kate’s great. And I love her. I just…”

He stops again, throat closing a bit. He really does regret hurting her.

Neil, of course, understands almost immediately. “You just don’t love her.”

David expects to blush. He expects for his usual reaction at Neil reading him so clearly to blossom on his face and in his chest. Instead, there’s a look on Neil’s face, not just understanding but knowing, that stops David short.

The air between them isn’t as cold as it should be for a December night.

Or, well, January morning.

Spending the first few moments of the dawning year beside Neil, warmed to the bone from just his gaze and soft smile, David can’t help but feel like this is already better than last year. One year ago, he didn’t even know Neil — what kind of life had that even been?

Neil’s expression flickers, lips parting, and David realizes a heartbeat too late that he’d been speaking aloud.

“Fuck,” he says.

Neil lifts an eyebrow. “Fuck,” he agrees, and then he’s on his knees, one leg sliding between David’s, and then he’s pressing their lips together.

For a long, lingering moment, David doesn’t move — he doesn’t breathe, or lift his hands, or kiss back. He can’t. The shock is so strong that he barely can register the weight of Neil’s body against his, let alone the press of Neil’s lips.

It takes him so long, in fact, that by the time he’s lifted his dead weight hands, Neil’s pulling back, an uncharacteristically vulnerable tilt to his expression.

“I—I—did I… misread…?”

And David’s a lot of things, but he’s not a liar, and he’s not a coward. Not really.

At least, not anymore.

He winds his hands in Neil’s hair — god, it’s as soft and thick as he’d imagined — and he’s angling their lips together within seconds of the words leaving Neil’s mouth. He hesitates, though, just a second, eyes widening as he realizes the absolute enormity of what he’s doing.

“David,” Neil says, and David’s heart swells.

He kisses him. It’s six months late — a lifetime late, really — and David can’t get close enough. One hand stays fisted in Neil’s hair, the other sliding down his chest to his zipped coat, gripping the cold material tight. Neil gasps against his lips, mouth parting, and David uses the space to kiss him deeper. His tongue swipes across Neil’s bottom lip, the heady taste of whiskey and beer mingling with the brightness of starlight that is natural to Neil. He’d been sobering up, feeling almost close to normal before, but as soon as Neil makes a soft, mewling sound, his tongue lavishing against David’s, he’s drunk as he’s ever been, intoxicated with it.

“Neil,” he gasps, before pressing his lips against the corner of his mouth, down his jaw and up again. Neil’s arms wind around his neck, fingers curling into his hair, and he arches, head tilting back to expose his neck, and David can’t stop — he smells like smoke from the fire and sweetness from the alcohol, a bit like earth and sweat and it’s so fundamental, so elemental, and David feels like this moment itself is rooted in the ground, in history.

It’s dramatic and embarrassing and it makes him pull back with a small huff of a laugh. He presses his forehead into the crook of Neil’s neck, breathing in deeply, and he’s shaking — from the cold, from the adrenaline, from the relief.

“David,” Neil says his name, and for the first time, David can hear how he says it. Just a little bit breathless, a little bit surprised — no different from before, no different than usual, but open and honest and David isn’t sure what he was hearing before, but it wasn’t this.

Neil sits back on his heels. David’s hands fall to his waist, holding him steady as he leans back on his heels. Neil’s hands fall to David’s shoulders, fingers curling around him, and the easy weight of it burns David.

“Neil,” he says his name the same way he always does, too — but this time, he can feel it when Neil shivers, eyes widening just a little, and this time, David’s allowed to surge forward and kiss him.

Their lips move together, soft now, the soft brush of Neil’s stubble pressing a light burn against David’s clean-shaven face. He can feel the give of Neil’s bottom lip, the plush softness of his tongue as it gently swipes along the slit of David’s mouth, and they kiss until his jaw aches and his lungs burn.

“So I didn’t misread that, then,” Neil says, the first real words between them after their first kiss.

David’s chest leaps, bright like a laugh, but softer. “Nope,” he confirms.

David doesn’t know how much time has passed; his legs are asleep and his eyes are fuzzy with exhaustion, and now that Neil isn’t kissing him, he’s aware that he’s cold and uncomfortable. Neil is shifting in his lap like he is, too, but he’s also grinning widely and his eyes are flickering across David’s face, like he can’t stop searching his expression.

“We should talk about this,” David murmurs, thumbs stroking along the edge of his hips, along the soft give there.

Neil cocks his head, nose scrunching. “Now?” he asks, though it’s interrupted with a yawn.

Fuck.

Affection so strong that it feels like a physical touch surges through him. Swallowing down the nerves building, he leans over and very lightly presses a kiss to Neil’s cheek, then one on the tip of his nose.

“Tomorrow?” David suggests. “How about we sleep now?”

David stands, legs tingling as he shakes them loose, and offers Neil his hand. Neil rolls his eyes when David wiggles his fingers, giggling softly when David tugs him too hard, pressing them together, and David grins down. Gently, they kiss each other once more, before David manages to get them both over to his tent. 

Once inside, David all but collapses on the laid out sleeping bag. It takes almost no effort at all to drag Neil with him.

As soon as they’re laying flat, Neil relaxes immediately, slumping toward him. He yawns again as he goes. It takes a few seconds to shift them until they’re comfortable, Neil curled against David’s chest, his cheek against David’s chest with David’s arm wrapped around Neil. He can feel the way his body is moving, up and down, breathing evening out.

“I’m glad you said all that, earlier.” Neil says against his neck. It’s soft and almost inaudible, but he sighs softly, a decidedly pleased sound.

“I am, too,” he admits, even if he can barely remember what words accidentally slipped out. “I’ll say more in the morning.”

“Please do,” Neil says, then yawns again. David tugs him closer, smiling even as his heavy eyes fall shut.

Outside, the soft sounds of nature work together to craft a lullaby, held together by the sound of Neil’s breathing.

“I’m going to tell you things, too, David. For the record.” Neil’s voice is low with sleep, a little too breathless, and David’s arms unwittingly tighten around him.

“Is this because you regret not kissing me at midnight?” David teases.

Neil huffs, the laugh soft against his skin. “I don’t.”

“Do to,” David presses a kiss to the crown of his head. Neil snuggles closer. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year, David,” Neil says, and as David fades to sleep to the sound of Neil’s breathing, he can’t help but think this really might be the best year yet.

Originally published on Patreon.com/unrealimogen. Subscribe for more free queer shorts.

Everyone has a different approach to writing — some outline extensively, others jump straight into writing. With April’s Camp NaNoWriMo coming up, you might be considering this for your own story.

When I was just starting out as a professional writer, I loathed outlines. I thought that planning everything out made actually writing it boring and stifled my creativity. But once I started doing fast fiction with Bryant Street Shorts, I quickly came to the realization that without an outline, I would never meet my 4-5 week deadlines. It was difficult to adjust my process but after a few different attempts, I finally found an outlining process that works for me. If you also struggle with outlines, or are just looking to try them out, try this method!

This is my tried-and-true Outlining Process. with examples. With this process, I write 35-40k novellas in about four weeks. Click through on the image to save an Infograph with the steps for later!

SPOILERS FOR MY CURRENT WIP BELOW! This will spoil the book so proceed with caution.

Before you outline, you need is a story idea. You probably have that if you’re here! But try to figure out if you understand that story. In any genre, there are specific beats that you’ll need to make sure you’re hitting — or, if you’re not hitting them, you need to understand why and how you’re going to defy those reader expectations. With Romance, there are a few staples of the genre that you’ll need to include: most importantly, the meet cute, the love realization, the pull away, and the happily ever after/happy for now (TIP: If you don’t have an HEA/HFN, then it categorically cannot be Romance.)

When I’m working on a story that feels out of reach or when I try in a different genre, I always use Dan Harmon’s story circle. The story circle is a twist on the Hero’s Journey that helps you understand the MC’s motivations and journey as well as the plot. For my BSS work, I very rarely do this, as I follow the typical Romance structure, but this is my recommended pre-Outlining resource if you’re looking for one! (TIP: If you’re doing a Romance, do a story circle for both characters — the Love Interest needs a life and motivation outside of the relationship, too!)

Okay. You’ve got a good idea, you understand who your MCs are, and you understand what the plot is going to look like. Write it down in a small pitch — don’t worry about it sounding great, just get the main ideas out so when you’re deep in the outline, you can come back to stay on track.

Great! Now we can start actually outlining.

STEP ONE:

Plot out your story beats — the things we talked about above, like the Meet Cute, the realization of feelings, the pull away, love confession, and HEA!

As you can see here, I’m using a Meet Ugly instead of a Meet Cute to emphasize the enemies-to-friends-to-lovers dynamic that I’m working with this time.

I also write Dual POV, so the Realization of Feelings has to be two chapters so that we get that moment from both POVs.

My Pull Away section is also a little bit bare, but that’s because I want the tension to be more front-loaded than post-realization.

STEP TWO:

Time to add the fluff scenes! For me, these are the scenes that usually made me excited about the project in the first place. What scenes do you know you want to include? Make sure to write them in now!

Add as many or as few here as you want! For me, I knew this book was going to have a lot of Farmer’s Market scenes and baking scenes. I didn’t need to add specifics into that yet because that’s sort of the whole premise of the book — but these other two scenes are ones I know I want in, so I’m adding them now.

STEP THREE:

Add any foreshadowing you want included! If you want the readers to have an AHA! moment, you need to plot that in carefully. Don’t wait until the last minute or it might be either too heavy or too light. The right foreshadowing offers readers a moment afterwards where they think about how well that story fit together, not that they’re surprised by the ending. For this book, which is fairly simplistic in plot/nature, there’s not really any foreshadowing. No need for me to plot that in!

STEP FOUR:

Fill in the rest! This is where you go chapter by chapter and mark it down. For my books, which average 40k words total with 2k chapters, I need to plot out 20 chapters total (including an Epilogue). I make sure to re-read my pitch and start a new Google Doc. I add my physical descriptions and any other facts I’m likely to forget and need to refer to when writing (locations/siblings/etc). Then, I start plugging in what I’ve already plotted out above in a numbered list. After that, it’s just filling out the rest of the chapters. (TIP: Fast Fiction writers: don’t plan out your Epilogue just yet. I recommend waiting until you’ve finished the draft and given it a read-through or edit. Then, you’ll be able to see if there are any throw-away lines that you forgot about writing that would be a good closing scene, like if a character mentions something as particularly romantic or their favorite holiday or something. This also helps me to make sure all my Epilogues match my finished story and not just the idea of the plot I had at the beginning.)

Here are the first five chapters of my WIP. As you can see, some bits from the above planning are included — like the Meet Ugly (chapter 2) and a Fluff Scene I wanted to include (chapter 5).

There’s not a ton of info here and it’s clearly riddled with Typos, but it gets the job done! It has enough to keep me on track without bogging down the creativity of just diving into scenes.

And that’s how I outline my romance novellas! Everyone has different styles and needs with an outline, but I find that this process works best for my type of writing. If you try this out, make sure to tag me @unrealimogen or @emcanady and let me know how it goes!

If you want to read the first chapter of Peaches and Honey and see how this outline transfers into the written chapter, hop on over to my Patreon ! All Best Friend and Love Of My Life tier patrons have exclusive access to the first chapter of this sapphic romance.

this new series, Song Short, will be updated on the third Friday of each month! each short (~1.5-2k) is a queer snippet based around some of my favorite songs. these are written in a one hour sprint and never really edited, so please consider forgiving typos. join my patreon to suggest songs and let me know what you think of these shorts!

today’s short is based on Taylor Swift’s “Peace” from her album Folklore. Listen here: YouTube Link and read below. cw for: general angst, mentions of homophobia, wlw couple not out so like that whole thing, mentions of religion

Kaia watched the rain trickle down the windowsill and plop onto the wet, browning carpet.

It had been falling for an hour now. She noticed, faintly, when it first started. She noticed, faintly, when she started to shiver. And she noticed, faintly, when she didn’t care at all about any of it.

The rain was going to seep into her carpet, ruin the floor beneath, before bleeding into the ceiling above her living room. The water damage would brown the ceiling, maybe even break it. She should close the window.

Kaia didn’t move. She didn’t look away. If she looked away, even for a moment, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from looking over at Chloe’s body, warm and sprawled across their small, unkempt bed. The blankets would probably be pooled around her waist, or halfway off the bed already. She’d been asleep since their fight ended, hours ago, and Kaia had been in this chair, watching it rain ever since.

She didn’t even remember what the fight was about. She had no goddamn idea what they could possibly have been arguing about this time — the bills were a common enough grievance if for no other reason than it was easy. Maybe they were arguing about the car that broke last week, the one that Chloe wanted to fix and Kaia wanted to scrap for parts. Maybe they were arguing about the undone dishes or the unvacuumed floor.

It didn’t matter what words they had been saying. She and Chloe both knew what they had been arguing about, really.

Really, the fight was about the same thing it always was about. This time, it was about the grocery store earlier that day, and the wide, gulfing space that Chloe had put between them, and the way she introduced Kaia as her roommate.

As always, the fight went along the same structured narrative, and neither of them had any room to budge. Because the fight was so common, Chloe had barely even understood why Kaia was upset. It’s none of their fucking business, Kai. 

Jesus.

It was the same excuse that Chloe had been doling out since they turned sixteen and too many wine coolers had them feeling each other up behind the school gymnasium. It was the same excuse that Chloe had been scoffing since she’d broke up with her college girlfriend and moved halfway across the country when Kaia got into grad school. It was the same goddamn excuse that Chloe had been using since Kaia asked her to marry her, and Chloe hadn’t said yes any more than she hadn’t said no.

Kaia buried her face in her hands.

Her skin smelled like Chloe’s hand lotion. Sandalwood and sage. It was a husky, deep scent, one that usually had all the tight knots in Kaia’s muscles unwinding just from a single sniff.

Now, though, it just made the tears prick hotter against her squeezed shut eyelids.

She pulled back abruptly, blinking rapidly, and pushed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes. Her vision spotted black and white and she forced herself to take deep, calming breaths that didn’t really do much of anything, but she had been told nevertheless were important.

Kaia looked back out the window. There was a bolt of lightning, sharp blue against the black skyline. No thunder followed. Kaia kept waiting for it to hit, for the rumbling sound to shake her, but it just… never came.

“Kai?”

Kaia stiffened. It took her a long, pulsing moment to unscrew her body and turn to face her maybe, sort-of fiancee.

Chloe was sitting halfway up, sleep-mussed and blearily blinking herself awake. She had a hand pressed to the mattress behind her body and the other was fisted in the gray sheets. Her long blonde hair was mussed, teased a few inches away from her scalp from the way she tossed and turned in the night. She still had the black smudges of her mascara underneath her eyes.

Kaia’s feet hit the floor, hands falling to her knees, and her heart twisted at the tension in the air between them. Chloe looked like she’d been crying — Kaia hadn’t even heard her.

Kaia had been in love with Chloe since they were ten years old.

Chloe always swore that she’d been in love since they were nine.

Kaia couldn’t believe something so romantic could be so utterly unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

“Go back to bed,” Kaia murmured, wincing at the way her voice sounded too rough. Despite never actually shedding a tear, her voice had that deep, gravel-dragged sound to it anyway. Chloe’s face softened immediately and she was throwing the covers off to climb out of bed, ignoring Kaia’s feeble protests.

She landed on the carpet next to Kaia, only marginally missing the wet spot Kaia had been letting grow for too long now. Looking at it now, she found she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Was that what they were? Soft, plodding rain that fell through the cracks? Kaia and Chloe were a couple, but were they only there in the cracks of their real lives? Were they just soft, plodding rain that was growing heavier and heavier, spreading too wide, and causing damage that neither were strong enough to deal with?

Chloe was Kaia’s everything.

Kaia knew that she was Chloe’s everything, too. She didn’t doubt Chloe’s love for her — fierce, protective, consuming that it was, she’d never doubted it for a moment, even back when neither of them understood it. Chloe would stand beside her with bloodied knuckles and a bruised face before she’d let Kaia feel anything other than safe. High school had taught her that.

But Chloe was willing to stand by and let Kaia feel like this.

And, fuck, what did that mean?

It’s not about you or us, Chloe had tried to explain once, when she’d tucked the engagement ring in her underwear drawer. I’m just a private person. I don’t want strangers to know anything about me. C’mon, Kai, you know that.

And it wasn’t like no one knew. Their friends did. Kaia’s family did. But this shadowed existence felt darker and lonelier the older and the farther from the lives they’d once built side by side they got.

And, worse, Kaia knew what Chloe stood to lose if they were brazen. Her job at the seminary, her place in her grad program, her family — her niece, whose family wouldn’t recognize as a girl, who only had Chloe and, when she could be there, Kaia.

It wasn’t that Chloe was refusing to give Kaia what she wanted or needed. It was so much worse than that. And they both knew it.

“Kaia,” Chloe said, breaking her from her thoughts. She started and looked down.

Chloe, on her knees, tentatively placed her hands over Kaia’s on her knees. She tilted her head forward, chin high as she took her in. A bolt of lightning outside brightened the room, illuminating Chloe. For a brief, fleeting moment, she was lit up with the sharp white-blue of electricity, a halo around her reverent expression.

Her hazel eyes were wide and there were two spots of bright pink on her face, high along her cheekbones. Her lips were parted and she closed them again, rolling them together until the pink color faded to a white. She released them and the color bled back in. Kaia watched and felt all at once just how much she loved this woman.

She pulled one of her hands out from underneath Chloe’s and placed it on her cheek. She ran her thumb across the apple of her cheek and tried not to let out the shaking sob in her chest when Chloe leaned into it.

“I’m sorry,” Chloe said, sounding as broken as Kaia felt.

“Will this…” Kaia stopped, feeling the hard, round lump in her throat so viscerally, she couldn’t even begin to shove words out around it. “Will this ever be more?”

“Will this be enough?” Chloe retorted. “Will I?”

Kaia’s eyes screwed shut as she let out a gasping breath. It had been knocked out of her — her shoulders curled forward, her stomach sucking in, as the weight of Chloe’s words landed like a punch.

“I’m sorry,” Chloe said quickly, sitting up on her knees, and winding her arms around Kaia’s body. Kaia let herself be pulled in, placing her face in the crook of Chloe’s neck, breathing in the deep, sandalwood scent. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

She said it again and again, the litany so familiar that Kaia felt like her heart was beating in rhythm. Most days, this was her nightly prayer.

“I would die for you,” Chloe whispered into Kaia’s hair.

Kaia knew — she’d tried once or twice, going up against muggers with knives, bullies in threes, and, in one pretty spectacularly dumb move, a swerving car.

But Kaia also knew the one — maybe only one — stipulant that Chloe had. 

“In secret.”

Wrapped in her arms, Kaia could feel Chloe flinch from her words. She wished — fuck, fuck, she wished — that she could bring herself to regret it.

“Devil’s in the detail,” Chloe said, and the joke fell flat in the quiet, dark room. She swallowed hard, audibly. “You’re my best friend.”

Kaia couldn’t reply. If she opened her mouth, she’d lose it.

“I love you, Kai,” Chloe said, voice breaking.

Kaia’s hands fisted in the t-shirt Chloe wore. She was halfway out of her chair now, being held up by Chloe’s strong arms. Just like she always had been.

She pulled back, just a little, to see her. Chloe looked ruined. Her face was pale and ashen, her lips trembling. Kaia couldn’t imagine that she looked any better. The tears she’d been holding back for so long were falling now, freely, and though Chloe tried to swipe them away, she was not fast enough.

Kaia grabbed her by the face, thumbs along the corners of her mouth, and she half-dragged Chloe toward her. When they kissed, it was much too hard, too fast, teeth gnashing and biting as their lips parted and they tried to get as close as they could. She was shaking so hard that she could barely keep their lips connected.

Chloe wretched away, eyes flickering across the wall beside them, unable to look at her. She slumped down on her calves. Her jaw twitched and locked, and her hands fell to her lap, fisted together.

“I’m so in love with you, Chloe,” she promised, hands rising, twitching uselessly in the space between them, before she reluctantly pulled them back. Chloe didn’t look over. Kaia’s heartbeat was too loud, and she couldn’t get a good breath in — her lungs felt too full, or maybe too small. She felt her pulse in the strangest places, like beneath her tongue and in her thighs. She felt like she’d just run a mile. She felt like her whole life was falling like the rain outside, and too much of it was slipping into the window and seeping into the carpet.

“Would it be enough?” Chloe repeated, eyes still fixated on the wall. Kaia watched her profile, the strong slope of her jaw, the small, barely perceptible bump in her nose, the three freckles just beneath her ear that Kaia had always likened to a constellation — would just this, nights during a storm together — be enough?

Kaia’s throat was too swollen to speak. She knew that Chloe understood that, understood her. She understood that her lack of answer wasn’t an answer in and of itself. Still, when Chloe finally turned to her, hair falling over her shoulder to fall in a curtain, framing her face, she had tears swimming in her eyes.

“Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?”

And Kaia hated herself a little bit more that she didn’t have an answer for that, either.

I know I’m calling myself out and aging myself, but in high school Day In The Life YouTube videos were all the rage. I loved them — the short, small intimacy of sharing how someone made their coffee, if they made their beds first thing, how people jumped into work has always intrigued me. Mostly because I’m nosy as hell, but also because there’s something comforting by seeing the mundane of other people. There’s comfort in recognizing that what you view as boring about your life can be romanticized with a filter and an upbeat indie song in the background.

After a year in quarantine and a year full time freelancing, my daily routine has become pretty structured. Structured around what, I don’t know, except maybe my dog’s individual comfort, but structured nonetheless.

Obviously, my routine shifts some depending on what projects I have. For example, this month, I completely forgot to look at my schedule before agreeing to things and have been working significantly longer hours. But generally speaking, my routine is the same every day.

No one has asked, but I’m in charge of this blog, so here is my Day In The Life of a Romance Writer.

[NOTE: I am plugging my TikTok now. If you want to watch a one minute video of this routine, click here. I’m humiliated by the very concept of TikTok so please comment nice things and give me heart-shaped validation.]

7AM — First thing I do each morning is snooze my alarm for about an hour and a half. I’m a miserable roommate. I should Venmo mine for the emotional damage I’ve likely caused by snoozing for so long. Eventually, though, I realize I’m doing this and—

8:30AM — I wake up in a startled frenzy. My dog slowly wakes up as well and we cuddle for a few minutes while I check my email and vow that I will finally unsubscribe to all the spammy shopping listings. (I never follow through on this.) Then it’s time to take Laurence outside. I have exactly three minutes from the time my feet hit the floor to getting him in a pee-able area. It’s a challenge and one that I fail as often as I succeed.

9AM — I get ready for the day. Sometimes this is a shower, occasionally makeup, rarely dressing in an outfit. Usually, it’s a skincare routine, some eyebrow gel, and fresh pajamas. I work from home. It’s a pandemic. Whatever!

9:30AM — Coffee and emails and usually FaceTiming my sister to talk about my nieces and nephews. More coffee.

10AM — Finally, I start actually working. I used to feel pretty guilty about this late start before I realized that working for myself means I can do whatever I want and also I deserve not to feel guilty for the ways in which I sell my labor. Take that, Capitalism. #GirlBoss (THIS IS A JOKE)

12PM — I realize I’ve been hunched in one position for hours. My neck is immovable. I screech. Laurence and I go on another walk and I make my third (fourth/tenth/whatever) coffee. This one is usually fancier! I sprinkle cinnamon occasionally. Yes, I worked as a barista. Yes, I was fired from being a barista. 

12:30PM — I get back to work. I try to move all my boring tasks like social media prep, copywriting, or client work to the morning when I’m still fresh and use the afternoon for whatever creative writing I’m working on that day.

3PM — I realize I haven’t eaten. I’m starving. I make a huge meal. I get immediately sick from eating so much. Sometimes, I watch TV or YouTube while I eat. More often than not, I read some sort of BSS romance or fanfiction in bed instead and lose track of time.

4:30PM —  Break done, I head back to work. Usually, I’ll feel a bit rejuvenated and ready to write a nice scene where everyone is yearning for each other. I debate if I should have another coffee. This, dear reader, is a forever battle and I change what side I’m on daily. I’m only a person.

6PM — If I’m not where I need to be with my word count for the day, I keep writing. Otherwise, I say, wow, good work, Emma, and then hang up my hat for the day. My roommate makes the mistake of coming into the common area and I breathlessly rant at him for twenty minutes to get out all the thoughts I’ve had in the day while sitting alone in my office. Like a champion, he nods pleasantly even as regret shines clear in his eyes.

Then it’s my free time and I do whatever I want! (i.e., watching more TV, reading more fanfic, falling asleep by ten o’clock.)

My days are full of pajamas, caffeine-shakes, and solitude. In non-COVID times, this routine is a little nicer, with errands or coffee shop visits and days where other freelancers and I meet up to work together. As it is, I’ve recently bought some very nice sticky notes and that’s giving me a lot of energy for my home office.

If you’re listing the pros and cons of being full time freelance, making my own schedule is definitely my number one pro. I’ve been able to work at my own pace, listen to my body’s needs and mental health much more closely, and figure out what works gives me energy and what work just needs to get done. This routine works for me.

If you’re also working from home or freelance, let me know what your routine is! Link me to your blogs/videos/TikToks and let me relive the inner peace of 2011 #DITL YouTube videos.

this new series, Song Short, will be updated on the third Friday of each month! each short (~1.5-2k) is a queer snippet based around some of my favorite songs. these are written in a one hour sprint and never really edited, so please consider forgiving typos. join my patreon to suggest songs and let me know what you think of these shorts!

today’s short is based on The Wreck’s “Fvck Somebody” from their album Infinitely Ordinary. Listen here: YouTube Link and read below. cw for: breakups, mentions of alcohol

With a burst of rolling nausea, Jolie plastered on a smile and nodded along to Geoff’s loud, too-close voice. She fought against the urge to step away — or to lift her foot to step away and instead break into a sprint down the street, and never, ever look back.

It’s just the heat, she thought to herself. Gritting her teeth, she forced down the wave of annoyance, and kept walking.

Beside her, Geoff kept pace. He was telling a story, something about his friends and the band they went to see last weekend, but Jolie wasn’t listening. She couldn’t hear him, not with the whirling of blood in her ears, the loud city streets a blurring soundtrack of cars and people. It was all just a block of sound that pounded like her pulse inside her skull.

It’s just the heat. It was just that it was hot as hell out today and, once again, Geoff had them lost in the city, on their way to a coffee shop she only faintly believed existed; and, as always, Geoff didn’t mind at all. He didn’t mind the heat or the city noises or being lost. He was just happily chatting away, and through the nearly suffocating annoyance, guilt choked Jolie.

It was the city’s fault. It was the heat. It was…

“ —and then I told him, I told Al, dude, that’s not your boss!” Geoff burst into laughter, hands slapping against his thighs as he chuckled.

It was Geoff.

“My God,” she said accidentally. Her eyes widened and she locked her jaw at Geoff’s immediate sobering.

“What?” he asked, obliviously, and Jolie fought against the urge to scream.

“Hot,” she said instead, through her gritted teeth and locked jaw. It hurt to say, her body twisting uncomfortably tight in order to hold in the frustration.

Geoff nodded, blessedly silent, and kept walking beside her. They stopped at a crosswalk. The red hand blinked in rhythm with the headache behind Jolie’s eyes.

“What do you want?” he asked, and Jolie sighed. I wanna go somewhere without you.

“What’s up?” she replied instead, forcing a smile.

Geoff smiled at her and, as always, the guilt tampered her urge to run. “The coffee shop. What do you want?”

I wanna love someone who’s not you.

“I dunno, maybe, like, an iced coffee?”

He shook his head. “You should get their cold brew.”

“Fine, Geoff, cold brew’s good, too.”

The figure blinked at them; it was their turn to cross the street. A car still ran the light, honked at them, and Geoff and Jolie lifted their middle fingers in unison. She managed a real smile then.

It wasn’t Geoff’s fault that his voice grated against her or that his laugh made her want to cringe. It wasn’t Geoff’s fault that, for reasons she couldn’t even begin to understand, she had fallen completely and utterly out of love with him.

It was a new revelation. They’d been together almost three years; for the last year and a half, she’d felt differently, but it had been impossible to pinpoint. She couldn’t tell if she was in hell or if she was just bored.

“Just a few more blocks,” he said cheerfully. “Hey, did I tell you about that work dinner? Okay, so—”

Jolie knew she should break up with him. She knew it was wrong to stay with him when she actually couldn’t string together a single conversation with him without yawning. She knew it wasn’t nice, wasn’t fair, wasn’t good. But… well, she wanted to get out without it being her fault.

She tried nodding along to Geoff’s story. She tried to not scream every time they got held up at a crosswalk. She tried not to absolutely lose her shit every time sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging terribly. She tried really hard to be the Jolie that Geoff loved because she never knew when it would be the last time she had to pretend.

She was in a terrible mood, though, and she only succeeded about twenty percent at these things.

“It’s around the corner! Come on, Jole, you’re going to—” he stopped short, a crease between his brows. “Oh, shoot. They’re closed on Mondays. Right. Al did say that.”

She tried. She really, really, truly tried.

Jolie let out a scream. It was pure frustration, torn from her gut and lungs in a burst of air, and she felt dizzy with it. When she stopped screaming, her fists shaking beside her body, she saw black spots across her vision and swayed.

Geoff caught her before she fell, his mouth still agape, and his eyes wide and round.

“Um… the hell, Jole?”

Jolie jolted, tearing herself away from Geoff. She almost fell again but a withering scowl kept him away.

His lips were drawn together, hands raised like she was a frightened animal, and for once, for once, the guilt was smaller than the absolute exasperation.

“It’s closed! It’s closed! It’s been an hour of walking, Geoff!” she knew she sounded hysterical. She knew that she was absolutely throwing a fit. But the words felt too big and she thought she would retch or choke if she didn’t let them out. “How could you not check! Or remember! It’s so inconsiderate!”

“You could have called,” Geoff protested. It was a feeble reply and if she was less hot, or less tired, or less her, she might have let it go. Instead, it only fueled her — rage so righteous it felt cool, icing down her overheard body.

“Me? Me!? Geoff, I swear to God, I wish— I wish— I wish—” 

The bewildered expression was giving way to his own annoyance. He threw his hands up and narrowed his eyes. “What? What do you wish?”

“I wish that you would fuck somebody!” She cried.

She sounded ridiculous. His jaw had fallen and he looked at her as if she had grown a new head.

But now that she had started, she couldn’t stop. “Yeah, you know what, fuck you, Geoff! I wish you would fuck somebody. Steal my money! Break my heart!”

Now, finally, finally, after months and years and a lifetime of biting her tongue, Jolie was finally free. She planted her feet on the hot sidewalk, the heatwaves of the summer blistering in the air around them, and she grabbed his hands. Imploringly, she said, “Say you never ever loved me.”

Geoff stared at her.

For a long, breathless moment, where she felt the fight drain from her and the heat return, he stared at her.

Then, god damn him, he scoffed and tore his hands away. He glared at her and she felt a surge of hope. 

“What? Now you’re pissed because I’m too nice? Because I love you? Jesus, Jolie, what I wouldn’t give to be so lucky!”

Jolie deflated. She buried her face in her hands, furious at the irritated tears prickling her eyes, furious at Geoff for not being more of an asshole, furious at herself for being too much of one.

From her palms, she begged, “Let me off the hook.”

When she finally pulled her face up, Geoff was sitting on the sidewalk. His long legs were half up, his arms resting on his propped up knees, and he was staring at her like he had never seen her before.

Maybe he hadn’t.

Jolie should go sit by him. The very idea of it made her skin itch, though, and she straightened her spine instead. She swallowed hard.

The guilt was coming back. The burst of overheated, under caffeinated adrenaline was fading, and she was left as she always was — restless between this is fine and life is too short.

He looked sad. She wished she could say something kind now. Just once, for him, she wanted to figure out what she was supposed to say. She felt like her whole life was spent stifling saying the things she wanted to say, so what came out was strangled and wrong.

Geoff was her first love.

It was just… she didn’t want him to her last.

She looked away. The streets were busy, as they always were, but people were giving them a wide berth. A woman with a double stroller pushed the babies into the street to avoid coming near them. Jolie wondered just how loudly she had screamed.

“You really wish I would?” Geoff said, furrowing his brow as if he was detangling a particularly complex puzzle.

Jolie didn’t trust her voice. She nodded instead.

He looked at her with quirked eyebrow. “You wish I’d fuck somebody?”

Her face heated. She hoped the sunburnt skin hid her blush well enough.

“It might not have been me at my most eloquent,” she allowed, and then lowered herself to the sidewalk. She sat right at the edge, near the curb, so they were face to face. Equals, but not side by side. She inhaled and for the first time all day, she felt like it was actually filling her lungs.

“Just… can you tell me why?” Geoff said.

Jolie didn’t want to. She wanted to curl her arms around herself, zip her lips closed. Still, when she looked at him, she did wish she could love him. She could try. She could try to explain how it felt, every day, suffocating and screaming.

“When you said, ‘let’s settle down’... it felt… like a downfall.”

She lowered her gaze to the sidewalk when she heard him inhale sharply. Maybe that was cowardly. Maybe she was a coward. She didn’t mind it half as much as she thought she should.

“Well, okay then,” Geoff said, and Jolie buried her face in her hands again to hide her smile.

When Jolie looked up again, Geoff was gone. She looked both ways, craning her neck, but he was nowhere to be seen. For the first time, she was actually alone; not just physically, but actually, and she felt like she could float, she was so light with the knowledge. 

There would be consequences to this — a lease to break, furniture to debate, a life to unravel. But Jolie didn’t care. She didn’t care at all. She would deal with that later. For now, she had the whole day to herself, and nothing holding her back.

Grinning, Jolie lifted herself from the ground and exhaled slowly. Then, she asked herself:

What do you want?

I’m a simple person. I like soft pajamas, big bowls of pasta, and binging a television show that teeters precariously on the line of brilliant storytelling and completely unhinged plots. I also like media that includes and features queer people and their stories. Considering this, you would think I’d long be used to — and done complaining about — the bury your gays trope.

Bury Your Gays is not a new phrase in the world of media literacy, whether that’s academic or colloquial. Theorists Haley Hulan and Danielle DeMuth write that this trope “draw(s) a direct correlation between the couple confessing their feelings for one another, kissing, having sex for the first time and the character’s death; they often die mere moments or pages after their relationship is confirmed for the audience.”* (Does this! Remind you! Of anything!!! Not me screaming about Castiel still.)

This trope originated as a sort of refuge for queer writers, a way to include queer characters without backlash from The Powers That Be; this was a way to protect readers, publishers, and themselves from the “endorsement” of homosexuality before laws against homosexuality were abolished. However, there is no longer a need for these queer coded characters to be annihilated; in fact, characters could just be… gay… and alive…?

As a media scholar, which is a title I ardently still claim despite no plans to re-enter the academy, this blog was almost me diving too deeply into tearing this apart. Instead, I’m focusing my energies in a more positive way: an entirely biased, non-comprehensive list of media recommendations. Specifically, LGBTQ Recommendations; specifically-specifically, A Beginner’s Gay Media Guide.

If you’re anything like me, you’ve undoubtedly consumed nearly all media that prominently features, baits, or even hints at gay characters. When I was younger, this meant watching Queer As Folk under the covers during the middle of the night with headphones in and volume nearly off; renting Brokeback Mountain from the video store, unconfidently saying that yes, my parents had approved this rental, thank you very much; reading and then re-reading my haggard .75 cent proof copy of Happy Endings Are All Alike by Sandra Scoppettone, always insisting that I did like mystery novels and that was the real appeal of it.

If you’re familiar with that list, you might be wincing in sympathy for poor sixteen year old Emma. I am, too. She really and truly was trying her best.

There are certainly more options now than there were a decade ago, but the options for queer media is still limited. Moreso if you aren’t willing to consume anything, which less and less I am. My list of requirements — are they alive at the end? Was there a problematic age gap? Was there any conversion therapy or, like, narrative metaphors for conversion therapy? — should be incredibly simple to meet. And yet…

Before writing this, I asked my roommate, “what are your queer media recs?”

Immediately, he opened his mouth to answer. Before he could, I interjected, “but wait! None of them can die!” 

He closed his mouth. Frowned. Considered. Shrugged.

It’s harder than it looks. Even with shows that strut their queer characters out for marketing purposes, the characters rarely end up happy — end up alive. 

That’s not to say there aren’t any. But, frankly, if someone wants to watch a movie about a gay couple, I don’t want them to watch Call Me By Your Name, a book-to-movie adaptation with a storyline that problematically reinforces power imbalance and age gap narratives that remain unsettlingly popular within queer media. Imagine if kids googling ‘gay women movies’ didn’t watch Blue Is The Warmest Color? What a world we would live in.

So, with all this in mind, here is my go-to rec for media about or featuring queer people, where it’s just a good time and no one dies! Or, at least, they don’t stay dead. It’s a Beginner’s Guide to Queer Media and also, hopefully, a heartwarming list of fun things.

[NOTE: I am not saying these are the best out there. I’m only recc’ing things I’ve seen personally and enjoyed. My only guarantee is that it’s not depressing as fuck.]

Book Smart

Damn, this was good. Female friendship, gay teenager girls, wholesome but still coming of age storylines? Hell yeah. Most people have seen this and if you haven’t, you should. Stories don’t need to be about being gay.

Benjamin

This was my first five star rating on Letterbox. It’s about a struggling artist and his inability to accept and offer love. It’s just a little bit artsy and it’s very funny and Colin Morgan, who might have some things to answer for after the series finale of BBC Merlin ruined Christmas for me, stars as the handsome, enigmatic titular character. It’s also absolutely not about being gay. Like. People are just gay and that’s fine and that’s *chef kissy*.

Happiest Season

What do you want from me? Huh? What? It’s Kristen Stewart and she’s gay. I’d put the Totino’s Pizza Roll skit on here if I could.

Okay, people hated this. And I hear their concerns and complaints. But I do raise the question of… are you familiar with the romance, and specifically, the Christmas romance genre? This movie was absolutely no worse romance-storytelling than a straight Christmas movie that would have gotten away with it, and it was better in many cases. It was funny, heartwarming, and thinking that the friend is better than the love interest is not uncommon in romance! It’s okay to enjoy things!!

The Half Of It

I am but human! You give me a sweet romance featuring two sweet teenagers and a himbo sidekick, and I will weep for the entirety of the movie! I am! Only! A person! If you’re not already aware of how few sapphic romances there are out there without absolutely depressing plots, misbalanced power dynamics, or death scenes, then you might not know the absolute trepidation I felt watching this movie and how pleased I am that it was so cute.

The Way He Looks

Damn, okay, I first watched this as a short film on Tumblr back in, like, 2011. And did it absolutely wreck me? Yes, it did. I think I stayed home from school for like three days to just consider the romance. I haven’t watched this one in a long time. If you’re doing a re-watch, message me, and we can stream together and cry.  (If you haven’t noticed the theme, it’s that I dig a writer-director combo.)

Let me tell you. How I have suffered on the TV front. How I have labored to suffer. I have really gone out of my way to suffer.

CW Charmed

I am not saying this is good. I am saying I love it and that one of the sisters is gay. As a lover of the original series, I’m willing to accept any terrible change the new series offers because they gave me a gay Charmed One, and I am honored for this. The show never makes being gay a plot point, even while gay relationships are, and I am grateful.

Jane The Virgin

Now, this is not a gay show, but it does feature several LGBTQ characters of varying importance over the season, and while it is occasionally a moment where the other characters are like wait, what?? It’s not like any more serious than anything else on the show, and it was really gratifying to see characters come into their sexuality in later seasons, similar to the way actual people come out. 

Killing Eve

Am I including this? Am I? I… am. I am! My stipulation was not depressing, which this isn’t even while it is interesting and gritty, and that the gays don’t die. The straights are fair game.

Schitt’s Creek

This is probably an obvious recommendation, but I’ve got to include it. David and Patrick are sweet, complicated, and grow in realistic and natural ways without ever once sacrificing their adoration for each other. It should not be unique; it is. It floored me and many others, watching their love grow and grow without the show ever once pushing back.

SKAM Italia

Honestly, guys, I had to outsource this one. Roommate suggested it to me when I bemoaned how difficult it was to find television shows with characters that are gay, untortured, and alive at the end. It’s insanely hard. BUT! As Roommate says, season 2 of this is romantic and sweet about the blossoming of new, young love. I’ll definitely be watching this soon. Join me!

All For The Games Series by Nora Sakavic 

Okay, I recently looked into recommending this to someone and I cannot stress enough that you need to check the content warning list before reading this. BUT! If you are comfortable with all the CWs, this series is engaging, heart-wrenching, fun, and gay as fuck. What more can you want?

Cemetery Boys by Aidan Thomas

If you already read YA, queer books, or, god willing, queer YA, you absolutely have heard of this book. This book was a debut last year and was absolutely the best book I read all year. In multiple years! In decades! This book is about first love and identity and family and duty and about tearing out your heart! I could not recommend it more.

Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson

This is arguably the most beautiful novel I’ve ever read. I first read this in a coffee shop in Amsterdam; I finished it in a cafe in London. It was one of three books I took with me from one of those leave-and-grab street corner libraries before I went on a solo bus trip. It’s semi-autobiographical and a bit sad, but in a way that I think is real and heart-tugging and beautiful, and absolutely worth it.

Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green and David Leviathin

DO NOT @ ME. This book was the first book I read about openly gay characters and, whatever, it’s fun. I’m recommending it! Have a good time! Not everything needs to be impressive to your friends, guys, just read the fun book.

Queer Atmospheres by Imogen Markwell-Tweed

I’m so, so sorry, but I’m not about to ignore this golden opportunity. There’s a romance author I know… who writes exclusively queer characters… in her romance novellas… spanning genres from contemporary to paranormal to historical… and they’re all happy?? Maybe?? You give her a chance?? (I’m talking about myself, please go give me 5 star ratings.)

Is this a comprehensive list? No! It’s not even a very good one; it’s just my personal recommendations. I did not include music (but here is my personal gay playlist) or video games but I assume you know about Animal Crossing.

If you love any of these, let me know. If you hate any of these, please let me know.

*Hulan, Haley (2017) "Bury Your Gays: History, Usage, and Context," McNair Scholars Journal: Vol. 21 : Iss. 1 , Article 6. Available at: https://scholarworks.gvsu.edu/mcnair/...

this new series, Song Short, will be updated on the third Friday of each month! each short (~1.5-2k) is a queer snippet based around some of my favorite songs. these are written in a one hour sprint and never really edited, so please consider forgiving typos. join my patreon to suggest songs and let me know what you think of these shorts!

today’s short is based on Hozier’s “As It Was” from his album Wasteland, Baby! Listen here: YouTube Link and read below. cw for: alcohol, mentions of drugs, death, suicide, and zombies.

With very little exception, kissing John Anderson was the first thought Harrison had when he woke up, and the last thought he had before he went to sleep.

There were the occasional nights when the cold was too biting to allow for thought, the mornings when waking up was a scream from across the camp — those days, Harrison didn’t think of Anders’s kiss first. He thought of him, alone, dead, or dying. He thought of losing him.

With very little exception, Harrison was in love with Anders. It was potent. Dizzying, like alcohol, but with a sharp bitter aftertaste like poison. Harrison had often likened it to the woozy feeling after too many pills, where gravity shook and bodies melted. Anders had only hummed out a bored, non-committal sound at the comparison, neither agreement nor rebuttal.

Tonight, with Anders a drink too drunk, sitting across the blazing bonfire from him, he looked like part of the flame. His eyes were as bright as the glowing white moon, and his grin was even wider than the sky itself — he looked like part of nature. Part of the universe, like starlight and fire had crafted him just so that he could sit here, now, laughing, and so that Harrison would ache.

He took another long, burning swig of liquor. It didn’t matter which kind; a long time ago, before things changed, he might have cared. Now, Harrison didn’t drink for the taste, or the buzz, or to forget. He drank because without it, he was an exposed nerve, rubbed raw.

Harrison had loved Anders for all his life.

For part of it, Anders had loved him, too.

“There’s a roadway,” Anders said, eyes sharpening. He sat straight, back ramrod and shoulders pulled back, ever the fearless leader they’d been following for years. His eyes were glassy from the drink, cheeks rosy even only lit by flames and stars, but no one else noticed. Only Harrison knew Anders ticks well enough to see that he was far too drunk to be strategizing.

“Muddy. And full of foxglove.” Harrison interjected.

“It’s the quickest route,” Anders said almost as quickly. His glare was nothing more than a raised eyebrow, a displeased twist of his lips, but Harrison felt it like a blow.

“We’d never make it,” Harrison said anyway. Though it felt like standing in a windstorm, he knew no one else in the camp would say it. Would know to say it. The others were watching them warily. Harrison drank again to give reason to the sudden reddening of his cheeks.

“That’s your problem, Harrison,” Anders’s voice was low and cool. No one else would hear the teethed bite to it. “You have no faith.”

Harrison’s lungs sank. He felt them touch to the ground and slowly, inhale by inhale, they came up bit by bit. No one else spoke — the sound of shuffling boots against the ground, the crackle of the fire, the uncomfortable breathing of too many people watching too intimate a fight, filled the expansive campground. Harrison stood up on shaking legs and forced himself to step away.

“Excuse me,” he said, already half-way gone.

He heard the voices pick up almost immediately. It wasn’t quite shame that filled him, but by the time he darted behind the sleeping cabin to lean against the cold wood, he was up to the brim with something thick and dragging.

Harrison scrubbed his hands down his face. Jesus, he thought. Jesus, what am I doing? What are we doing here?

He’d asked himself the same thing every day since they first came to this camp; since he and Anders and the few others from the start had built the cabins and armed the fences and set up sentries, since the beginning of the end of the world.

He asked himself that since the first time that he and Anders had kissed, all sharp edges and gnashing teeth, drunk or high or desperate or both. He’d asked himself that since the first time Anders told him he loved him, and Harrison had been too goddamn cowardly to say anything back.

He’d never found an answer.

Harrison shouldn’t have been surprised Anders found him. Despite everything, they’d never been good at leaving each other all alone.

Anders leaned against the cabin wall beside him. He hadn’t realized he was cold until he felt the heat radiating off Anders. The air felt colder, when Anders body was there to feel warm.

“It’s a suicide mission,” Harrison’s voice was close to a plea. He knew he must have looked something awful, all wet eyes and parted lips, looking at the man who had broken him again and again in a million different ways. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, anyway.

Anders seemed just as reluctant to move his gaze, though there was nothing weak or soft to it. He looked every bit the righteous warrior that he’d always tried to be. Harrison wondered if he was looking at redemption or retribution. He felt something almost like sorrow in his throat and forced his gaze away.

Anders's voice was softer when he spoke again. “Are you saying you won’t come?”

“Whatever here’s that’s left of me is yours,” Harrison said, eyes screwing up. He swallowed hard, the heady vow between them as pointed as any weapon. “Just as it was.”

When he opened his eyes again, Anders stared through him. He felt like a ghost — barely there, barely alive, barely real. There was something like sorrow on his face, and Harrison was still in his own shawl of mourning.

When their lips met, it wasn’t much of a surprise. Despite everything, this had always been the closest they felt to being real.

And, like every time, no matter what else was going on, no matter how badly they were bleeding from each others’ words, it was just as it was.

The drug, the dark, the light, the shame — kissing Anders was some of it and all of it and none of it. Kissing Anders was the only time Harrison truly felt his pulse. 

Anders’s hands were tight in his hair, one leg roughly slotting between Harrison’s, body pressed tight together. He could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath; he could feel the muscles and ribs beneath their shirts press into his own.

Harrison had one arm winded around his waist, holding him flush against himself, and the other hand curled into his arm, fingernails biting into the skin there. He smelled like smoke and sweat, a familiar, heady scent that Harrison had grown to think of as home as quickly as he had to misery. He ached so deeply from the smell of it that he felt it in his bones.

Anders tasted like whiskey. Harrison knew he did, too. He also knew neither of them cared.

They kissed until their lungs burned, until staying together was as physically painful as possible. Even when they did manage to wretch away, Anders’s hands just fell to his face, cupping him gently, and Harrison pressed his thumbs into the small of his back, fingers wrapping around his ever-thinning waist. 

“Tell me,” Anders said in the shape of a gasp, forehead bruisingly pressed into Harrison’s. “If somehow, some of it remains…”

He trailed off.

Harrison sucked in an exhale so sharp, he felt it like winter-ice in his lungs. “How long would I wait?”

Anders nodded, miserably. His eyes were closed. The camp’s faithful warrior had faded; here, he was just John. Here, he was Harrison’s.

But Harrison could no more take what was being offered than Anders could stand to give it come morning light. The hard way, they learned that this was a love shaped like a doorway, and the shape that they were now didn’t fit.

The end of the world had taken it all from them. All but this — painful, desperate kisses stolen beneath the scornful light of the moon, and a hope that when they went, it was together.

“It’s…” Harrison didn’t know what to say. Anders didn’t want to hear him promise things they knew weren’t theirs to offer. He knew that what he wanted wasn’t any more phrasable than what he himself wanted.

“Just as it was?” Anders asked. 

He swallowed hard, and they moved away from each other. Harrison’s hands fell; Anders stepped back; Harrison shifted to the left, chin nudging Anders’s hands away. Step by step, they unwound, and Harrison’s heart slowed in his chest, beat by beat by beat, until it was still. It would remain that way, barely pulsing, until the next time they spilled over.

Across the camp, the fire roared, and the last few survivors planned their route across the roadway that would lead to, for some of them, certain death.

Harrison stole one last look at Anders; his expression hardened, bit by bit, until he was the terrible, bleeding version of himself that he had to be again. The night sky billowed around him, only half as dark as his expression, and only half as beautiful, too.

Quietly, he agreed. “As it was.”

The start of 2021 marks a lot of things: most beautifully, the end of 2020 and the hope for a better year. Better, of course, is subjective, but in many, many ways, the only way from here is up. [NOTE: I wrote this goddamn piece before the coup. Never mind. Let’s look at what we can control, though, which, at this point, is literally just my writing.]

It also marks the end of my first full year freelancing, and the beginning of the second. When I decided to try to make a living just off of my writing, I was at a really lucky spot: I live in a very cheap city, had a few well-paying part-time clients already, and resented the job I was at enough that quitting was a no-brainer, regardless of my dive into freelancing. I also support just myself and my tiny dog. It was a good, easy spot to be in to decide.

That being said, I’m still incredibly proud of the progress I’ve made. In 2020, I wrote 6 erotic shorts, 14 short stories, and 18 novellas (not to mention all the half-abandoned projects from the past months). I met my financial goals, even the more ambitious of them, and have had jobs all over the writing and editing fields. From financial articles with on-the-spot interviewing to editing sci-fi manuscripts, I’ve been able to dip my pen into a lot of different ink pots.

In 2021, I’m adjusting my goals. One thing I’ve realized on my quote-unquote journey is how absolutely invaluable the communities of writers and freelancers I’ve found are. I am indebted to every person who has listened to me whine about deadlines and offered advice on bank accounts and previewed the dozen of potential email signatures. And besides the excellent friends and people I’ve been able to lean on for support, the online resources have been invaluable. One that I’ve found both fascinating and helpful is Courtney Bailey’s monthly newsletter, which is not only an eloquent and fascinating insight into her life, but includes a detailed breakdown of how she makes her money as a full-time freelancer.

I would like to offer that to others, too. Hence this post about transparency in the upcoming year.

I’m going to detail below my goals and, over the next few months, keep you all apprised of where I’m at with them. I hope that I’ll be as lucky as I was last year in meeting them, but if not, that’s valuable to share, too. 

A quick sidebar: I don’t consider these resolutions. They’re markers of where I’m at and how things are going in building my business, my craft, and the life that I’m striving towards. I actually am of the opinion that NY resolutions unhelpful, as often they are just ways to say that what you’re currently doing, and where you’re currently at, is inherently not good enough. This is not that. I consider it more a roughly sketched outline of where I hope to go — like any good road trip, though, I do hope there’s a tantalizing enough billboard that I’m pulled into a new direction.

FINANCIAL:

This is the most complex of the goals. What we consider financial success differs from person to person, year to year. For me, last year I managed to keep myself afloat, craft a bit of savings, and pay off my credit cards. My below buckets are smaller this year as I am doing more work independent of paid contracts.

3K savings separate from whatever was saved last year

3 months’ bills separate from above savings

BUSINESS:
Here is where I’m getting ambitious. I think that there is a certain amount of energy that can be used in a given year, so I’m stealing a bit from what I might have made my financial goals in order to give myself space to focus here. 

Maintain work at BSS (~1 novella a month)

Publish 6 novellas on Kindle Unlimited

Complete independent manuscripts and submit to 4 new imprints

Publish in 3 NEW imprints

Gain 1-2 more monthly retainer clients

Complete YA manuscript started in 2020

Grow Patreon to >20 patrons

2 blog posts a month on website

PERSONAL:
As I said above, I don’t find a lot of merit in personal resolutions. That being said, there are a few things that I consider being part of my required duties as a freelance writer, but that I don’t consider to be in the business or financial categories. 

Volunteer ~5/hrs week

Read 30 new books total

No Buy Year (non-thrifting/essentials)

Will I succeed on all of these? Honestly! Probably not! But that’s okay. These are the things I would like to do — I’ll be updating you here and re-evaluating in June, six months in. If things change, things change — but for now, you can check in here, follow me at @unrealimogen on all socials, and join me in considering what you’d like to complete in the next year. If you need freelancing or writing friends, DM me. I am so happy to be in community with you.

Excerpt from “No Blurred Lines: Rape Culture in US American Television”

Originally published April 2017

“If you want to make a young woman feel bad, pulling out the term slut is a sure fire way to do it. The term is so vague and slippery that no one knows what a slut is or no one knows what you have to do to be that. It circulated around, though, so everyone could worry about it being attached to them.” — Elizabeth Armstrong.

If I was describing myself as a pile of traits, I would have to include: my dog Laurence, who I definitely like more than I like you; my family, particularly my nieces and nephews because they’re tiny and call me TiTi instead of Auntie, which is adorable; deep affection for sunflower seeds, pasta, and diet coke; and, of course, television. I wouldn’t be who I am without any of these things as each little trait make up the main components of what I care about and, as we discussed in the first blog post, my cultural framework in which I view and understand things.

I love television and the way it can infiltrate my daily life. I’ve donned the outfits of Buffy Summers (to the deep, deep bane of my parents), the emotional dramatics of Phoebe Halliwell, the honestly excellent music taste of Dean Winchester. I’ve played games that were conceptually founded in quotes from The Office and the “Treat Yo Self” episode of Parks and Rec genuinely rerouted the trajectory of my life. I’ve also started and finished two and a half new series on Netflix in the past week and a half. I really love television.

Arguably, Gilmore Girls (GG) shaped me into who I am more than any other piece of television. My truest experience of love was when Jess Mariano stepped off that bus and entered both Stars Hollows and my heart. Like, I’ve been in actual love and I’m positive that my feelings for Jess were at least as strong, if not as real. Rory’s addiction to academia directly fueled my own passion and Lorelai’s fast talk and eating habits are responsible for a lifetime of being misheard and probably not a small amount of diabetes. I’m incapable of untangling this show from who I am and how I think. You say copper, I think boom.

Because of this, I was anxious about including GG in my project. I didn’t want to know if this show was perpetuating rape culture. It already had flaws that I worked very hard to ignore. (Seriously, Sherman-Palladino? The fat shaming? It’s OOC for the sympathetic and kind characters you’re trying to convince us they are. It’s also disgusting to watch.)

But not wanting to look at it was exactly why I needed to do it. I knew this show affected me and I knew I didn’t want it to influence me accidentally.

And, freaking damn it, I’m forced to report that GG wasn’t the squeaky-clean, RC-free haven I’d hoped it to be. Rather, GG exemplifies one of the most intricate parts of RC there is: slut shaming.

Slutshaming is a “form of social stigma applied to people, especially women and girls, who are perceived to violate traditional expectations for sexual behaviors”. This is intricately woven into our society and greatly assists in the perpetuation of rape myths. Slutshaming can be as straightforward as calling girls names for sleeping around. Or it can be as complex as school dress codes telling young girls that their bare shoulders or legs are too sexual to be allowed in public settings and that their young male classmates are incapable of controlling themselves. Slutshaming judges girls and women for their sexuality and how they use it, whether that is perceived or explicit.

If you want some general information about slutshaming and it’s most obvious infiltration of GG, check out this video I did for my series about rape culture in American television. I only rant about Jess for a little bit. Don’t worry.

I want to dwell a bit on the effects that RC plays on both the characters and the audience. I want to look at the way that, specifically Lorelai’s, slutshaming changes the moral compass of the show, Rory— and not for the better.

Rory is undisputedly the moral compass of the show, especially at the beginning. This isn’t to say she’s the judgemental one, but rather, it’s through Rory’s eyes that things are okay or not. She, and not really Lorelai, change the audience’s opinion on things. When Lorelai doesn’t like Jess, we understand it, but we don’t necessarily, narratively agree. The narrative asks us to see Rory’s judgements of people as the truth and, for the most part, the audience agrees.

This works okay for the beginning of the series. Rory starts out at sixteen years old and, though young, is known for having a good head on her shoulders and being mature. She works as a moral compass because her morals are an even mix of young naivety that believes the best of the world and the trusted awareness that comes from from being deeply intellectual. It’s a nice view of the world that we all want to root for.

But, quickly, we can see the many ways in which Rory fails at being a moral good, even if the narrative paints herself as one. She, like Lorelai, is quick to judge other women and slutshame. Let’s look at a few examples of Rory doing this before we talk about the why. In season 1, Rory judges and openly berates her best friend Lane when she finds out that Lane is a cheerleader. Rory’s main point is that they used to make fun of “girls like that”. Though the girls eventually make up, it’s because she realized that Lane really wasn’t going to change— not that there was nothing wrong with being a cheerleader in the first place.

Later, in season 3, Rory sees Jess, a boy she kissed at the beginning of the summer before she left for a trip, making out with a girl. She is incredibly antagonistic and hateful towards this girl for the entirety of her arc on this show (which spans several episodes), constantly belittling her and making comments about her supposed lack of intelligence, all of which stems from her physical PDA relationship with Jess.

These are just a few examples that pop to mind of Rory being, like, hella judgemental and slutshaming. She’s not a great gal even if she is someone I would fist fight anyone for.

The question is, why would our moral compass protagonist treat people like this?

Well. Let’s just say Lorelai gave Rory more than just her eclectic taste in media and blue eyes.

Rory slutshames because of the lovingly delivered slutshaming that her mother has given her throughout her life. In season 1 ep 9  “Rory’s Dance”, Rory falls asleep at Miss Patty’s dance studio with her boyfriend. There wasn’t anything particularly wiggly-eyebrow about their evening: Dean threatened to beat up the god-awful Tristan, which no one really minded, and they probably PG-level kissed at some point, but no one would even have used the winky face emoji to describe it. Regardless, the panicked memory of her own teenage life bombarded Lorelai both through her own thought process and the screeching of her mother when the two older Gilmore girls woke up to Rory missing. Rory is horrified, knowing what her mother will think and how she’ll be in trouble. Though it makes sense that Lorelai would be very worried about her daughter missing, the main panic and anger doesn’t come from fear of her safety but rather predominantly from the fact that she was out with a boy and the assumptions that come from that. This aggression is one example of Lorelai’s words connecting sex and disappointment in Rory’s mind.

Another example comes in season 3 episode 19 “Keg! Max!”. I spoke about this episode in the video you might have seen, but to briefly summarize: Rory is going to a house party with her boyfriend Jess, Jess is having #troubles, many things ensue. In the episode, Rory isn’t sure what to do with her house key at the party, afraid of losing it. Lorelai deftly plucks the key from Rory, ties it in a loop around her belt, and tells her daughter: “You'll only lose it if you take off your belt, and if you're taking off your belt for any reason at the party, I'm not sure I want you coming home.” This is a clear example of Lorelai reiterating again the connection between sex and disappointing Lorelai. To have any sort of sexual relationship, even with her boyfriend, is bad— a truly don’t-come-home kind of bad. Rory, at this point, is a senior in high school. It’s perfectly reasonable to expect Rory to start having physical relationships with people around this time in her life, yet it’s still treated as something inherently wrong. This is the kind of stigma around sex that causes teenagers and young adults to not be informed, unwilling to talk to their parents or trusted adults, and instead make their own assumptions on how relationships should and do work.

Despite, or perhaps because of, having a daughter at such a young age, Lorelai views sex for her daughter as something damning, disgusting, and morally wrong. Though this makes sense on a surface level because Rory starts off the show as a young teenager, it’s not necessarily lessened as Rory ages. And the judgement is subtly passed on Rory, side characters, and background characters that are shown to be bitchy or dumb if they’re also shown as sexual.

The way that Lorelai treats the relationship between sex and Rory is likely the main reason why Rory herself views sex in such an inappropriate way. Rory’s first time was incredibly traumatic as it was with her married ex-boyfriend (friggin’ Dean, coming at it again with that Asshole Award) and resulted in not just judgement and scrutiny from the town, but Lorelai also barely being on speaking terms with Rory for an extended period of time. Though I’m in no way saying that what Rory did was okay, I am saying that perhaps Rory made a “morally wrong” choice about sex because she was raised to believe that sex itself is already “morally wrong”. It’s like when you’re a kid and you know you’re going to get in trouble for eating a piece of cake. You’re already doing something bad, so why not just finish the cake off and get a soda while you’re at it? The punishment is the same anyway.

Rory’s second hook-up partner was Logan, who is probably the best boyfriend for Rory even if I don’t particularly like him (I can admit defeat in age, but Logan will never matter to me half as much as Jess). Yet, the first time Rory and Logan are physical is at her grandparent’s vow renewal. This is played for both the drama and the comedy when Rory’s mom, dad, and quasi-step-dad interrupt them right as things start getting heavy. I can respect the use of drama in this instance, sure, but to be honest, when I see that scene, I mostly just think: WHY NOW? Rory, babe, please. Just stop, you’ve GOT to be smarter than that. And yet— Rory just wasn’t. She decided to try to hook up with the guy at a place where she was likely to have been missed or interrupted. I’m sure this wasn’t her intention, the same as it wasn’t her intention to ruin a marriage when she slept with Dean: but it was still the most attractive option to her.

We can also take a look at these two guys, different as they are, and see the connection they offer to Rory at the time of her being with them physically: they’re both, essentially, unattainable. Dean is married; Logan doesn’t do “serious”. They are men that she shouldn’t get involved with, knows that there will be serious repercussions for being involved with, and pursues it anyway. This says to me that she connects sex with bad decisions, each time.

(There’s also something to be said about The Chase that Rory finds appealing, which is a trait that Lorelai also exemplifies in her dating techniques, particularly in the earlier seasons. Additionally, now is as good a time as any to point out that Rory's demographics also affect her sociality in correlation with her assumed 'sluttiness' or lack thereof. Rory, like most of the characters in GG, is an upper-middle class white woman, making her more acceptable societally despite incidents such as the affair with Dean. While this is never addressed in the show as a reason for Rory not really suffering social consequences for her actions, outside of one or two interactions with Lindsay herself, it'd be shitty feminism to pretend like it wasn't a factor.)

Now, at this point, you might be saying to yourself: just stop, Emma. We get what you’re saying, but you’re being dramatic. It’s just Gilmore Girls and no one, including Rory, was reading that much into things.

Well, sure. That’s one way to interpret these scenes and the many like them. We can take them as jokes, as relationships, as I have many times before, and not really think about the implications it would have on the viewers or Rory’s IRL counterpart.

But that’s a bit ignorant on the fact that there are implications to the viewers and Rory’s IRL counterpart.

Building from the other blogs in this series, we know that the way we watch television influence the way we think. I think it’s safe to assume that we all know that watching television changes our cultural framework and therefore our lives. But let’s add another layer of that on top by looking at the Users and Gratifications Theory.

In his book “Sociology Of Mass Media”, David Glower says that “the selected way in which people make the media a part of their everyday life [changes the way they are] able to satisfy a variety of social needs and desires.” Combining that with UGT essentially means that people not only have take away from their media, but are actively choosing what media to interact with in order to provide themselves with a specific take away. It places the the audience as an active participate that is in charge of and capable of interpreting the media. Audiences interpret and integrate their media into their lives in order to gain knowledge, relaxation, diversion, escape, or social interactions/companionship. This is particularly interesting when considering one of Baudrillard’s theory that states: the sociality you have is measured by your exposure to media.

So basically: if all our friends watch Gilmore Girls, we’ll watch Gilmore Girls in order to create the same social competence and framework as our friends. Then the messages in GG will become a part of our framework and our friend’s framework and we’ll spread these messages. Then the messages will become strengthened in our framework because our friends think so, too.

Not to mention that because these things are said as jokes, quips, or from the mouths of our favorite characters in a non-serious way, we’re twice as likely to not think about it harshly and instead just accept it. It’s dangerous to have beloved characters say bad things in their regular, common vernacular, because we don’t always recognize it as something to critique. But we have to, because we live in a world where slutshaming and the opinions people have about girls can negatively affect their lives— because we live in a rape culture that is foundationally strengthened by the negative opinions on girls and the idea that they’re not in control of their own bodies.

If you want to follow this series in a visual way, click here for my YouTube series of the same name. The series is a bit lighter but also is still about RC so, really, how light can it get? Bless. ✌🏻

Excerpt from “No Blurred Lines: Rape Culture in US American Television”

Originally published April, 2017

“Critical discernment leads one to see the cultural myths that justify subjugation for what they are: myths.” — Josephine Donavon.

As a woman, there are certain things you’re required to know. First: if you curl your hair when the humidity is too high, you’re destined for disappointment. Secondly: no one (re: man) will take your complaints about your period seriously, but it is the best way to take a break from class, even when the professor has a strict no bathrooms rule. And finally: one in three women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime and, regardless of how much it will never be your fault, it’s somehow still your responsibility to keep it from happening.

These aren’t necessarily things I’ve learned through the words of my mother or friends, but rather through observation. I know from so many frustrating stomps through the wind that my hair will be bad; from angrily blurting out exactly why I was going to go to the bathroom, rules be damned, that I have an ace up my sleeve; from the fear and the caution expended when I’m alone around men that I am in danger.

These aren’t things I’ve been taught but they are things I know. They are things that, for the most part, we all know. Girls and women are aware of the danger that proceed them when they walk into a room and linger as they leave. It’s a part of us, as much as our eyes and hands, and because of that, sometimes we forget that it shouldn’t be.

Girls are trained from an early age to be prepared for and protect themselves against assault because of rape culture. Rape culture (RC) is a society that trivializes and normalizes assault and rape, often blaming the victim and excusing the assailant.

RC is perpetuated through the use of rape myths, or fallacies about rape/assault. Rape myths are particularly dangerous because they turn lies into common opinion. John Hamilin of the University of Minnesota compiled a list of rape myths that are fairly extensive and cover a lot of ground. Let’s go through and debunk a few of them ourselves, just to make sure we’re all on the same page.

“Rape is a crime of passion or sex.” Nope. Just— nope. Rape is, and always has been, an act of violence. It is about the exertion of power over a victim.

“Many women ‘cry’ rape.” Again, nope. I guess I could just answer all of these with my angry nope, but that won’t get us far, so let’s turn to statistics instead. The FBI puts out a list of statistics for all crimes and false rape accusations falls between 2 and 8%, which is average to all other felonies. There is no evidence that women lie more about rape than any other crime and, considering the high percentage of assault victims don’t come forward due to pressure or fear, it’s probably even lower than that.

“Rapists are creepy strangers.” There are some cases of assault that fit what we think of as rape— a strange, creepy man grabbing a girl in the dark alley. But, actually, 70% of rapes occur by someone the victim knows, people they probably trusted or even liked.

These are just a few of the rape myths listed on the site. But I think you catch the point— we believe things as a society that are rooted in prejudice and stereotypes rather than fact. It’s not that we condone rape or think it’s okay: it’s that we really don’t understand that it’s our fault it’s so acceptable.

Are you thinking about that quote I gave you at the beginning yet? Wondering why it’s relevant at all to this suddenly quite rape-themed blog? Let’s go back to Donavon’s “Feminist Theory”.

“Critical discernment leads one to see the cultural myths that justify subjugation for what they are: myths.” Essentially, she’s saying that if we think critically about a thing, rather than just glossing over it and nodding, we’ll be able to see what is and isn’t true. Donavon is specifically talking about critically looking at sexism in our everyday lives, but I think she won’t mind us broadening her work a little to talk about rape myths. After all, even if she doesn’t explicitly talk about it, RC is a huge part of feminism.

The base of feminism is the belief that men and women are fundamentally equal and should be represented as such in society. This is the core belief and from it stems the various approaches that feminists take to get this equality. Knowing this and knowing that RC is rooted in misogyny, we can see that a perfect feminism would include eradicating RC. RC’s backbone is women being beneath men, or femininity being worth less than masculinity, which is inherently anti-feminist. A world with no battles for feminism as it is today would obviously mean a world without RC.

Rape myths are perpetuated through common vernacular, laws and legislations, capitalism, and the media. For the purpose of this blog and its videos, I’m going to be narrowing in my focus just to television. So, prepare for that narrowing now.

If we can agree that rape myths are the base foundation for the rape culture we live in and that rape myths are perpetuated through several things, including television, then it would stand to reason that rape culture is perpetuated through the television we watch.

Television influences what we think and believe through several ways. Looking at television through Cultivation Theory, crafted most notably by George Gerbner, we can see that the effects of television on our psyche are both obvious and subtle: obvious in the fact that they’re indisputable and subtle in the methods that is used to change our opinions. Particularly as we spend more and more time consuming television shows, we can’t really ignore the fact that television is a big part of our dialogue with society, even if it is one sided. We learn lessons, stereotypes, and cultures through television. This, in turns, allows it to shape what we know of our own world. Gerbner says, “Culture provides the overall framework in which we imagine what we do not encounter directly, and interpret what we do encounter directly. It is the context in which our experience becomes consciousness.” If we see the way that television shapes and infiltrates our culture, then we can see that it has the power to help us create these mental frameworks.

If we’ve consumed television that supports and furthers RC, then we’ve created a cultural framework that supports it, as well. When we hear about these topics in real life, they don’t go through the framework of someone informed about why sexual assault happens, about the intricacies of victim blaming, and the importance of analyzing what you consume rather than just mindlessly watching it. Instead, the framework is someone who is already entrenched in rape culture.

And this is why it’s important to critically and analytically look at the things we watch. Viewers need to be able to look at the entirety of what they’re watching, rather than just mindlessly consuming. If we stop and really look at what we’re watching, about why we’re seeing it, then we don’t have to just accept all the messages the show gives. We can pick and choose and recognize certain things as dangerous. Like, if you were eating trail mix but allergic to peanuts. You know peanuts are dangerous for you and so you respond accordingly: are the peanuts sealed off in a way that you can just remove them and keep eating the mix or is it so intricate that you need to just stop eating all together? It’s important not to eat dangerous things; it’s important not to internalize dangerous messages.

I want to be clear that I’m not suggesting the prohibition of television in order to stop its perpetuation of RC. Not only is that a very intense thing to call for, I don’t think it would help. Cutting a huge piece of culture from your life would be incredibly ineffective for changing culture. We don’t need to damn an entire genre of entertainment but instead focus on the inside of the genre itself. There will always be people who argue that we need these storylines, these stereotypes, these depictions of assault in our media because they happen in real life or they’re essential to storytelling or freedom of speech or—

There will always be people who want rape and assault shown on television. We don’t really need to worry about the whys they have; we need to worry about the hows.

So let’s look at a couple of shows and their hows.

First of all, you knew it was coming: Game of Thrones. You can’t talk about rape culture in television without talking about GoT. I’m close to confident the elevator pitch was “You like rape, betrayal, and boobs? Have I got a show for you.” to which the guys in the elevator responded with, “I like it, but can there be rape in it?” (I do not like this show. I am biased. Media are biased. We are all biased. Please move on.) GoT depicts rape in a gratuitous way, showing it as not only violent but sexy. It is sexualized on screen and plays into the porn-influenced male gaze. It includes rape for shock value and continues to narratively force the viewers to identify or root for these “anti-heroes”. The National Center of Sexual Exploitation even named this show on their 2016 Dirty Dozen list, saying that, “[GoT’s] cocktail of pornography and twisted plot lines must be denounced as socially irresponsible, especially in an age when American society is struggling to combat the crises of sexual assault and rape culture.”

There is some pushback on if GoT really does portray rape negatively, such as 5x6, where one of the main characters Sansa is raped by her (forced) husband Ramsay in front of her step-brother Theon. This rape is not shown as something acceptable, as Ramsay is known for being one of the worst characters in the entire universe. But this one example of kind-of-okay portrayal doesn’t change the fact that for much of the show, rape and sexual violence is shown gratuitously. What about Jamie Lannister, raping his sister over the body of their dead son, even when he’s a character we’re still supposed to sympathize with? Joffrey shooting arrows at Ros, a  prostitute that was “gifted” to him, which is fairly ignored because Joffrey is known for being cruel? Tyrion, strangling his lover to death, while still being considered a fan favorite? Khal Drogo raping his young wife on their first wedded night, though she eventually loves him and their love story is unchallenged for the series, romanticized in his death? There is so much assault and rape in GoT, in the forefront and the background, that viewers are able to ignore it due to the oversaturation of violence. It’s low thrum of torture porn in most episodes creates a mindset of it just happens instead of why is this happening.

Contrastingly, let’s look at Reign. Reign depicts rape and sexual assault a few times, as any historical or period piece show does. (Apparently, something about corsets and horses make people think that showing rape is not only okay but imperative.) However, I think Reign does a particularly good job at depicting rape, especially with its main heroine, Mary. Mary is raped during a siege of her castle and the entirety of the scene works to show the brutal violence of the event. The mise-en-scene works to create a horrific event that is not once sexualized. Mary’s body is not shown in a sexual manner nor is the emphasis on the rapist’s face, but rather on her own pain. This is emphasized by showrunner Laurie McCarthy, who said: “[My] concern was that it was really portrayed as an act of violence. It was very important to me that it wasn’t eroticized in any way, shape, or form, that it really was an act of hatred and violence and really powerlessness and rage.” McCarthy went into the scene knowing the dangers of portraying rape and actively worked against sexualizing the scene in any way.

But the high point is really the way that the show deals with the effects of the assault: slowly. Mary heals at an incredibly, particularly cinematically, slow pace. She alienates herself from her friends and family, can’t be with her husband, and has to come to terms with the assault in her own way. The way she shares the incident with others is not all at once, but little by little to the people she trusts the most. It shows her healing physically and mentally at a pace that is realistic and refuses to minimize the trauma. Though the show, like any CW program, is quick to add in more drama and plot, they still give Mary the breathing room and screen time to accommodate her assault.

These two shows are by no means the only ones that deal with rape or assault. Its abundance is one of the qualities that keeps RC perpetuated so seamlessly. To go through all of the shows that depict rape would be not only emotionally and spiritually crushing, but so time consuming that it’d prove pointless by the creation of new programs. So instead, for the future, I’m going to narrow my focus even farther. The next post will be about HBO’s Westworld, what it contributes to RC, and why I think Adorno’s an asshole.

If you want to follow this series in a visual way, click here for my YouTube series of the same name. The series is a bit lighter but also is still about RC so, really, how light can it get? Bless. ✌🏻