Rob Osler made his fiction debut in the Department of First Stories of EQMM’s January/February 2021 issue with the story “Analogue,”  which went on to win the Robert L. Fish Award for best short story by a new American author. His debut novel, Devil’s Chew Toy, published the following year, was a nominee for the Anthony, Macavity, Agatha, and Lefty Awards. A sequel to Devil’s Chew Toy, entitled Cirque du Slay, is due out early next year. In the meantime, don’t miss Rob’s latest short story, “Miss Direction,” in our September/October 2023 issue (on sale next week!). In this post he addresses a question that most writers probably wrestle with at one time or another, and he has some interesting insights. —Janet Hutchings

Did you know that some of the most successful gay romance writers are not gay? It’s true. Many are straight women. When I first learned of this, I was dismayed. What could a straight woman possibly know about gay men’s romantic lives? Why coopt our stories? Hearing my gripe, my partner, Brian, asked, “Have you read any of their books?” My answer: “Well, no . . . but.” The simplicity of his question continues to shape my thinking about the types of characters an author has license to write. Spoiler alert: I provide no hard-and-fast answer because I don’t believe there is one. Instead, I offer a few thoughts and considerations that I hope are useful to the debate.

As a gay man, I am comfortable writing a story with a gay main character. I’m guessing you didn’t gasp reading that. Your reaction is likely the same knowing that gifted author and Black lesbian Cheryl A. Head’s series main character, Charlene “Charlie” Mack, is also a Black lesbian. Nor is anyone likely to question why the main character in Raquel V. Reyes’ marvelous Caribbean Kitchen Series is Miriam Quiñones or that author and trans lawyer Robyn Gigl’s terrific legal thrillers feature trans lawyer Erin McCabe. The reason for our acceptance is simple: we don’t doubt these authors’ credibility, legitimacy, or interest in writing those characters. We trust them to get right their characters’ interior selves. But that is not always the case when an author decides to “step out of their lane” to write a character who is in some way essentially different from themself. That readers and the writing community might ask questions is expected. Despite an author’s best intentions, the work might be viewed with skepticism, at worst, disparaged. But wait. Isn’t this fiction? Shouldn’t an author be free to write whatever interests and inspires them? Shouldn’t a work be judged solely on its merits? Or are there limits—unwritten as they may be—that put constraints on one’s creative license?

To explore this, let’s return to my statement that as a gay man I have no reservations about writing a gay main character. I also feel the same way about writing a straight main character. Thoughts? If you’re like most people, you’re not too bothered, if at all, by this. I have lived my entire life in a culture and community centered on straight people. I don’t need to conduct ethnographic research on what it’s like to be a straight person in today’s America. I need only to go about my day with open eyes. This is, of course, how most authors conceive of and bring many of their characters to life—by making artful use of what they observe around them. Writers commonly tap into the familiar; “Write what you know” is a common refrain for a reason. But what about when an author chooses to write about characters beyond their lived experience?  

To dig into this, let’s explore a hypothetical: what if the straight character I intend to put in my story is also Black? Oh, did I mention she is my single main character? Now what do you think? I’m guessing you’re not fence-sitting. Let me take a stab at articulating some likely questions. First and foremost, Why? Why is a gay white man choosing to write a straight Black woman protagonist? What makes him think he can pull off developing and presenting her as an authentic individual? Is he nuts? If those are not your questions, I’ve tipped my hand: they are mine. If I ever make such a choice, I’ll have to contend with the inescapable reality that every individual’s identity is deeply personal and can be sensitive, especially if perceived as misappropriated. When an author doesn’t share essential aspects of another’s life experience and writes about that person’s people, places, and culture anyway, that is bound to raise questions. But does that mean an author should never do it?

By way of example, I wouldn’t intentionally write a story centered on a Black main character who is a hairdresser at a women’s salon in a Southern town. Among the myriad reasons why I wouldn’t do that, knowing absolutely nothing about that experience figures high on the list. But I will not say that no other white person could or should write that story featuring that character in that setting. Aghast? I get it. I do. But hear me out. What if I told you that the white author had spent the past twenty years as a hairdresser at a women’s salon in a multi-racial community in Alabama, and half of her clientele were Black? Does that change your opinion? Is there a certain percentage of Black clients or a minimum number of years required that she work at the salon to prove herself a legitimate teller of that character’s story? Try this: what if the author had volunteered and apprenticed in an intensive two-week stint at the salon as part of research for the story? Enough or never enough?

Another take on this is offered by Trysh Travis, Associate Professor in the Center for Women’s Studies and Gender Research at the University of Florida, in a post for Blackpast.org titled, Is The Help Realistic? It Depends.*  Professor Travis asserts that a novel’s intended audience is a significant factor in judging its authenticity—or, as she refers to it, reality. To paraphrase, in the case of Kathryn Stockett’s mega-seller, The Help, Travis argues that it should be expected that a fictionalized tale of race relations told from the perspective of a white female employer, written by a contemporary white female author for a mostly white female audience, didn’t fully withstand critical examination by historical scholars. Why? Because the novel (stressing fiction) was shaped by the reality the contemporary author shares with her readers, which is bound to be different from one that hews only to the historical record (stressing non-fiction). Travis concludes her thought-provoking article by saying, “Reasonable people may differ over which realism is most . . . realistic.” Chew on that!

Here’s what I wonder (and I do wonder!): When are universally shared human traits—ambitions and aspirations, vulnerabilities and insecurities, and all the rest—not enough to satisfy insight into a character different from the author? Might the right answer be not an unequivocal one but a thoughtful consideration calibrated by how deeply a character’s unshared experiences are explored on the page? For me, if a straight author were to write a story that includes a gay character (presuming no tired clichés), it’s one thing for that character to appear now and then versus a story told from his perspective that delves into his emotional struggle with coming out to evangelical parents in a conservative rural community. Although we can probably agree that even a secondary character should be drawn as true to life as possible, the author might get away without having a deep knowledge of a secondary character’s psychology and world from the inside out. In contrast, the latter storyline would seem to demand it. If an author chooses the deeper route, to quote RuPaul, “You better work!”

The scenarios above beg two questions: (1) why would a white or straight author choose to write a Black or gay main character, respectively, and (2) how do they hope to pull it off with supreme authenticity? As to the reason for choosing to do so, I think it is up to the author to explain—or not. I don’t think fiction can accommodate an edict for the types of characters an author—by virtue of their identity—should be allowed to write. It’s too nuanced and situational to establish a one-size-fits-all rule. No matter who we are, our life experience is specific to each of us. However, unless you’re writing sci-fi, isn’t authenticity always the goal? Should an author decide to go for it, they must accept that some readers might view their work with greater scrutiny and apply a higher bar for getting even minor details right. Still, other readers—whether their concerns are legitimate or not—might reject the project out of hand.

If an author is passionate about a character and story, is up for the challenge, and accepts the risks, as a reader, I will try, hard as it may sometimes be, to judge the work on its merits and not make a premature judgment based on the name, photo, and bio on the back jacket flap. I’ll try to be guided by my partner’s simple question: Have you read it?

*Thanks to my author pal, Raquel V. Reyes, for pointing me to this insightful article. You can find it here: https://www.blackpast.org/african-american-history/help-realistic-it-depends/  Historical fiction brings up a materially different set of considerations—no one living today can hope to get a historical story right by reflecting upon life experience alone. This subject deserves a separate, longer discussion.