Like me, many of you have probably read stories that include queer characters, maybe
queer subplots. It’s refreshing to see more of them these days and most definitely a step in
the right direction. However, I do find that queer characters are often expected to explain
themselves. To justify their bodies, their love, or their identity. Which I find frustrating.
I’m a fantasy author and reader. Arguably the easiest genre to represent queerness, as the
history and cultures are all fabricated. Yet, there seems to be an unspoken rule that
queerness must arrive with footnotes and is not allowed to stand without comment. I refuse
to follow that rule. Both in the stories I choose to read and write, identity is not a gimmick or
a personality trait. Sexuality is not something that needs to be explained. Straight and cis are
not defaults.
Let’s be honest, we’re all familiar with characters whose sole personality trait is their
sexuality. Characters who are introduced, not just by name, but by their identity, too. Readers
are left with no doubt of their queerness within the first paragraph. Many times, this kind of
explanation is framed as generosity or representation, but I believe it is more like a toll.
Certain characters move freely through stories, unquestioned, while others are stopped at
the proverbial gate and asked how they work. Their explanation becomes a kind of currency,
paid upfront. Trauma offered as proof, labels as receipts. Only once the toll is paid does the
plot resume, as if queerness were an obstacle rather than a part of the world. When only
certain identities are routinely stopped and questioned, real representation becomes a
fiction. The gate has been built to protect the comfort of those who have never had to explain
themselves, while quietly normalizing the idea that others must.
Why should a straight character be able to casually reference a partner without pushback,
but if a queer character does the same the narrative often anticipates resistance? Clarifying
statements around legality, social norms, or personal history must be made before the
reader is allowed to move on. In this case, the straight pairing is allowed to exist in
implication, while the queer pairing is required to exist in declaration. One is treated as
ambient, the other as exceptional.
I’ve spoken before about my frustration at the fact that novels can easily invent new
religions, countries, and even entire species, yet still hesitate over a queer character without
notes attached. This is not about offering clarity, it’s about whose existence is assumed, and
whose must be justified before the plot is allowed to unfold.
I do understand the desire by some to leave absolutely no doubt about a character’s
sexuality or identity in the reader’s mind. That level of clarity can feel like representation. But
the best stories assume queerness the way they assume gravity or magic. It is present from
the first page, woven seamlessly into the world without note. Lovers find each other without
pause. Names and bodies are treated as facts, not anomalies. In these spaces, queerness
isn’t a narrative event. It is a way the world already knows how to be. Reader interpretation
is a wonderful thing. We should be given the opportunity to come to our own conclusions
about a person’s identity, as we are with so many other parts of the characters.
An argument exists that these narratives provide heavy explanation and character trauma
because it reflects real experiences for many queer people. Having to justify something as
simple as their own existence is an unfortunate experience that many members of the
LGBTQ+ community have to face day after day. The danger, however, is that it reinforces the
message that this is the norm, that it’s acceptable. If every book presents the same level of
explanation for their queer characters, it does nothing to widen the experience of readers.
Stories ask readers to learn new rules all the time. They are expected to understand fictional
events, family histories, convoluted backstories and this is no different. The expectation that
queerness must be explained is not about clarity. It is about preserving the status quo. The
best stories have never been interested in doing so. Of course, there will always be some
who call this confusing, inaccessible, or incomplete. But confusion is not the same as harm,
and unfamiliarity is not a failure of the craft.
And let’s be honest, confusion is not a flaw. Ambiguity is a more accurate mirror of real life.
We rarely receive clean explanations for the people around us. We get glimpses, gestures,
habits, things said sideways or not at all. Stories should honor that reality by offering subtle
cues instead of declarations. Allowing both main and side characters to exist in partial view.
What is left unsaid becomes space for recognition or interpretation. Readers who share
these experiences may well recognize them. Others might sense something passing just out
of reach. Both responses should be allowed because it can encourage people to learn.
True representation will refuse explanation for the same reason queer people do. Because
our existence is not a question that needs answering. No one is owed a glossary of our lives,
on or off the page. Queer stories allow for narratives that move with that same certainty.
They offer presence instead of proof, recognition instead of instruction. What the reader
understands varies depending on personal experience and is open to interpretation.
