This may come as a shock to you, but I’ve always had a hard time fitting in. I don’t think I could fit in even if I tried: I’m over six feet tall and I look like I comb my hair with a grenade. Even as a kid, I struggled to fit in. Everything I said or did put a target on my back: my sensitivity, my femininity, my likes (and dislikes)—all invited unwanted attention, which resulted in years of bullying. For example, in eighth grade, my effort to look like Buffy from Season 3 (chunky highlights, for which I still carry a torch and will not be slandered!!!!!!) got me slammed into a locker or two.
Now, as a thirty-year-old he/they living in Bushwick, not fitting in is not only something I'm used to by now, it’s something I derive power from. Like a plant that needs sunlight, I need a good eyebrow-raise from the occasional passerby or I’ll wilt. If someone doesn’t try to inconspicuously snap a photo of me on the subway, I’ll consider going home to change. If I go to Buffalo Wild Wings and don’t get called a faggot, I’ll storm out exclaiming, “FOOLS!”
At the end of the day, not being myself would hurt far more than any slur hurled my way.
This doesn’t mean that I don’t get uncomfortable. Like anyone else, I have insecurities, and some days those insecurities get the best of me. Some days they don’t, and I am able to live, laugh, love without restraint. I have crippling body dysmorphia, which frequently dictates how my days will go. These are all things I continue to work on, in therapy and outside of it. And they are all things I’ve contended with for a long time now, including—and especially—the time I was a baby writer trying to get their foot in the door of publishing.
***
I was still pretty much living a double-life when I made the decision to pursue writing professionally in 2013: I had just graduated from college and moved to Manhattan, where I was pursuing my master’s degree at The New School by day, and engaging in debauchery on the Lower East Side by night. I would often go straight from the bar/club to class/work, donning the previous night’s ostentatious regalia in broad daylight, accruing many-a-double-take from friends, colleagues, and strangers alike.
I had also started my first internship at a now-defunct magazine, where, within a year, I was interviewing stars like Róisín Murphy, Marina Diamandis, and Goldfrapp for print cover stories. I was getting my humor writing published in other outlets, too, like HuffPost and Thought Catalog.
I was hungry and trying to expedite the process of paying my dues because I had one goal, and that goal was to publish a book—specifically, a memoir.
I had done my homework: I knew that selling a non-fiction project hinged on a successful platform, so I said yes to every opportunity that came my way, paid or (more times than not) unpaid. The more by-lines I amassed, the more credibility I'd have—or so I thought. I scanned the Acknowledgements sections of books similar to the one I wanted to write, just to see which agent that author thanked, and then I'd put that agent’s name into the spreadsheet I kept on my computer, so that when the time came to query agents, I'd already have a list of folks to submit to. I knew the path to publication was anything but linear, but, for every fork in the road, my next move would always be determined by what would be best for my book.
Besides working endlessly and tirelessly on my craft—taking on countless freelance assignments, reading books in the same vein as mine, reading interview after interview with authors I admired, taking creative writing classes, etc.—I knew that I also had to start populating my (very slim, virtually non-existent) rolodex with contacts. I had to network; it was unavoidable, it was necessary.
***
My best friend, Nikki, who worked at a publishing house (who also helped me put together my book proposal and query letter to agents, not to mention edited the first, like, five drafts of my book—all prerequisites for sainthood, I believe) had an all-access pass to the going-ons in the industry, and would frequently invite me to any gathering she thought I could benefit from attending: happy hours, panels, mixers—you name it.
I remember standing once in the lobby of Penguin Random House on Broadway, perusing the titles behind the glass cases flanking the hall leading up to the elevators. It was after five, so every time the elevator doors opened, I wondered if my future editor was stepping out and passing me in the lobby on their way home. I was dressed in my interpretation of business casual: a bright yellow blazer over an eggplant-purple turtleneck, paired with black skinny jeans, red, pointed-toe heels, and topped, of course, with hair styled sky-high. While I was waiting for Nikki to get there—we were going to some networking event that was being held in one of the social halls upstairs—I secretly hoped that my flamboyant exterior would beckon someone over, rapt with curiosity about what stories must be tucked in between the layers of visual napalm with which I had adorned myself. A pipe dream, really. But, listen, I was twenty-three and still slept in a twin-sized bed, OK?
I mostly hovered at these events (conveniently next to the cheese spreads), never fully immersing myself in the sea of publishing professionals. I would exchange pleasantries with marketing assistants here and there, but I still felt out of place. And when I say felt, I mean it in every sense of the word: it was tangible, like there was an invisible fence between them and me.
Another time I went to a mixer for the contributors to Shouts & Murmurs, The New Yorker’s humor section. My friend, Abby, whose hilarious piece, “If You Give a Dude a Kale Chip,” had run just a few months prior, brought me along as her date. I wore a shirt with polka dots the size of an infant’s head and glittery pointed-toe shoes, which were conversation starters for sure. And those conversations started with, “Did you get lost on your way to Studio 54?”
I, once again, did not fit in. Which, in any other instance, I would have been fine with. But this time it was different: this time it was my career I had to consider. A future I was willing to do almost anything for, so long as it meant that my book found a place on a bookstore shelf someday.
***
I wanted to be taken seriously as a writer. Which, in hindsight, is kind of funny since I’ve made a career out of being serious about not taking myself seriously. But I want to be taken seriously about being serious about not taking myself seriously!!!!!!! (Don’t read that again, you will get vertigo!)
The problem is, back then, I felt like I didn’t “look the part,” and I worried that it would hinder my chances at selling not just my first book, but any. I didn’t give a shit about any other job: I once showed up to an interview for an administrative assistant position, hungover as everlasting shit, with a club stamp still on my hand that I hadn't bothered washing off. (And guess what, I got the job!)
But I knew I wanted to be a writer, so I asked myself: how do I balance writing aesthetic and personal style? Short answer: I don’t.
I reached this conclusion, in time. During that time, I sold my first book; I got published in The New Yorker; I taught non-fiction workshops—all while looking like Johnny Bravo and Phyllis Diller's lovechild. Once I came to the realization that there is nothing to balance—that my writing and personal style are inextricably linked—I was able to take myself seriously, and anyone who couldn't really wasn’t someone I needed in my corner anyway. It doesn’t matter what I’m writing about: whether it’s really tough shit, like depression or chronic illness, or really stupid shit, like getting stoned and watching old episodes of Top Chef. It all matters because it matters to me, and, chances are, it matters to someone else, too. And I take that very seriously.
I still grapple with imposter syndrome, especially when I’m doing a panel or going to a writer’s conference. I’ll be in my apartment or hotel room, dolling myself up before freezing in terror: is this too much? I don’t “look” like a writer. It’s an old habit I am trying to break, so I ask myself, “What does a writer even look like?” Can you identify a writer in the street? Unless you’re Stephen King or Margaret Atwood or Zadie Smith—and barring any kind of uniform—no one can tell what you do based on your appearance.
If you write, you’re a writer—even if you haven’t been published yet. Bonus points if you do it while wearing a tinsel wig.
***
Credits
Cover art by: JP Brammer
Editorial assistant: Jesse Adele
You can follow my other unhinged missives by following me on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. My debut memoir, Born to Be Public, is out now.