One of the many things I like to carry on about is the topic of bisexuality. One of the great debates about the implications of Shakespeare’s sonnets (because half are written about a tortuous relationship with a woman and the other to a beloved younger man) is the shocking question: Is Shakespeare gay?
Nope. He (or rather his poetic persona) is bisexual. Bisexual merely means that a person is attracted to members of the same and the opposite sex. Let’s make this more personal. You have mostly dated women, but once you had an intense relationship with a man in college. Maybe you didn’t even sleep with him but had a long friendship rife with homoerotic overtones. Maybe you would have slept with him if he had asked, but he never did. Congratulations, you’re bisexual! Now you don’t have to tell anyone about the man from college. You don’t have to march in gay pride parades (but why wouldn’t you? they are kind of fun). But you can’t deny the fact that, in your little heart of erotic hearts, you are bisexual.
Now let’s talk about writers. Here’s a test. Do you write? Congratulations, you’re a writer! Why is it so hard for people to call themselves writers? If you engage in putting words down on the page then you are a writer. Musicians deal with this better, I think. I played a lovely alto stringed instrument growing up. I wasn’t that good, but I wasn’t that bad either. I played in college as well. I call myself an amateur musician.
So claim your damn self and stop worrying so much about what it all means. You can write without being published; you can be a writer if you hate everything you produce. You can be a writer if you read your shit aloud to your cat. And you’re especially a writer if you can get the fuck off the internet and write.
What do you claim and what do you deny?