What My Last Book Taught Me: A Subconscious Gift
by Malinda Lo
My last novel, Ash, a retelling of Cinderella, was published in September 2009. It was also my first published novel, and the experience of writing it was a crash course in how to be a writer.
During the eight years I spent working on Ash, I learned that I prefer to write alone in my room with the door shut, but I can work almost anywhere if I have to. I learned that I have discipline. I learned that I can keep going even when I’ve revised a particular chapter a dozen times. I learned that I love the woods. I learned how the publishing industry works — I think.
Ten months after Ash’s publication, those things I learned are still true. But new truths are also emerging.
Once a book reaches the hands of readers, it takes on its own identity. It becomes a book, not the book I’m writing. A book means different things to different people, and the author has no control over that.
In my previous job, I was an entertainment reporter. I wrote news articles as well as opinion columns about the representation of LGBT people in the mainstream media. I knew that once my words were published, they were no longer mine. They could be argued over or praised, but I could never take them back.
Ash is no longer mine. I am proud of the words I put between the covers of that book, although like every author, I still see errors. But it was the best book I could write in the time I had. I thought I was finished with it, and it was finished with me.
While thinking about the subject of this essay, I was surprised to discover that Ash is still teaching me things. I realize now that as I wrote Ash, I was telling myself the story I needed to hear.
I came out to myself and my friends when I was a sophomore in college, but in many ways, it was a theoretical coming out. A couple of years later, I proceeded to have a wonderful, five-year relationship with a man I thought I might marry. I didn’t.
The end of that relationship was life-changing because it forced me to finally deal with my attraction to women. It was both exciting and terrifying.
I began to write Ash just as I was coming to grips with that desire. So perhaps it is not surprising that the main character, Ash, was straight in the first draft. But when I finished that draft a couple of years later and gave it to a friend to read, she pointed out that the heterosexual love story was tepid at best; in fact, Ash seemed most drawn to another female character in the book.
I was shocked at first, but when I reread that draft, it was as clear as day. By then, I was living in San Francisco; I was part of the lesbian community; and I was reporting on lesbians in entertainment. I saw the lesbian love story in Ash laid out in black and white and thought to myself: How could I have missed this?
Although my conscious mind had intended to tell a different story, my subconscious knew which story I really wanted to tell. I made the choice to give in to my subconscious.
As I revised, I decided that Ash would face no homophobia in her fairy tale. I wanted her female love interest to be as iconic as Prince Charming; I wanted everyone to understand why Ash would fall in love with her. I wanted it to be not only normal that she fell in love with another woman; I wanted others to envy her romance. Just like Cinderella.
Looking back on the experience of writing Ash, I see now that I was telling myself it was OK that I was a lesbian, and not only was it acceptable to fall in love with a woman, it was desirable to do so.
Every fairy tale I read as a child had a heterosexual romance in the end. Heterosexual love stories are present in film, television, song, dance, even advertising and news reports. Straight romance is everywhere. Where is gay romance?
Those of us who are queer can all cite memorable experiences with popular culture that told us it was OK to be who we are: watching the relationship between Willow and Tara on Buffy the Vampire Slayer; reading Sarah Waters’ Tipping the Velvet; listening to the lyrics of a Melissa Etheridge song. To many of us, these experiences are transformative. But in the media landscape, these are mostly marginal blips. We have to seek out representations of ourselves; they are usually buried beneath an avalanche of heteronormativity.
Ash was my own way of telling myself that it was OK to be gay. It made Cinderella — a story I loved to pieces to when I was a little girl — relevant to my life as a lesbian. It told me that I, too, could have a happily ever after.
I didn’t realize that Ash had done this for me until I sat down to write this essay. A year after its publication, Ash is no longer my book; it is a book. A book that has shown me how much I believe in love. Love that transforms grief into life; love that transcends gender.
Even though I always say that Ash is not a coming-out story, in some ways it is. That’s what coming out is about: leaving behind the grief and self-judgment of the closet and embracing life as an openly queer person.
Ash helped me to do that.
{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
I loved Ash, and Melinda I loved reading this. Your words are inspiring.
It’s amazing how much art teaches us. This is a beautiful post, Melinda.
I’ve read Ash a number of times and I’m a regular reader of your blog but I generally don’t comment on anything because…well because. But I wanted to comment on this because it struck such a cord in me as I remember being a teenager and looking for queer role models. I was lucky enough to find some real-life ones but I’ve never forgotten the importance of seeing myself in others. The thought that the me of 16 might have the opportunity to read Ash and see that fairy tales can come true as a lesbian makes me smile…a lot.
I’m not gay and Ash was the first LGBT novel I’d ever read. I wasn’t sure what to expect and was pleasantly surprised. It was such a beautifully written piece and I’m not surprised it was a finalist for the William C. Morris Award. Kudos!