Charging the Batteries of a Queer Soul

Beauty to recharge… and to remember why we fight.

An Amish boy and his plastic grocery bag. All images in this story are my personal photos, taken with permission.

Life is hard. Beauty can be scarce. Pursuing it is part of why we live.

Sometimes I forget I’m an artist. Crazy, huh? I’ve spent years honing my craft, countless hours sweating over manuscripts, fighting to make every word just exactly, evocatively RIGHT. Writing fiction is the keenest pleasure I can imagine in life, so how can I go for weeks without creating?

I’m a gay man who suffers from religious trauma —

I had 16 dozen tasks to accomplish when I woke up this morning, all of them connected to LGBTQ activism. A dozen sincere comments split between Medium and social media deserved thoughtful responses. A queer teen messaged my “Aunty Jimothy” persona with a heart-breaking question. An advocacy organization wanted to know when I would submit the (unpaid) article I promised them.

I had fiction to write. I can close my eyes and see the story. Jamaica. A gay man on holiday meets an American fugitive. Sex, pathos, and love ensue.

I brewed a pot of coffee, dived in, and got busy. Somewhere between replying to comments and emailing the teen to suggest they reach out to a qualified professional, I…