I've done everything there is to do to keep from sitting down to write this, the last step in eight months of conceiving, building, and birthing this idea. I've done my nails, promised myself just one more episode of my latest Netflix binge-watch, warmed my tepid coffee in the microwave for the sixth time; but now it's time to let go.
It's hard to let go. My fingers ache from chewing them raw. I'm tired from restless nights worrying over getting this book right, and it's hard to tell who I'm doing it for; for you or for me?
This book exists because I saw a need, a window of opportunity to take a stand against the bullying of queer writers and the—even more egregious—bullying of queer writers by their own community . An opportunity to take a stand against the concept of purity in queer representation (and who better to do this than a queer person who grew up in the repressive Bible Belt, where women congregants weren't even allowed to speak in church)?
I've seen the consequences of such a culture, one in which vulnerable people are made to answer for every real and imaginary sin, kneeling at the pulpit of community opinion and begging for grace. And inside their voice is withering. And then, sometimes, we lose that voice forever: silenced by fear and sometimes by death.
This book exists because of the generosity of others, but more than that, because of their belief that this mission is an important one. We must let queer people be who they are, to write about what terrifies them (and about what turns them on). We must let queers in fiction be nuanced and whole.
Inside this book you will find thirteen queer horror stories by queer writers. Every piece features a queer villain as informed by the writer's imagination; but underneath the guise of moral dichotomies, there is something deeper, something that speaks to very real queer—very real human —anxieties and fears. It isn't up to me whether you can see it, but I hope you can. I hope you do.
With love and gratitude,
Mae Murray
February 2022