How Being Honest Made Me a Better Writer

Tomorrow, Quinn’s third book goes live.

Why the sudden need to refer to myself in the third person? Because today’s actually my twenty-eighth release day. That’s crazy for me to think about! Five and a half years ago, my husband rolled his eyes when I released that first book. He didn’t think it’d go anywhere, that I’d get bored and move on to some other hobby within the year. I’d like to be pissed at him for his lack of support, but I get it. Until I found writing, I was a serial job-hopper. I tried more hobbies than I can count. I was like a hummingbird, moving from one thing to the next, but never feeling like me.

It’s interesting to type those words, because the same could be said about my personal life. I was in this constant state of trying to figure out who I was and that led to a hell of a lot of discontent. I’d pretty much resigned myself to the fact I’d never be truly happy.

When I was about thirty-five, someone blatantly told me they didn’t think I was bisexual, even though it was how I identified at the time. At first, I was pissed. How dare he tell me how I should identify! It wasn’t until he explained that I not only understood what he was saying, but wholeheartedly agreed with him. I am demisexual. I don’t feel attraction the way some do. And that’s okay. I need to feel an emotional connection to someone before anything can develop sexually. And that’s okay. I’m more likely to be turned on by a stimulating conversation that sounds boring to eavesdroppers than by a beautiful physique. And that’s okay.

But I wasn’t okay.

It wasn’t until I started taking a hard look at my gender identity rather than my sexual identity that I realized there was still this huge problem. I talked about this briefly during my first blog post as Quinn. Back then, the blog was going to be a journal for myself, not an outlet for the world. At the time, I was content to say I was genderfluid, easing my way between the binary male and female. And that was okay.

But I wasn’t okay.

I’m still working on figuring out who I am, but with the help of friends, I’ve realized I don’t have to have the answers right now. There isn’t a timetable here. Whenever I think about being open about where I’m at, I imagine people grilling me, wanting to know what it all means. Funny thing about that: not once has anyone demanded more than I was willing to give. The people I have admitted my uncertainty to have all reminded me I’m just fine the way I am.

And that’s okay.

Several times over the past few months, I’ve received compliments about how much better my writing is as Quinn. While I’d love to say it’s because I’m writing what calls to me, the same could be said for the other twenty-five books. There’s only one thing that’s changed.


I’m okay. I’m nowhere near the end of my journey, but I’m no longer hiding. I’ve let go of the fear that crippled me in the past. I’ve stopped worrying about how other think about the person they perceive as having written the story. I’m finally free. And it’s coming through in the stories I tell. That, to me, is almost as amazing as stripping back the mask to see my authentic self when I look in the mirror.