by Jasper Sanchez
I’m not the kind of guy you want to bring as a plus one to a book signing. Trust me on this. I spent the entire time I was in waiting to see Alison Bechdel working up the courage to say something eloquent about how her portrayal of butch identity in Fun Home meant so much to me as a baby queer trying to puzzle out the intricacies of my own sexuality and gender identities only to get to the front of the line, freeze, and stutter, simply, “Thanks.” Or, there was the time I saw Michael Chabon, where I started prepping a heartfelt soliloquy on how I’d never seen such casual representations of queerness as I’d seen in his books, and instead flummoxed him by handing over my battered copy of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay—which had already been signed by my grandfather. And then there’s the night I met Casey McQuiston.
I wasn’t anyone’s plus one, for once. All my Seattle friends were either working or inexplicably uninterested in attending a reading by the bestselling author of the summer blockbuster hit Red, White & Royal Blue, which I hadn’t shut up about in months. But that was fine with me. I was having the best week of my life—more on that later—and I wasn’t going to let my pesky anxiety disorder get in the way.
The day started off with a pleasant surprise. When I logged onto Twitter, I saw that Courtney Gould, my agent sibling and author of the 2021 queer paranormal debut of your dreams The Dead and the Dark—go add it on Goodreads, I’ll wait—had tweeted about seeing Casey McQuiston that night. I confirmed it was the same reading and replied with an embarrassing number of exclamation points. We made tentative plans to meet up that night, and I swore to myself I was going to be chill.
I was over two hours early. The epitome of chill, I know. I’d been burned before by showing up to signings at Elliott Bay too late to get into the reading room, but even I knew two hours was overkill. So I camped out in the coffee shop with my stereotypical gay iced coffee and tried to get in some words for NaNoWriMo. Except the coffee was just making me more anxious, and the lack of a concrete plan with Courtney left me wondering how early was too early to message her. How soon was too soon to say, “heyyy so I’m already here because I’m compulsively early to everything,” without admitting just how unfashionably early I meant?
I overshot it, actually. By the time I sent the message, Courtney and her friends were already in the line I hadn’t seen forming. At the front of the line, to be exact, because c’mon. Casey freakin’ McQuiston. Had I seriously thought I was going to be the only one frothing with queer bookish joy?
Of course, I had another reason, too.
I first exchanged emails with Courtney two months prior, when I received my offer of representation from the fabulous superhero-of-an-agent Claire Friedman. We hadn’t kept in touch, but she congratulated me when I accepted Claire’s offer, and I congratulated her when her deal was announced. But, despite the glacial pace of publishing, a lot had happened in those two months.
After introductions were made, Courtney asked how my revisions were going. I demurred, saying we were a little bit past that. Eyes wide, she asked if that meant my manuscript was out on submission. At which point I admitted I’d accepted an offer on The (Un)Popular Vote from Katherine Tegen Books three days ago.
Here’s what you need to know about The (Un)Popular Vote: It’s a YA gay political romance with a trans protagonist, and when I first heard about RWRB in early 2019, before I’d read it or started querying, my stomach flopped. Because how many gay political romances does the market really need? Once I read RWRB, I realized I didn’t care. Because RWRB was this breathtaking, heartbreaking kind of funny-beautiful-vital and absolutely perfect. It wasn’t too similar to my book, as I’d initially feared, but it was close enough that I broke an ironclad pitching rule. Despite its bestseller status, I used RWRB as a comp title. My agent kept it as a comp title when we went on sub, too. So what you really need to know here is this: While my book and Casey’s don’t occupy precisely the same space in the market, RWRB’s success made me believe there might be a place for my a-little-too-sincere-to-be-satire queer Americana book, too.
Telling a group of writers that you just got a book deal is the best kind of overwhelming. I mean, everything about getting the deal and telling your friends is overwhelming. But so far my conversations had happened on the phone, online, or in the break room at work. I hadn’t had a chance to celebrate yet. Then there I was, in a bookstore, waiting for a reading, surrounded by strangers congratulating me for this thing hadn’t yet—still hasn’t—sunk in. That, in a year and a half, my book could be in that very bookstore. I could be the one gearing up for a reading. I could take this queer bookish joy blooming in the air and bottle up a bit to keep just for myself.
It’s hard to stay anxious when you can’t stop smiling.
It was easy. Easy to catch up with Courtney on how her revisions were going, easy to chat with Lily Meade about when it’s acceptable to put Star Trek references in your book (answer: always), easy to settle into the front row of the basement reading room and bond with strangers over books and politics and assorted geekery.
It was easy, and Casey McQuiston was tipsy on bookstore wine. She was just as witty in person as you’d expect from her writing. She read the Cake Scene and answered questions on everything from her dream fancasts to her taste in fanfiction. I didn’t have to worry if I was laughing too loud or smiling too much because everyone else was too. It was easy to get out of my head and just be there, in that room, in that moment.
The only downside to sitting in the front row at a reading is that you end up at the back of the line for the signing. Except it’s not much of a downside when you’re emotionally tipsy from the reading and gushing about it with other fans. We had plenty to talk about between Casey, our lives, our writing—
And then my anxiety flooded back, along with memories of those awkward encounters with Alison Bechdel and Michael Chabon and a few others I’m too embarrassed to recount, because what the hell was I going to say to Casey I-used-her-as-a-comp-title McQuiston? Like, most importantly, should I tell her I used her as a comp title? For my book? That just sold? Three days ago???
The consensus was “yes,” “of course you should, Jasper,” “why wouldn’t you?”
It was a legitimate question. Why wouldn’t I? Why did I have a history of making a fool of myself in front of queer writers? Anxiety was the obvious answer; I have the diagnosis to prove it and everything. I can even admit that it’s intimidating to speak to creators whose work means something to me. I’ve never been very good at being vulnerable. It’s hard enough being vulnerable alone with a book; it’s another thing entirely to admit to that book’s author how it felt like they could see those parts of me I don’t let anyone else see. But I’ve always had another reason. I’ve wanted to be an author since I learned the word. I wanted to be the kind of writer whose books could make you feel something in spite of yourself. So, when I found myself face-to-face with an author whose books broke me open, how was I supposed to say I wanted to learn how to do that, too? As intimate as it felt to admit how much a book taught me about myself, it always seemed more dangerous to confess how much it taught me about the kind of writer I wanted to be.
Because maybe I could have representation. Maybe I could see patchwork pieces of my identity on the page. But my name on the cover? My queer, trans books on the shelves, with my heart inked on every page? That was too much to ask. Too much to hope for, let alone explain in a fifteen-second meet-and-greet with an author.
But everything about that November night already felt impossible. What did I have to lose?
By the time I reached the front of the line, I was shaking. Literally. Nerves and adrenaline and how many people I was even allowed to tell about the deal before it was announced, anyway? I walked up to Casey’s table and worked up a smile. I handed over my too-crisp paperback, hoping it wasn’t totally obvious I’d only bought it for the signing since I read it as an ebook. The seconds ticked by—the ones I couldn’t fill with Alison Bechdel, where Michael Chabon made a funny face at my grandfather’s signature—and I thought about the kind of writer I wanted to be.
I asked, “Can you keep a secret?” Casey said yes. And I told her about the deal. I could barely get to the point—that I’d used RWRB as a comp, that she’d been a part of my publishing journey, that I was thankful. I was still shaking and probably stuttering and keenly aware of the bookstore staff hurrying me along. Honestly? I don’t remember what she said. It’s as blurry as the live photos on my phone. But I remember the feeling.
That maybe I could have this. Maybe there was space in the bookstore for more than one gay political romance. Maybe I could make friends with other queer authors. Maybe it was possible to carve a place for myself in the queer book community, as both a reader and an author.
—
Jasper Sanchez is a queer transmasculine author who writes glittery gay stories about characters who care a little too much.
Born and raised among idyllic California wine country vistas, he developed a fierce love-hate relationship with his suburban small town and an enduring passion for chiles rellenos. He earned his MA in Cinema and Media Studies from UCLA and his BA in Cultural Anthropology from the University of Pennsylvania. While neither degree prepared him for the hellscape of late capitalism, they did teach him about the power of stories, the worlds they build, and their potential to effect change in the real world.
He lives in Seattle, WA, with his cat, who might be more opinionated than he is. When he’s not writing, he can be found wandering museums, scouring the city for the best espresso, and annotating lists of his favorite Star Trek episodes.
Jasper is represented by Claire Friedman at InkWell Management. His short fiction has appeared in Mithila Review, Foglifter, and Plenitude. The (Un)Popular Vote (HarperCollins/Tegen 2021) is his debut novel.
