Celebrating Queer Joy through Stories

by Auriane Desombre

In my sophomore year of college, one of my best friends made me watch Avatar: The Last Airbender. I didn’t think I would like it, but he basically tied me to a chair and forced me to watch, and, a handful of episodes in, I was proved extremely wrong. I loved it. So much so that, when we’d watched all three seasons of Avatar, we kept right on going into Legend of Korra, the sequel show. The last season of Korra was still airing when we started, and I caught up in time to watch the finale live. It was the only episode of the Avatar universe that I watched in real time. It was also the episode that made me finally realize I’m gay. 

So that’s how a children’s show airing on Nickelodeon literally changed my life. It wasn’t the only hint, of course, but the gentle joyousness with which Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko portrayed two women holding hands resonated with me in a way that finally made me confront the significance of the way it made me feel. Because of Korra, the moment I came out to myself was a joyous one, a peaceful and happy one, and watching the light-filled last few moments of the show with my best friend in my messy dorm room kitchen is one of my favorite memories.

I knew, when I started drafting what is now my YA debut that stories of queer joy are important. I Think I Love You wasn’t my first manuscript, but it was my first attempt at writing a queer love story. (In the years before Korra, my self-described writer brand was “strong female friendships in which the girls forgo their male romantic interests to focus on their friendship with each other because they are such very good friends.” Like I said, the show’s finale was not the first hint). I wrote between grading papers my first year teaching, and though I flailed my way to the end of a draft that didn’t quite have a plot yet, I found what I wanted to live at the heart of the story: decisively queer happiness and love.

I added a plot in revisions — a film festival over the course of which Emma and Sophia see their artistic rivalry turn into an unexpected romance — because it turns out that a book can’t sustain itself on banter alone (not that this will stop me from trying). As I did, I kept that joy at the forefront of my mind, and it seeped into the story in ways I hadn’t expected when I first started out. The short film Emma works on throughout the book is a queer rom com, and it’s through working on her project that she finds the strength to take the next steps in her journey. As I explored Emma’s relationship with her art, the film competition element of the plot became a celebration of the process of creating joyous queer stories, and their importance to their audiences and creators alike. 

Moments of queer joy have defined my debut journey as much as they do the book itself. I’ll never forget the first moment I saw my cover, in which Jeff Östberg brilliantly captures the book’s celebration of queer love. Seeing the visibly and joyously gay design that represents my story has been one of the most moving experiences of this journey so far (I may have cried at my desk at work when I first opened the email). 

The most important milestones have been the moments where I found my queer bookish community. From entering Pitch Wars to joining The New School’s Writing for Children and Young Adults 2020 cohort to, more recently, connecting with my fellow 2021 debut group, I have found other queer writers to lean on and cheer on throughout our writing journeys. 

After this year’s more remote Pride, when we can’t all come together physically, I’ve been leaning on stories of queer joy more than ever. Though I’m spending pride month in my apartment, I have fresh new copies of some of my most anticipated LGBT reads, and I find myself more grateful than ever for the queer writing community and the joy they’ve created in their stories.

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