Last night I stood in the front of a small room, surrounded by people all staring at me while I shakily put a copy of Fear of Clowns on a table and asked, in a strained voice behind an even more strained smile, “can I donate this book? I wrote a story in it.”
For context, my small town has a population of 900 people and 1 traffic light. The library is the about the size of my living room and kitchen combined (which isn’t saying much at all) and the shelves mostly contain Amish romances and local genealogy. The most they have in horror is a minimal Stephen King collection and a couple true crime books.
The area is mostly Democrat but its a tiny blue dot in a very red state and even then there are neighbors with Trump and MAGA signs and flags in their yards.
So when I handed over this book and claimed a story in it, I’m also claiming the bio of a they/them nonbinary queer autistic weirdo. I’m putting a face to it. It was a coming out as an author and as a member of the queer community and the invisible disability community. It was with my partner and our son standing behind me, putting that label in conjunction with them.
So the librarians pounced on me with joy and stuck a pen in my hand and had me sign the book while telling everyone in the inexplicably crowded room that I was a local author.
I took this selfie once they had the book processed and on the front shelf – shaking and feeling a lil nauseous. (Yes, the image is backwards but you know what, thats ok. I think it shows just how shakey I was feeling and I don’t have much interest in reversing it.)
So I did it. I did a think that authors do, right? I did it scared with my social anxiety through the roof. And I’ll do it again – I have another short story in another anthology coming out in 2025 and my plan is to donate a copy of that to the library as well. On one hand I think its an author-y thing to do but I also am hoping to introduce some scarier, weirder, diverse horror to this library and community.
