Or: How I Wrote a Very Gay Book with a Straight Demon in It
I’ve always loved queer stories. From The Picture of Dorian Gray to Call Me By Your Name to whatever weird emotionally devastating gay play is running at the Edinburgh Fringe that year, if it’s about misfits, longing, or dangerous desire, I’m probably already in the front row, crying into my sleeve and whispering, “This is art.”
So when I wrote The Lavender Blade, a reasonably sharp fantasy novel full of demons, exorcists, and emotionally confused people making poor decisions, I didn’t set out to write about identity. I just wrote the kind of book I wanted to read. Which, as it turns out, meant very, very gay.
Not about being gay, necessarily. But full of it. Queer characters, queer feelings, queer disasters, found family, repressed yearning, tragic fathers, slow-burn tension between people who may or may not kill each other. The usual.
But here’s the part I didn’t expect. Once or twice, someone pointed out that having a seductive demon possess a gay character might come off as … problematic. Like I was playing into the old “queerness is evil” trope. That rubbed me the wrong way. Mostly because it missed the point entirely.
The demon isn’t queer-coded. He’s not even queer. He doesn’t want Colton, and he’s not seducing him. He is seductive, yes, dangerous, theatrical, and obsessed with control … but his fixation isn’t romantic. It’s personal. It’s about power. And he prefers women. He’s not a shadowy stand-in for repressed desire. He’s a destructive force who uses beauty as a weapon, not a confession.
The actual LGBTQ+ identities in the book belong to the humans: Lucian is gay; Colton is pan; Mai is bi; Odessa is a lesbian. None of them need a supernatural excuse for who they are. They’re just living, scheming, surviving, and making questionable romantic decisions like the rest of us.
If anything, the exploration of identity in The Lavender Blade is less about declaration and more about atmosphere. It’s in Colton’s discomfort with how he’s perceived. In Lucian’s strained relationship with his father. In the deep emotional intensity between characters who don’t always know what to do with the way they feel. It’s the tension of being watched, misunderstood, mislabeled. Of wanting desperately to be known, and not knowing if you’ll still be loved once you are.
I didn’t write this book to make a statement. I wasn’t trying to deliver a metaphor, or represent a community, or be political in any way. I just wrote the story I had in me. But when you’ve lived your life slightly off-center and spent years trying to pass, those truths tend to find their way onto the page.
I’m bisexual, though the word doesn’t always sit comfortably. I’ve always liked girls (I kissed girls long before I kissed boys) but I never let myself mean anything by it. Being autistic didn’t help. I spent a lot of adolescence trying to decode what people expected of me, which made it harder to figure out what I actually wanted.
Eventually, I married a man. And that, strangely, is what made me feel more invisible. Being in a straight-presenting relationship doesn’t erase my history or instincts, but it can make me feel like I don’t quite belong in queer spaces. I’m 95% gay and still not sure which room I’m allowed to walk into. It’s a strange middle space: too much for some, not enough for others.
I’ve never felt pressure to define myself. Labels don’t bother me, but they rarely feel accurate. That’s part of why I don’t write characters whose orientation is the whole plot. It’s part of who they are, but they’re also busy dealing with monsters, ancient relics, and the kind of institutional rot that makes a bishop sweat. Lucian’s sexuality affects how he moves through the world, but it doesn’t explain the story. It just lives inside it.
That feels more honest to me. Sometimes, the most powerful part of difference isn’t the speech: it’s the background noise. The ache. The friction. The quiet, private way you rearrange yourself to be safe. Or the person who sees you clearly and terrifies you because of it.
I won’t pretend I’m always sure I belong in queer literary spaces. I still catch myself asking whether the book is “gay enough.” Whether I am. But the responses I’ve gotten from LGBTQ+ readers have been generous, and loud, and kind. They see themselves in the mess. In the fear and the freedom and the in-between. That means more to me than I know how to say.
So no, the demon isn’t queer. But the story is. And so am I.
E.L. Deards is a U.K.-based veterinarian, secret author, and cat-petter, her debut fantasy novel The Lavender Blade releases in July 2025. It contains two very queer exorcists and a tragically straight demon.
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Image courtesy of E.L. Deards
