Actually Visible

Two years ago on April 1st, I published a controversial novel titled Actually Invisible.

If you don’t know about my book, it’s about a semi-closeted lesbian high school teacher who is essentially forced out of the closet after a series of events that begins with a student coming out to her in a writing assignment. The student’s parents start down a warpath to try to get her fired, and various avenues of suspense ensue.

When I first wrote the book in 2020 (started before COVID and finished during lockdown), I did what’s called “querying” many literary agents. Some outright rejected me, but many asked for full manuscripts because they were intrigued. One agent worked with me for a full year before ultimately rejecting me as a client for the same reason detailed by a handful of other agents: The book doesn’t have any comps.

For those who don’t know publishing-speak, that means there aren’t any other books to compare it to. This supposedly makes it harder to market to publishers because they can’t necessarily say, “Fans of [insert popular novel] will love Actually Invisible because it’s just like ______.” I guess it’s like a realtor trying to sell a treehouse in a neighborhood where there’s only one tree and 37 buildings of condominiums. There’s nothing else to compare it to.

But does that make it worse in some way? I truly don’t believe it does. In fact, I think its uniqueness—my book, not the treehouse—is exactly what makes it worth reading. 

You see, I’m a queer teacher myself who spent the first decade of my career tight-lipped about my personal life. I was terrified that one parent of one student would accuse me of being an inappropriate role model, and my job would be called into question. As an avid reader, I searched for years for a story like mine. I wanted to see myself in a queer educator character to ease my fears or at least experience some distant commiseration.

A story like that didn’t exist, so I decided to write it myself. And I’m so glad that I did. 

My journey of slowly “coming out” at work was set into motion when I was pregnant with our second child after my wife carried our first, and my confidence was bolstered with our ability to legally marry (finally). But there’s always—still—that fear in the back of my mind. Will a student go home and tell someone that I have a picture of my wife and kids behind my desk, and I’ll be accused of “indoctrination” simply by displaying it? Will a casual mention of my wife in the school hallway cause a firestorm of “shut and teach” emails that will haunt my every waking moment?

It could still happen. But I promise that living as my authentic self not only makes me a better teacher but also makes me a better human. I show up every day for every student, and for some, I really am the first real-life adult representation of what it means to be queer, happy, successful, and normal.

That’s why I wrote this book that literary agents said they wouldn’t be able to sell. Stories about queer teachers matter because they don’t just entertain; they make people feel seen and hopefully less alone.

If this intrigues you or piques your social justice interest, you can grab a copy anywhere online where books are sold. If you don’t have time to read it right now, maybe mention it to someone you know. Word of mouth is the most powerful tool that can help me get this story into more people’s hands.