As writers, it’s important that we achieve some degree of sexlessness in order to accurately reflect how life actually is. In the spirit of achieving this level of lacking in gender, I’ve forced myself to delve into the androgynous as of late. It’s uncomfortable, sure, but it’s our responsibility, as writers, to show truth in it’s basic form – whether it’s our own truth or not.

It’s weird as Hell, writing a love poem about another woman (or man, if you’re at the other end) when you have no idea how to go about appreciating one from the eyes of the opposite gender. And please note “opposite gender” is an outrageously inaccurate term.

Sexuality is perceived and presented as black and white – simple; right or left, black or white, this or that – Despite this portrayal, sexuality is in actuality so many shades of grays and browns – Hell, purples if you want – that it is almost impossible to definitively label any one person’s sexual orientation. So no gender really has an opposite.

It’s a strange thought, of sexuality as being neither here nor there, but scattered all over. It gets more normal for some people, and then again very disconcerting for most, who’ve had some point in their life where the solid bounds of defined sexuality have shimmered like the feeble mirages they are. Of course, everyone will deny that like the conditioned straight edges they’ve been brought up to pretend they are. Still, it’s true, and truth is what we aim for. Even if we write fiction.

After all, fiction is the writer’s way of obscuring what in life is too clear to be understood by the average person.

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updated Dec 10 '10 by Lyre