So here’s the thing: I was working from home before all the rest of you jumped on the bandwagon. My day job has been—for over half a decade now—fully remote. For years, my friends lovingly shredded me for not having a real job, claiming that all I did was sit around in my pyjamas, pretending to work and instead watching TV and doing… other solitary activities (I’m sure you can figure it out). They weren’t entirely wrong, but I will absolutely claim a degree of satisfaction when the pandemic forced them all into their metaphorical storm shelters, corralled into a few square feet of a kitchen table, and almost instantly they started asking: how do you do it?! Why is this so difficult?!
And in my infinite benevolence, I imparted a few useful bits of wisdom from an old hand (Rule 1: get a webcam with a broadcasting light so you know when you’re visible) and sat back expecting to have no problems.
Insert long, pained laugh here.
For a start—the queer writer’s group I was part of imploded. In person they were long, lazy afternoons of drinking, food, readings and critiquing; in digital form they were fraught and exhausting. An early casualty of lockdown, I found myself unable to write without the promise of seeing real people to share it with. Time became meaningless.
Somewhere in there first year my debut short story collection was up for a Lambda Award—the first forced into the digital hinterland by the pandemic. I always loved Lambda season, when names new and familiar would show up on the list; the first time I wound up on it as an editor it felt like joining a club, but whilst I was proud to be on it as a author it felt utterly anticlimactic. Although there was no question of me attending in person either time I was nominated, as I recorded my in-case-of-acceptance video, stood in my front room in a shiny shirt from the waist up and pyjama trousers from the waist down, I felt utterly disconnected from… well, from everyone.
The last time I attended a queer book festival in Nottingham I met writers I had known for nearly a decade online, had long-lasting friendships with, but had never met in person, and I also met new people. I read their books. I read their next books. There is no digital equivalent—at least not in the same way—that can replace the natural sense of discovery and community from attending events in person, particularly for queer family where the pathways to finding these things are never as easy. I’m so pleased to be making my pilgrimage down at the end of the month to join everyone—and I can’t wait to see which new books by which new people I’ll be reading in June…
Matt Bright will be at the Queer the Shelves LGBTQ Book Festival in Nottingham. Come along!
book events, lgbtq, literary festival, Matt Bright, Matthew Bright, queer the shelves, Stories to Sing in the Dark