By getting into the minds of her characters, this author discovered the language to describe them—and to realize the truth about who she was.

by Alethea Lyons

Not all fiction makes us comfortable and happy. Some of the best fiction exists to unsettle us, to show us futures we’re careening toward or to uncover the deep truths within our own hearts. Everyone who’s taken an English Lit class at school knows that fiction reveals truths to the reader. But what about the author? Can writing fiction show us truths about ourselves we were previously unaware of?

Sometimes we simply want a book to take us out of this world and into another—one where there are happily-ever-afters, murderers are always brought to justice, and grand adventures end in time for tea. Fiction can exist solely for escapism. Yet often the best fiction challenges and even changes us.

At thirty-five, I thought I was a cishet woman. Now, at thirty-seven, I’m happily out as pansexual and genderfluid. The language and concepts to help me understand this simply weren’t in the books I read as a child. Children’s literature rarely deviated from the default of straight, binary characters, so I dismissed thoughts that went against this as academic or artistic, rather than recognizing them for the very personal feelings that they were.

Fiction can exist solely for escapism. Yet often the best fiction challenges and even changes us.

As a child, I often wrote characters that would now be termed non-binary, in that they didn’t want to be referred to as boys or girls, but simply wanted to be themselves. They contained both masculine and feminine stereotypes. At eight, I didn’t have the language to adequately describe this, even to myself, but I felt it in my heart.

What I read didn’t often show me a truth where being a girl aligned with the adventures I imagined, so I didn’t write female characters anywhere near as often as male or non-binary ones. Some of this is an indictment of a society where fun adventure stories were traditionally given to cishet male characters, and I’m sure BIPOC and Neurodivergent children had even greater difficulty finding characters like themselves. Beyond that were the messages from my own brain that I couldn’t yet interpret.

Writing fantasy as an adult introduced me to non-binary characters in a way that reading hadn’t yet caught up with. Calling my sentient, non-humanoid fae characters it seemed disrespectful—creatures who were plants or entire forests, elemental energy, or (my favorite) a self-aware library. So, I took to the internet to look up alternatives.

As an adult, I was fully aware of they as a pronoun. I am thrilled to see so many people comfortable using it publicly these days, but it’s not my personal preference. I wanted to see if there were any other options. And there were. Lots of them. This was when I discovered the language I’d been missing as a child. In the end, I settled on the neo-pronoun ze for characters who weren’t clearly he or she. I eventually came to see ze within myself as well.

It was only recently that I noticed all my main characters are pansexual.

I have never chosen the sexuality of a character. Except for writing romances where A has to be interested in B, my characters are free to choose to whom they are sexually or romantically attracted. Every single main character since I was eighteen has come out to me as pan.

Even if your truth isn’t in the books you read, find it in the books you write—then give those books to those who still need to find themselves.

Pansexual is another word I didn’t have as a child or teenager. I knew about gay and lesbian, but I was definitely interested in boys, so those didn’t apply. The idea of bisexual or pan was barely on my radar. It certainly wasn’t in my fiction, which would’ve given me an avenue to explore the truth of my sexuality and the full range of options.

By the time I became aware of pansexuality, I was at university and I’d already gotten it fixed in my mind that I must be straight. Anything I felt toward girls, I rationalized away: That’s just because they’re objectively pretty, or You wish you were in their shoes. Still, a part of me always thought that being pan was more natural. In this day and age of overpopulation, and with so many children awaiting families to adopt them, my brain couldn’t understand why my partner had to be male. My brain sent me clues I ignored.

It was only through writing that I discovered the truth about myself.

I wrote my first sex scene two years ago (don’t tell my mom). It was between two women, and it was exciting. I was exploring a truth in writing that I’d only briefly flirted with in real life. The one time I kissed another woman had left me feeling somewhat flat, but then so had most of the times I’d kissed a man. I realized it wasn’t that I didn’t like women, I just hadn’t liked that woman. I wasn’t attracted to most men either.

Researching and getting into the minds of my characters made me examine things about myself I’d been hiding from for years. Suddenly, the things I wrote as a child that I’d had no words for made sense. New words like pan and fluid, and using she/ze as my pronouns, fit me so much more comfortably than the straight and binary I’d forced myself into.

Without inspecting my writing and the characters who had taken up residence in my heart, I would never have achieved this truth about myself.

Even if your truth isn’t in the books you read, find it in the books you write—then give those books to those who still need to find themselves.

Alethea Lyons (she/ze) writes various forms of science fiction, fantasy, and speculative fiction (SFF), with a particular love for science-fantasy, dark fantasy, dystopias, and folklore. Many of her works take place at the intersection between technology and magic. She enjoys writing stories with subtle political and philosophical messages, but primarily wants her stories to be great tales with characters readers will love. She also has soft spots for found family, hopeless romances, and non-human characters. Her short stories can be found in a variety of publications.

Alethea lives in Manchester, U.K., with her husband, little Sprite, a cacophony of stringed instruments, and more tea than she can drink in a lifetime.

You can find bonus content for The Hiding, along with links to Alethea’s short stories and other works on her website, and connect with her on social media.