Posted on May 21, 2024    Posted by John Scalzi      4 Comments

Editor Rob Costello has a theory about monsters, and what they have in common with a segment of us who constantly find themselves under attack. It’s one compelling reason for the existence of We Mostly Come Out at Night: 15 Queer Tales of Monsters, Angels & Other Creatures.

ROB COSTELLO:

If you think about it, monsters are inherently queer.

This was the first “Big Idea” behind the genesis of We Mostly Come Out at Night: 15 Queer Tales of Monsters, Angels & Other Creatures.

Despised and misunderstood, monsters are defined by their innate otherness—their innate queerness, if you like. They are creatures whose inborn nature disrupts the status quo, threatening the rules and mores of so-called “normal” life. Unable (or unwilling) to assimilate in order to assuage the fears and ignorance of those around them, they are vilified for the crime of simply existing—and, therefore, usually find themselves cast out of society, where they are treated as dangerous abominations, forced to live in the shadows or be hunted and destroyed.

Think Frankenstein’s Monster or Quasimodo.

Think Gollum or Swamp Thing.

You don’t need to squint too hard, I think, to recognize the obvious parallels between these fictional monsters and the lived experiences of millions of LGBTQIA2S+ people around the world. Queer and trans folk have long been cast (and cast out) as monsters and pariahs. In 2024, there are still dozens of countries that criminalize same-sex relationships, including a handful that impose the death penalty.

Meanwhile, despite the social progress of the past half-century, here in the United States we have recently witnessed a reactionary backlash driven by religious extremists, political opportunists, Internet trolls, and media grifters. Indeed, there is a thriving and lucrative market in the MAGAsphere for those who demonize queer and (especially) trans lives. This has led to renewed forms of legislative oppression, book and medical bans, a rise in homophobic violence, and a general air in conservative circles of unhinged hysteria reminiscent of the Satanic Panic of the 1980s and directed at everyone from doctors to librarians to drag queens.

As I describe in the Introduction to We Mostly Come Out at Night, those who correctly perceive the wider cultural embrace of queer and trans identities as a loss of their power to control and erase us have figured out how to claw back some of that power by wielding the monster metaphor as a cudgel against us, especially where children are concerned. We all know the slurs: groomers, deviants, predators, etc. They accuse us of being monsters for the stories we tell, the clothes we wear, the people we love, the pronouns we use, and even the bathrooms we enter in public places. They label us as monsters for the sheer audacity of existing when they would prefer that we disappear back into the closet.

But here’s the thing: Monsters are never powerless.

And therein lies the second, and far more meaningful “Big Idea” behind We Mostly Come Out at Night: Why not reclaim and embrace the monster metaphor as our own?

When you think about it, the very same qualities that make monsters feared and outcast are also what make them special, magical, wondrous, and strong. Their divergence from the norm—their very otherness—is their innate superpower. After all, Superman is an alien, while Spiderman and the X-Men are mutants. In a certain light, they are all monsters, too. Yet, they are perceived and portrayed as heroes.

Thus, in We Mostly Come Out at Night, my 14 amazing collaborators and I sought to reimagine the monster as a transgressive symbol of heroism and empowerment for today’s queer and trans youth. Those who, in a cynical twist of irony, face the brunt of the cruelty, violence, and oppression of the so-called “Protect the Children” crowd. So instead, we have enlisted our own army of aliens and angels, sirens and sea witches, wereboars and Wayob to protect our children, by inspiring them to live fearlessly as they are, while facing down the bigots and zealots who are so hellbent on erasing them.

But even though it’s all about monsters, We Mostly Come Out at Night is hardly a scary (or angry) read. Indeed, it was important to me from the outset that the book contain a variety of genres, styles, and tones in order to avoid becoming too polemical, dark, or depressing. Sure, there are a few delightfully creepy yarns. But there are also swoon-worthy queer and trans romances, stories of kinship and adventure, lighthearted tales of self-discovery and queer joy, profound meditations on the nature of faith and identity, and even a cozy and heartwarming haunted house story. My goal from the beginning was to ensure that every reader who picked up a copy could find at least one piece in the anthology that spoke directly to them. To that end, the book contains stories that reflect nearly every color of the rainbow flag, including gay, lesbian, bi, trans, enby, ace, and aro representation.

But most of all, what I hope readers find in We Mostly Come Out at Night is a celebration of queer and trans lives. This is a book filled with hope, resilience, and empowerment, a book that is meant to provide solace and strength to queer and trans kids everywhere who face the ugliest resurgence of right-wing hate and oppression that I’ve seen since I was their age back at the height of the AIDS epidemic.

So, if they’re going to call us monsters anyway, why not embrace that label and be the most beautiful, heroic, powerful, compassionate, strong, loving, confident, and fabulous monsters we can be? That’s why I dedicated We Mostly Come Out at Night “To all you queer little beasties out there, may you sing, shine, and slay!”

We will endure. We will overcome. We will thrive.

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