Telling the Turth

Even When It Scares You

There was a time in my life when I told stories quietly.

Not because I didn’t have them.
Not because I didn’t feel them.
But because I wasn’t entirely sure I was allowed to share them.

I’ve always been a storyteller. As a kid, I wasn’t casually playing — I was producing full-scale basement theatre. There were lights (questionably wired). There were soundtracks (dramatically timed). There were cousins who did not volunteer but were cast anyway. Even the blow-mold nativity figures had supporting roles.

I didn’t just tell stories.
I staged them.

But somewhere between hoisting extension cords over exposed beams and growing into adulthood, I absorbed the idea that storytelling — real storytelling — was for other people.

Serious people.
Brave people.
People who didn’t hesitate before pressing “publish.”

I was creative. I was imaginative. But was I an author?

That felt like a word that belonged to someone else.

The Representation I Didn’t See

Part of that hesitation came from something deeper.

Growing up, I didn’t always see myself represented on television. And when I did, it wasn’t in ways that felt whole.

If there was a gay character, he was usually:
• The comic relief.
• The flamboyant sidekick.
• The fashion guru with one-liners.
• The punchline.

Rarely was he the romantic lead. Rarely was he allowed depth. Rarely was he tender and complicated and central.

I didn’t see men like me falling in love without tragedy attached. I didn’t see queer joy portrayed as something steady and sustainable. I didn’t see characters who were allowed to be brave and flawed and romantic and messy all at once.

And when that’s what you grow up watching, something subtle happens.
You internalize the message.

You learn, quietly, that maybe you’re meant to stand off to the side. That maybe your story is supplemental. Decorative. Funny. But not the main event.

There was a time when I was afraid of being gay. Afraid of what that meant. Afraid of how it would be perceived. Afraid that it would reduce me to a stereotype.

Afraid that I would only ever be the joke.

That fear lingers longer than we admit.

The Shift

Somewhere along the way, that fear started to loosen its grip.

It didn’t happen overnight. It wasn’t one dramatic moment. It was gradual. It was layered. It was uncomfortable and freeing at the same time.

I realized I was tired of shrinking.

Tired of filtering myself.
Tired of sanding down the edges.
Tired of pretending parts of me were negotiable.

And the more I leaned into authenticity — in life and in writing — the more I realized something powerful:

There is nothing small about queer love.
There is nothing comedic about choosing yourself.
There is nothing secondary about building a life rooted in truth.

Now?
I am proud of who I am.

Proud of my community.
Proud of the resilience, the humor, the softness, the strength.
Proud of showing that love can come in all sizes, shapes, colors, and combinations.

Love doesn’t need permission.
It doesn’t need a disclaimer.
It doesn’t need to fit inside someone else’s comfort zone.

It just needs honesty.

Writing My Truth

When I began writing the stories I truly wanted to tell — not the safe ones, not the diluted ones, not the “maybe this is more marketable” ones — everything changed.

The writing felt sharper.
The humor felt more natural.
The emotion hit deeper.

Because it was real.

When I write contemporary romance, I’m not trying to create fairy tales in the traditional sense. I’m writing about human beings navigating vulnerability. I’m writing about what it means to choose love when it would be easier not to. I’m writing about identity unfolding, not being assigned.

I’m writing about men who get to be the center of their own love story.

Not the joke.
Not the lesson.
Not the cautionary tale.

The story.

Authenticity Is Still Terrifying (But Worth It)

Let me be clear: embracing authenticity does not mean I suddenly float through life in perfect confidence.

I still:
• Overthink sentences.
• Debate commas like they insulted my family.
• Wonder if I’ve forgotten how to write halfway through a chapter.
• Stare at my laptop like it owes me rent.

Authenticity doesn’t remove doubt.
It removes shame.

Now when I feel nervous about sharing something, I recognize it differently. It’s not fear telling me to hide. It’s vulnerability reminding me that this matters.

If it scares me a little, it probably means I’m telling the truth.

I’m Not Afraid Anymore

There was a time when I was afraid of being seen.
Now?
I’m not afraid of who I am.
I’m not afraid of centering queer love.
I’m not afraid of writing stories that reflect my lived experience.
I’m not afraid of taking up space.

Because I know now that stories like mine are not indulgent.

They are necessary.

They are proof that love can be tender and brave at the same time.
That identity is not a punchline.
That joy is not reserved for someone else.

For most of my life, I kept my stories small.

Now, I’m done doing that.
Now, I’m telling the truth.
Even if my voice shakes.

And if you’ve ever felt unseen — if you’ve ever wondered whether your story mattered — I promise you this:

It does.
And it deserves to be told.

Writing a Love Story That Feels Real

When I started writing An American’s Introduction to the Dukedom, I didn’t sit down thinking, Let me write a fantasy. I sat down thinking, Let me tell the truth.

Yes, it’s romantic. Yes, it’s escapist in all the best ways. There are grand settings and swoony moments and chemistry that absolutely crackles. But beneath all of that? It’s a story about two very real men dealing with very real things.

Andrew isn’t perfect. He overthinks. He doubts himself. He questions whether he’s enough. He carries baggage. He carries fear. He carries hope.

Keir isn’t some untouchable fantasy either. He has expectations placed on him. Pressure. Responsibility. History. He’s strong—but strength doesn’t mean the absence of vulnerability.

And that’s what made this story feel different to write.

I didn’t want caricatures. I didn’t want tropes without depth. I didn’t want “gay best friend energy” or cardboard cutout love interests. I wanted layered people. I wanted awkward conversations. I wanted insecurity and longing and courage and growth.

I wanted to show that love between two men can be tender and funny and messy and intense and domestic and passionate and complicated—all at once.

Because that’s real.
Writing this book felt like quietly correcting that.

Andrew and Keir argue. They misunderstand each other. They grow. They learn how to show up. They choose each other. And that choosing? That’s the most romantic part of all.

This isn’t just a love story set against beautiful backdrops.

It’s a story about what happens when two men decide they are worthy of love—and brave enough to reach for it.

And maybe, in some small way, it’s also a story about me deciding that I was worthy of telling it.

Final Thought

For a long time, I thought authenticity was something you earned once you were brave enough.

What I’ve learned is that authenticity is something you practice.

You practice it when you tell the truth even if your voice shakes.
You practice it when you write the story you once needed to read.
You practice it when you stop shrinking yourself to make other people comfortable.

I used to think my story was too small.
Too niche.
Too different.

Now I know it’s simply mine.

And that’s more than enough.

Love comes in all sizes, shapes, colors, and combinations. So do stories. So do heroes. So do happily-ever-afters.

And if younger me could see this version of me — proud, loud, creating, loving — I think he’d finally exhale.

Call to Action

If this post resonated with you, share it. Send it to someone who needs to feel seen. Start telling your story — in whatever form that looks like.

And if you’re ready to see what happens when two real men fall in love in a way that feels honest, complicated, hopeful, and very human…

📖 An American’s Introduction to the Dukedom releases March 31.

Pre-order it (coming soon). Talk about it. Tell your friends. Leave a review when it launches.

Let’s make space for more stories like this.

Because love doesn’t need permission.

And neither do you. 💛

Much Love,

Derek