I have a (potentially bad) habit of conceptualizing my life through fiction. This is probably an artefact of having spent so many years prior to transition feeling like I was watching someone else’s life on TV, but I’m afraid it has not faded since then. For example, I was unshakably convinced that the Pride Collective at my grad school was secretly a situation comedy, in which I was the “ensemble darkhorse” character who started-off as a one-note joke about Nominatissima’s asexual (and closet transgender) “boyfriend.”
It was around two o’clock in the morning, as I sat around a kitchen table in a dingy apartment, surrounded by well-educated-but-unemployed-people talking about quantum cosmology, that it occurred to me that my life had become a really pretentious literary fiction novel. Probably written by a first-time white, male author who thinks that he’s being “edgy” by having transgender characters. I don’t particularly like being a character in this novel, because it’s a bleak and insufferably cynical take on modern life. I would much rather move on to something more positive.
Now I’m worried that, by commenting on this situation, I have made this into a really pretentious, post-modern literary fiction novel.