This interview was conducted by Sarah Jane Cody over email. It has been edited and condensed for clarity.

Tell us about your debut novel, I KEEP MY EXOSKELETONS TO MYSELF:

I Keep My Exoskeletons to Myself takes place in a near-future dystopia in which the prison industrial complex has been abolished. In its place, the Department of Balance, a corrupt, prejudiced, and oppressive government, has adopted a new form of law enforcement: “wrongdoers” are given a second (and sometimes third, fourth, and fifth) shadow as a constant reminder of their crime, with the intent of shaming them into behaving better. Plus, the extra shadows serve as a warning to others that they should stay away or be wary of them. Once given an extra shadow, these people, known as Shadesters, are deprived of civil rights protections and have poorer access to resources like fresh, nutritious food and timely healthcare. 

The main character, Kris, is already a Shadester when her baby is born with a second shadow. The Department has decided to punish the baby for “killing” Kris’s wife, Beau, during childbirth. What follows, over a many-year span, is an exploration of grief, shame, queer love and parenthood, healing, and the power of community.

What was the seed for this novel, or how did you begin to develop it?

Many years ago, I was regularly posting short snippets and poems on Instagram, and one ended up being the seed for I Keep My Exoskeletons to Myself. I don’t have the exact phrasing anymore, but it said something to the extent of “If the shadows of everyone you’ve ever hurt followed you around day in and day out, would you be so reckless with people’s hearts?” It was directed at myself. I carried a lot of shame about the things I’d done in the past, the people I’d hurt. But surprise, surprise, that mindset wasn’t helpful or healing; it just kept me immobilized, trapped in that same space.

Then years later, I was in the shower, and the first line of the novel popped into my head: “The kid is born with two shadows.” I had no idea what it meant or what I could use it for but it stayed with me for weeks until I finally connected it to the idea of the poem—this idea that constantly shaming yourself is not the answer; it’s actually extremely harmful. So, those were the two seeds, many years apart, that came together to inform my story.

Your prose is exquisite. It has a terrific bite, and it swept me in. I’d love to hear about your approach to language and voice. What concerns you as you craft a sentence?

Thank you so much. I like the sound of that—a bite, but that bite being sweeping. Well, I started out writing poetry, which I still write most days, even if I don’t submit my poems to journals too often anymore. What I love most about writing poetry is the freedom to not make any sense, or rather, at first glance, not make any sense, though the connections become apparent by the end. And I also love the element of discovery on the line or even word level. I like having no idea where a poem is going until I end up there. And my favorite move is the volta, the dramatic shift or turn in a piece. (Plus, I just love the word volta—it makes me think of someone twirling on stage.) When I was writing I Keep My Exoskeletons to Myself, it almost felt like I was writing thousands of poems because of the fragments. And because I was thinking of it that way, I was pretty picky about word choice and cadence, and it was important to me to integrate surprise for the reader on the line level, even if that surprise was using a word in an unusual way or bringing humor into an otherwise dark scene. To me, micro surprises can do a lot for reader engagement and curiosity—the question of where exactly is this going?

Does basketball have anything to do with your sense of rhythm, or am I reaching for metaphors?

Yes, I actually think it does! I wouldn’t have thought so years ago, especially because I was keeping basketball and writing very separate in my mind. But as I’ve come to see the connection between them, I’m seeing a lot of parallels. When I was a kid, I remember seeing a video of Tracy McGrady dribbling the ball and talking to the camera—he said dribbling is like dancing, you’ve got to feel the rhythm and move with the ball. Something like that. I can’t find evidence of the video anywhere now. But I’ve never forgotten him saying that because I think that basketball players have rhythm and can move to a music others might not even be aware is playing. When I’m writing, I think about the rhythm of the sentence, the breath, the delivery, more than I care about grammar or rules or even, admittedly, clarity sometimes (that’s why I have great editors!). I don’t want the reader to be confused, but I also would prefer to dance—to crossover, step back, pump fake, and lean in for the and-one.

I love how the pop quizzes and reality testing asides, and, to some degree, the direct addresses, act to subvert the traditional novel structure. This feels thematically significant in a novel whose characters are fighting to live against and despite a government that strictly circumscribes behavior and punishes difference. They are forced to the margins, yet perhaps they might also find some escape in those margins. Can you talk more about how you approached the structure?

I have always been drawn to reading and writing experimental work, from Carmen Maria Machado’s novella Especially Heinous: 272 Views of Law & Order SVU and Why Did I Ever by Mary Robison to Multiple Choice by Alejandro Zambra and Jenny Boully’s The Body: An Essay. Not to mention, the experimentation in the flash community—indie journals are constantly publishing the most original and innovative work that pushes the boundaries of literary conventions.

What I love about rejecting conventional structure is the freedom to play. I tweeted something about this the other day but by the time this interview is published, Twitter will likely have burned to the ground. What I said was that nothing is more important to me in my work than play and curiosity. I’ve found that playfulness is not at odds with hard-hitting emotions—they can actually amplify and enhance each other. That experimentation also gives me a window through which to explore otherwise heavy and traumatic topics—in the case of my novel, grief, systemic oppression, and shame. 

Throughout the book, I also wanted to disrupt and challenge Kris’s ideas about herself and the world, and the pop quizzes and reality testing asides felt like useful ways to interrogate her thoughts, feelings, and delusions. Plus, Kris can be pretty avoidant, so the experimental elements actually felt like the only way she might look at certain things, like what it means to be a good person (if there even is such a thing!) and the story she’s told herself about who she is.

For me, the book was never going to be any other way. The experimentation is where I thrive and delight, what gives me the most joy.

The idea of family and creating a family is important on multiple levels and especially from a queer perspective. Without giving anything away, I also felt it was an area where the novel found some hope. What does it mean to engage with or even write toward hope?

Hope is one of my favorite things to write toward. But the challenge is always doing it in a way that subverts expectations or doesn’t veer into cheesiness (a problem for me sometimes!). I’m a very earnest and tender person who has found what feels like a second chance at life through hope and joy, through a fierce commitment to staying present and noticing my life and all the loving people in it. I think hope has always been a life-saving tool for we queer and trans people and that tends to show up in my work.

No matter how many horrific, unimaginable things happen to our community, we keep fighting, we keep dancing and singing, we keep making meals for each other, we keep holding each other, we keep lending each other books, we keep sending each other money, we keep caring for each other, we keep fucking each other, keep flirting, keep complimenting, keep hyping each other up. As I write my response to this interview, it is Trans Day of Remembrance and we are all grieving the victims of Club Q in Colorado Springs. And the Pulse shooting. And the countless trans people murdered year in and year out. And, and, and, and.

In Cameron Awkward-Rich’s poem, “Meditations in an Emergency,” he writes “Like you, I was raised in the / institution of dreaming. Hand on my heart. Hand / on my stupid heart.” That poem always makes me ugly cry in the best way possible. Maybe because I feel I was raised in the institution of dreaming, of hope. That my heart may be broken a million times over but that doesn’t mean it can’t dance. That it can’t believe in sinking a last-second half-court shot (to bring basketball back!). That it can’t find hope in small, beautiful places. In the whispers of my child’s long blond eyelashes. In the coffee my wife and I share on the couch in the morning. In the books we read aloud to each other. In essence, writing toward hope keeps me alive.

Sex also has a significant role. Because “kink” is about the shameless pursuit of less conventional and especially queer desires, it’s a kind of defiance. Even resistance. I’m curious, do you find writing sex to be fun or difficult? (It’s a testament to your writing that I think it might be fun for you!)

I really do love writing sex, especially bad sex. I think writers often get stuck in their heads about it, thinking it’s a separate skill than any other writing, when really it’s not. It’s just a topic that carries a lot of stigma, judgment, and, I think, pressure. I’ve seen entire classes devoted to writing sex, and I think maybe it’s because we feel we need to write good sex on the page, but there’s a difference between the characters having what they consider to be good sex and a good sex scene, which may consist of downright awful sex but also reveals so much about character, desire, fear, doubts, backstory, etc. I enjoy putting my characters in vulnerable or emotionally-charged situations and learning more about them. 

I find writing sex to be similar to writing sports scenes, because they’re both so embodied and involve a sort of choreography of movement and desire. And both sex and sports tend to bring out a sort of primal, pre-language side of people that I find appealing. Especially for characters who may be closed-off in their everyday lives or unable to effectively communicate their feelings. Sex scenes can be a great opportunity to push these characters to face themselves, to face what they truly want.

There are some really lovely things you do with grief. I love how it’s embodied almost as a set piece––a presence or object. (Various objects?) Would you mind talking a bit about what drew you to this topic? Is there anything about grief that feels timely?

I spend a lot of time thinking about grief, examining my own, trying to understand its shape, and course, and bite. Its nonlinear linear nature. Its never-ending mess. And like a lot of people, I actually struggle with anticipatory grief, due to my own panic disorder and severe anxiety. I basically play the worse-case-scenario game in my head all day long. It never stops and it takes me to some really dark places. And it convinces me of false futures. Or futures cut short. It convinces me that the good things in my life can’t possibly last, that I will lose them all soon.

It’s hard to stay present at times. And one of my biggest fears, when talking about family-making, was losing my wife and having to raise my kid alone. I didn’t feel equipped for parenthood. I knew I could do it with her help, but without her I knew I’d be a mess, inept in every way. So this book turned into my way to actually write into that very specific fear of mine, to let it play out on the page in a fictional world through a fictional person who shares some of my life circumstances (queer, married, planning to have a child). I don’t mean to say the book was therapeutic but my fear actually gave me a window into this narrative, into writing grief in a way that felt useful and meaningful for me, a way that shows how nonlinear it is as well as the fragmentary nature of grief, how it disrupts our memories, blurs and fades around the edges. How the fading of memories becomes something to grieve in and of itself.

I’m really looking forward to sharing this book with other readers. What are you most excited about?

I’m glad you asked this because I think I can be so prone to pessimism and anxiety, especially related to things I can’t control like sales and reception, that I forget to focus on joy and excitement. When I chip away at the anxiety, what I’m really excited about is hearing from readers directly. People reaching out to me and sharing their experience of the book. At least, that’s the hope, right? In the past year or so, I’ve made it a point to send fan mail to authors whose books I loved. It’s a small thing but I think it can be such a light. We assume someone knows how influential or moving their book is, but really, who tires of hearing such a thing? I’m hoping readers aren’t afraid to reach out to me and talk about the book, even if they had mixed feelings about it—as long as the discussion is in good faith and respectful.