I’m going to try avoid editorialising this as much as possible. This is an email I was sent today, and this is my response to it. And my heart is raging through my shirt.
The email:
Hi Will,
We have a concern about promoting your new book at our school as it is a Catholic school. We were reading over your blog and I think it might not be appropriate, and parents might not be happy.
I have nothing personally against you and it sounds like a touching story that would love to read, however I feel it isn’t appropriate. If you want to promote The First Third on March 30, you are more than welcome however I have been advised we can’t promote your new book. I understand this isn’t in your best interest so we can cancel the meet and greet.
I spoke to [your agent], we still absolutely want you in June, but if possible can you please do the same talk as last year with focus on becoming an author and The First Third?
Thanks,
Regards,
[Redacted]
My response:
Hi [redacted],
I appreciate you taking the time to email, and I understand it probably wasn’t the easiest email to write.
I was worried about this happening with The Sidekicks. To be honest, I was worried about this happening with The First Third – which in addition to zany Greek hilarity, features a gay character coming to terms with his sexuality in the context of his disability. That gay character engages in casual sex through an app, fearing rejection, but yearns for something more. In the end of The First Third, he gets it.
That plotline wasn’t for Catholic schools, it wasn’t for parents, it was for students, students like me, who felt less than adequate because they loved someone “they weren’t supposed to”.
I am thankful for the leadership my high school showed in selecting texts that championed diversity. Some people were uncomfortable reading about two boys kissing, but it prompted discussion and working through prejudice. And even though I was not out, I felt like less of an outsider. I felt safe.
Coming out publicly was difficult. I feared I would have to choose between doing what I love/earn a living from – engaging kids to read and be truthful in their writing – and not having to hide my partners from colleagues as “friends”. I had hoped, having spoken at some Catholic schools, those schools would be comfortable with my revelation knowing what I bring to my presentations and workshops. And that my sexuality, while it informs who I am, is not the subject of my presentations.
Professionally, it would probably be wise to still present in June, your students were a lovely audience, but I have to stick up for my 16 year old self, and say this is personal.
The First Third dealt with queerness only slightly less than The Sidekicks, both are written carefully and with respect to students (and their parents) who may find confronting the idea of two people of the same gender kissing. The First Third was acceptable, but now I have a blog post saying I like men, The Sidekicks is not.
And that is not something I will accept for the promise of a pay cheque.
All the very best for the future, and I hope you find the courage my teachers did.
Before each of my young-adult novels, I’ve had to introduce myself. When Loathing Lola came out, I was William Kostakis, the teenager. When The First Third released, I was Will Kostakis, a little more mature, and a lot more ethnic. With each release, I have grown more confident sharing more of myself. As The Sidekicks hits shelves, I feel like I ought to tell the rest.
A close friend was diagnosed with cancer last month.
That was how I told most people. “A close friend”. When we dated, I would never admit he was close to that. “Oh, him? Oh I know him through a friend,” I would say. He was always just an acquaintance, to throw anyone off the scent that maybe, I liked kissing boys. I was scared people would look at me differently if they knew.
It was an act of self-preservation, hiding him for the eight-or-so months we dated. And when he told his friends about me, I was angry he had the nerve. They could tell someone, who could tell someone who knew me, and they might look at me differently.
It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s hard to preserve yourself by making someone else invisible, so we faded, from more to close friends.
And after a phone call, last month, he went from invisible to almost gone.
I’ve always been comfortable gently implying where I sit on the Kinsey scale, hoping I say just enough, or write just enough that surely, people realise without me having to say.
But I have to say. Time tricks us into thinking we have a lot of it, we don’t. One minute, all is fine, the next, you’re driving your close friend to a sperm bank before he undergoes chemotherapy.
We stopped at McDonalds on the way. I filled the space with awkward jokes. I asked if he thought the nurses made pornography recommendations. Kind of like David and Margaret at the Sperm Bank.
“Production values leave a bit to be desired, but it’s Australian. 5 stars!” I joked.
We laughed and I worried. I didn’t want it to end. And I regretted everything. Romantically, we had failed, but he had never denied me. He had never diminished my significance or value in his life, and I, like some horrible cliché, was only recognising that when he was almost gone.
Almost. Turns out, his surgery was successful and he doesn’t need chemotherapy. There will be two years’ worth of tests and anxieties, but it appears, my dark-hour fears were just that.
He isn’t going anywhere, and I get another chance:
He is my close friend, and we used to date. He was my first relationship, the confirmation this wasn’t a phase, and that it could be just as wild, messy, lovely, perfect as hetero love. He was significant.
After a brief hiatus (in whichever bizarro world fifteen months can be considered ‘brief’), I’m back. It’s been an incredible year-and-a-bit. I won the Gold Inky (thanks to everyone who voted), and it’s taken me so long to post about it, they’ve gone and given the award to someone else (Gabrielle Tozer. She is excellent. Her novel The Intern is also excellent.).
2014 was an incredible year, and 2015 matched it. I toured a lot, mostly alone, but for three short days, with international author Sara Farizan. I got to wrestle Marama Whyte over an ARC of Illuminae. I lost, but it’s out now and I bought one so I’ll deal. I also took Mum to a really terrible Robbie Williams cabaret show, which was a life low-light, but a Twitter highlight:
Most importantly though, I’ve been writing a book. It’s called The Sidekicks, and it’ll be out in early 2016.
Now, whenever an author’s new book is announced, you can know a title and read a blurb, but you don’t really get a sense of what it will be like until you see the cover. For that reason, the cover announcement is kind of a big deal. The lovely folks at Penguin Teen Australia had a strategy and everything. They were going to announce the cover after their regular #PTAChats (guided discussions about YA).
I know I’ll probably get in trouble for this, but whatevs! Sorry @PenguinTeenAus, I’m going off-script! I’m revealing my cover right now!!! — Will Kostakis (@willkostakis) October 28, 2015
Armed with Photoshop and all of my Instagram selfies, I whipped up a fake book cover:
I know my Instagram looks like an exercise in narcissism, but actually, I’ve been slowly leaking my book cover. pic.twitter.com/MRSTCyH9sG — Will Kostakis (@willkostakis) October 28, 2015
There was a longer-than-intended dramatic pause between my threat and the upload though. I was on a train, using my phone’s internet…
(I lost internet connection during the upload and was afraid the thread was gonna linger and @PenguinTeenAus would have a panic attack.) — Will Kostakis (@willkostakis) October 28, 2015
Where there’s mischief, karma soon follows. I give you my submission for Most Awkward Life Experience 2015:
(Also, a police officer approached me on the train while I was deciding which shirtless selfie to Photoshop where, and I felt judged.)
I go to Tropfest each year expecting to be disappointed. There always tends to be two or three films I like, and a lot more with too much ‘typically Australian’ humour for me to stomach (lots of bodily functions and fluids). The latter kind always do better in judging than the former, but I leave knowing I’ll come back next year.
Two films into Tropfest 22, I knew I didn’t want to come back next year.
I didn’t even want to stay for the rest of this year’s.
Now, I understand comedy is subjective, and I’m certain that others would consider a lot of the comedy I appreciate offensive (If It’sAlways Sunny In Philadelphia were fuel, I could live off it), but Matt Hardie’s Bamboozled was… soul-crushing. Capping off a weekend that saw the nation’s first legal same-sex marriages, it was an unintentionally poignant reminder that we have a long way to go when it comes to treating the LGBTQI community as ‘equal’, rather than ‘other’.
In Bamboozled, Pete bumps into his ex at a bus stop. The twist? His ex has had a sex change (a really tasteful use of the year’s theme, ‘change’) and is now a man. They catch up over a few (hundred) drinks, rehashing the two years they spent together. Their connection is clear. The next morning, Pete wakes up next to his ex (a man) and he clearly regrets his decision. Yes, their shared history and obvious chemistry is null and void because, ‘Ew, gross, I slept with a boy.’ Cue audience laughter. Then, he finds out its an ‘elaborate hoax’, and instead of sleeping with a Helen-turned-Harry, he’s just slept with a Harry. And he’s shamed for it. Cue more audience laughter.
“We got you, man! We got you!” Harry howls.
As if things can’t get any worse, in comes Helen, his real ex. “How do you like that, Pete?” she asks. “And now, you slept with a guy!”
“You totally banged me, man. You totally banged me!” Harry continues. He adds a, “He loved it!” as he high-fives his co-conspirators.
So, yeah: Ugh, Tropfest.
Some are defending the film, saying it’s just a joke. And that’s exactly the problem, there’s nothing particularly funny about being intimate with someone of the same gender. That, in and of itself, is not humorous. And neither is shaming them for it. That’s othering anyone who doesn’t identify as heterosexual, pointing at them and laughing (literally, in this case).
If selecting the film as one of 16 finalists wasn’t — wait for it — bamboozling enough, it went on to win. In the short term, it’s disheartening. In the longer term, it may have a positive effect. It may have inspired someone who was sitting in Centennial Park who wasn’t laughing to pick up their camera and tell a story we didn’t see on the big screen tonight.
But until then, it just feels shitty.
UPDATE: Director Matt Hardie has defended the film as a parody of the media in an interview with ABC.
“The punchline really is a comment on media and how the world may have homophobia, but the lead character, and what I was saying, he was completely willing to go with either gender, he was in love with the person,” he says.
Right, okay. I don’t know what media he’s commenting on. Yes, reality programmes like 2003’s There’s Something About Miriam were vile and exploitative, but they were also in 2003. Since then, we’ve seen positive, sensitive portrayals of the LGBTQI on the small screen thanks to reality TV. I’m no fan of Big Brother, but there’s no denying it’s done some good in this regard.
Let’s be honest here, if Hardie’s character Pete really was “completely willing to go with either gender”, his first words when waking up next to an affectionate man wouldn’t have been, “What the F?” In fact, the whole scene wouldn’t have been framed like every other morning-after-drunken-regret scene committed to film.
Hardie says the punchline is two-fold. It’s a commentary on a media (that may or may not actually exist), and “how the world may have homophobia”. I’m assuming he means Helen’s gleeful, “How do you like that, Pete? … You slept with a guy!” This is perhaps the most problematic part of his explanation. The world having homophobia isn’t a punchline. Having people shame a man they duped into having sex with another man isn’t a punchline. Playing it for laughs isn’t showing how the world may have homophobia, it’s showing the world how to be homophobic.
The First Third is out now. It started out as a kernel of an idea: what if my grandmother gave me her bucket list to complete? And from that, out grew this novel about what it means to be a grandson, a son and yourself.
It’s a more personal novel than I expected to write… It’s not about me, but there’s a lot of me in there.
And it’s definitely a lot of fun.
It’s available in paperback at your local bookstore and online, and digitally for your mobile devices: Android and iOS.
We could have been anywhere. Like sitting at a table in my grandmother’s garden, between the olive tree and the tomato patch – Mum, Yiayia, my brothers and I. Our fingers were greasy and our mouths were full. We were in our own little ethnic bubble.
You could practically hear the metallic twangs of the bouzouki.
There was too much food. There was always too much food. Mum and I were grazing, picking from the platter of haloumi cheese resting on my grandmother’s thigh; my younger brother was balancing his carbs, protein and fat, as if one family meal was the difference between being super-fit and morbidly obese; and my older brother was sampling like someone who’d lived out of home long enough to miss having six different types of meat in one sitting.
A dull beep cut through it all. The bouzouki trills ended abruptly. The bubble popped and the rest of the world roared into focus – the bed, the complicated medical equipment. And the other bed across the hospital room, the old man lying on it and the family exchanging worried, heartfelt looks.
The old man’s heart-rate monitor beeped again. And again.
‘Ma, stop moving,’ Mum said. ‘You’ll knock over the salad.’
We had lunch laid out on my grandmother’s hospital bed. She was still in it. It was lunch-meets-Jenga, one wrong move and it all fell down.
We’d pulled our chairs in close and started eating like it wasn’t ridiculous.
‘Um, guys?’ I found disguising observations as questions helped me walk the fine line between knowing it all and being a know-it-all. ‘Don’t you think we’re perpetuating some dangerous stereotypes here?’
I’m going to try avoid editorialising this as much as possible. This is an email I was sent today, and this is my response to it. And my heart is raging through my shirt.
