My favorite books that illuminate the dazzling (and dark) lives of queer artists & writers

Of course, I had to start with Baldwin—my favorite writer—and I chose this one because it captures all the drama, the dazzling and the dark, in the lives of queer artists. It is also a fantastic read—one filled with longing, hope, heartache, love, and lots of sex.

When it was published in the early 1960s it was considered radical to put such taboos—interracial couples, gay sex, adultery, and suicide—so blatantly on the page. And yet it feels wonderfully contemporary, in both its language and passion.

Baldwin was committed to the artist’s promise to tell the truth (saying we were the only ones free to do so) and these truths—about the human spirit in the face of rejection and discrimination, about our desire to be known and loved, and our longing to be whole—still resonate sixty years later. 

The brilliant, searing insights of this book are hard to oversell.

Tóibín is a writer who defies category, and the book—part mini-biographies, part literary criticism, all heart—is a book for anyone who loves writers (not just writing).

He has an incisive yet tender eye for analysis, of not just literature, but of an author’s—dare I say it—soul, and he taught me more about writers I already knew and loved, like James Baldwin and Elizabeth Bishop, while introducing me to authors I’d only heard of, like Thom Gunn and Thomas Mann.

The sections on Oscar Wilde and Roger Casement blew my mind wide open. This book is a must-read for all queer authors writing today—to appreciate how far we’ve come and to celebrate where we’re going.

This novel broke my heart the first time I read it, as much as it thrilled me, and I wanted to step into the book and hug all of the main characters.

They felt so alive—through their pain and desperation, their anger—and it showed me how to weave a layered, complex plot with multiple points of view into a cohesive, meaningful, single story. It follows a jazz musician with a huge secret, one revealed only after his death, which threatens to destroy the family he’s made, on and off the stage.

I love a good family saga, especially one dealing with issues of identity, class, culture, and sexuality—but if that doesn’t grab you, read it for the simple pleasure of Kay’s writing.

Skilled at the art of concision, she imbues this novel with both lyrical and concrete imagery, leaving the reader with portraits so crisp and profound you will feel as if they are members of your own family.

To call this book a biography threatens to diminish the power and force of the story telling.

Yes, it covers the biographical details—the troubled family life, the delayed yet ferocious sexuality, the prodigious talent—but what makes this book extraordinary is the alchemy that occurs on the page; the blending of Williams’ voice with Lahr’s narrative focus gives us a deeply researched and insightful dive into the mind (and heart) of one of the greatest playwrights the American theatre has ever produced.

People today call everything “epic,” but this book truly is; it delves into Williams’ process, introduces his demons and muses, and shows the challenges all writers face of how to balance the people we’re committed to in our real lives with the characters we’re devoted to on the page.

The gift here is not in the gossip (though there’s plenty of great dish), it’s in the time travelling: to read this book is to escape the known outlines of your own life and step into another world—born of Lahr’s creation and Williams’ imagination; it’s like stepping onto the stage of one of his great plays, a world at once elusive and tangible, and just like his life, nurtured in the shadows and in the bright, hot light of center stage.

I was obsessed with this novel when it first came out, and every time I go back to it, it offers me another gift.

The writing is lean yet elegant, a perfect combination to tell such a heartbreaking story—of three women connected through time by Virginia Woolf’s singular novel Mrs. Dalloway.

It’s a book about how to sustain ourselves through challenging times—how to literally survive—but it’s also a treatise on creating remarkable characters, the call to be an artist, and a rare glimpse into the imagined writing process of one of the English language’s greatest wordsmiths. (I’m referring to Woolf, but I could just as easily be talking about Cunningham.)

The structure is inventive and compelling, but it is really what he shows us of the characters, how he opens their hearts and whispers their secret sorrows into our eager ears, desires they barely understand themselves, that makes this book a true masterpiece.