100 books like Red Herrings for Breakfast

Danny Kelly is a living, breathing gay Greek protagonist, and the choices this driven young competitive swimmer faces about loving relationships—while he’s in the pursuit of athletic prowess—are written with a resounding ring of truth. Tsiolkas’ visceral sex scenes, underpinned by gripping descriptions of the desires behind the mechanics, speak to much more than the act itself. They go to the heart of identity in a novel with so many layers of self-definition: the migrant, the working class hero, the quintessential male, the stereotypical gay, the success story, and the abject failure. That Danny escapes his ambition alive is a miracle, and it has everything to do with digging deep and staring down expectations.

Elliott came out to his fans with this beautiful novel charting the life and times of Seaton Ross, a protagonist in the author’s image. Despite the terrible series of obstacles placed in Seaton’s way, from overbearing or absent family, deeply closeted and self-centred lovers to furious fag hags, he manages to escape Australia—just as Elliott did—without developing a lasting hatred in his exile. Rendered with the author’s signature wit (he took a leaf from E. M. Forster), the homophobia of Australia’s working classes becomes a source of this novel’s pathos, so that when Seaton encounters the most shocking consequences a gay man can face, we are ill-prepared. A wry, sexy, heartfelt swan song from the Australian who made it big in the American broadcasting industry.

A page-turning journey through the motivations, passions, and secrets that led to a shocking crime; but also a long-overdue look at the elements of Brokeback Mountain that have always existed in Australia's rural heartlands. Assisted by a key survivor of the Wettenhall family drama—Bob Perry—Drinnan takes a very personalised look back at a rural dynasty’s fortunes, but also the social, legal, and cultural restrictions for same-sex-attracted men in Australia from the 1970s to the present day. Australia is a nation said to have been built on the sheep's back, yet the truth about gays in this nation's bush culture is only just emerging. Drinnan's book sharply spearheaded the discussion into the mainstream while documenting Perry’s journey from the closet to liberation.  

Homophobia appears to have been the least of Jack Charles’ worries. If it ever bothered him, he barely lets it register in this memoir of a creative life lived both on the fringes and in the spotlight. Perhaps that’s the point, that his eloquent, good-humoured approach always seemed to scotch the haters right from the get-go. In an unbendingly honest self-reflection, Charles also pulls off describing himself as a “poof”, a very Australian term of derision that has been reclaimed by many. His ‘born again’ tale similarly relates how he survived in the face of terrible prejudices endured by Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders—the First Nations people of Australia—and their vibrant, resilient spirit. An uplifting gem.

Drawing on his own experiences Sheppard has written about three invisible boys who are dealing with being gay in an unforgiving country town that reminds me of the culture I grew up in with the lack of understanding and support for LGBTQI youth.

This is a page turner that deals with everything real: identity, belonging, family dysfunction, and masculinity. It is a book that will be a beacon of light to young people who are dealing with their own coming out journey, and a handbook to those who are allies and wish to support LGBTQI youth on their journey. It broke my heart and healed it again and Sheppard is an author that is on my must read list.

The novel has a remarkable twist on the traditional coming of age story; it’s also a novel about a straight guy coming to terms with his own homophobia.  It’s not a novel about a gay boy, but more a novel about a sraight boy’s understanding of how deeply homophobia has infected his life. 

What Zinn achieved in highlighting leftist history and labor history, Kirchick achieves in highlighting gay history and its proximity to the corridors of political power in Washington.

The struggles of gay Americans to gain recognition by the U.S. government as equal to their fellow citizens and commensurate with their talents is a fascinating story, and Kirchick more than does it justice.

Like Zinn’s People’s History, this book carefully reexamines the conventional understanding of our nation’s history as a whole. It is both ambitious and particular.

A tale of three American athletes and their coach, all gay, and told from the POV of the coach. Included because, to me, it is a piece of queer fiction history. It was published in the seventies pre the nationwide legalisation of gay sex in the United States. Gay friends have told me how important it was for them to read The Front Runner back then. It’s all about the validation that arises from seeing people like oneself in print, as aces know. There’s nothing on the page to worry aces. The only worrying thing is that sportspeople still have homophobia to contend with.

Mary Gaitskill is capable of infuriating empathy. I shouldn’t be invested in her characters as deeply as I am: The vagrant in love with her toxic brother; the aging suburbanite who once raped a friend; the homophobic, abusive midwestern father. Gaitskill tackles one difficult character after another through her surgical exploration of the human experience: All the embarrassing things people hate about themselves, the nervous tics, the in-jokes, the often contradictory feelings running through our heads.

Just when you think you’ve got her pegged as this dark, gothic writer pumping out weird sex stories, she crafts a hilarious piece about an idiot screenwriter trying to embarrass his ex. I read this in college and learned I could, in fact, write about the dark subjects I wanted to.

Lynn’s trilogy, The Chronicles of Tornor, was published in the late 70s. Set in lands with strong similarities to Europe, but with a different geography and with some influences from Eastern philosophies, the last of the trilogy, The Northern Girl, envisioned a world where the open expression of sexuality is not restricted to heterosexual relationships. When I set out to create the cultures of my world, this was one of the societal structures I used as a model: not the only one, but an important one.