Books have always been a part of my story. Some of my earliest memories are of cozy nights tucked in bed, hanging on every word as my grandma read Choose Your Own Adventure books to my brother and me. We’d excitedly debate our choices, sometimes doubling back to try a different path, determined to uncover the perfect ending. Those moments weren’t just magical—they were the spark that ignited my lifelong love for stories and the endless worlds they hold.
Eventually, we graduated to the “Animorphs” series by K.A. Applegate. This dark little middle-grade series not only nurtured my passion for stories but also marked a milestone: I went from having books read to me to devouring them on my own. I can still remember how excited I was every time a new book was released. I would beg my grandma to take me to K-Mart, where she worked, so I could grab the next installment. I still have every single original “Animorphs” book, carefully boxed and preserved—the earliest treasures in what would become an ever-growing book collection.
As I grew, my reading habits deepened. I eagerly awaited book fairs at school, especially the traveling library truck where we’d line up, taking turns to browse the shelves. I spent ages inside, carefully choosing the perfect book to spend my precious allowance on. By the end of my childhood, I had built an impressive library for someone so young. Many of these original favorites still sitting on my shelves to this day.
Books like “Inkheart” sparked my imagination, and I dreamed of bringing characters to life and stepping into their worlds. Philip Pullman’s “His Dark Materials” swept me away, solidifying my love for fantasy and found me at a time when I was questioning everything about my life and what I believed. I longed to be a dragon rider alongside Eragon, fighting hordes of enemies and casting spells. I developed my first bookish crush on Alex Rider, imagining myself as his secret-agent love interest running alongside him headfirst into danger.
But as much as these stories enchanted me, something was missing. No matter how vividly I imagined the worlds or how deeply I connected with the characters, I never saw myself reflected in them.
The first time I felt a glimmer of representation (and it’s a stretch to call it that) was in Darren Shan’s “Cirque du Freak” series. While not a queer series, there was something about the relationship between Darren, the protagonist, and his childhood best friend-turned-enemy, Steve. The tension and closeness between them felt more complex than simple friendship—at least to my closeted, queer teenage mind. I read between the lines and invented a deeper connection, one that spoke to me in ways no book had before. I desperately wanted these two characters to overcome their differences and come together as lovers. Even though I knew this would not happen, I was still disappointed when the series ended and they were nothing more than friends.
At the time, finding explicitly queer stories was nearly impossible. Sure, there were classics like “Maurice” or “The Picture of Dorian Gray”, but as a teenager, I wasn’t drawn to what I saw as “boring” literature. I just wanted stories about boys falling in love with boys.
The first book that truly spoke to me was Nick Burd’s “The Vast Fields of Ordinary”. I can’t remember exactly why I picked it up—probably the cover, which my subconscious instantly read as “inherently gay.” I felt like I was tricking my grandma into buying it for me, excited yet deeply ashamed of what I knew I would find inside.
Looking back, the book isn’t a masterpiece, but it holds a special place in my heart. It was the first time I saw a gay protagonist in a story, and it sparked something profound in me. It showed me that my story could exist in books, too, and it made me hungry for more representation.
I began to seek out every queer book I could find. Back then, the list was short—David Levithan’s “Boy Meets Boy”, Peter Cameron’s “Some Day This Pain Will Be Useful to You”, and Bill Konigsberg’s “Out of the Pocket” come to mind. I’d scour “new release” lists on my phone and head to Barnes & Noble, hoping to find just one copy on the shelves. Often, they weren’t stocked, and I was too shy to ask for help.
Fast forward to today, and the landscape has completely transformed. We’re living in a golden age of queer literature, with dozens of new releases spanning every genre each month. It’s a far cry from the days when I could count the options on one hand. Now, the challenge isn’t finding representation—it’s keeping up with the abundance of incredible stories.
This journey of discovering queer stories eventually led me to create MyGayBookcase on Instagram. What started as a small platform to share my love of books has grown into a vibrant community. Over the past five years, I’ve built connections, collaborated with authors, and even helped promote the stories I love. It’s been an incredible journey of creativity and growth, one that has pushed me to learn new skills and share my passion with the world.
Representation in stories matters profoundly. It goes beyond simply seeing a character who shares your identity—it’s about feeling seen, understood, and valued in a world that often erases or overlooks diverse voices. It’s a reminder that we exist, that our voices deserve to be heard, and that our experiences are worth celebrating. For those of us who’ve spent years searching for even a glimmer of ourselves in the stories we love, it’s life-changing to finally find it.
I know what it’s like to ache for that kind of validation—to flip through countless pages, longing to see someone like me reflected in the narrative. To feel invisible in a medium that shaped so much of who I am. It can feel isolating, like your story doesn’t matter enough to be told. But when you finally stumble across a character, a storyline, or even a fleeting moment that resonates with your identity, it’s a revelation. It’s as if the world stops for just a second, and you’re reminded that you belong, that your existence is real and worth acknowledging.
Representation has the power to heal wounds we didn’t even realize we were carrying. It gives us the courage to dream bigger, love deeper, and embrace our full selves. It builds connection, fosters understanding, and creates a sense of community. Whether it’s through a complex protagonist, a loving relationship, or even a subtle nod to a shared experience, representation tells us that we’re not alone—that there’s a place for all of us in the stories being told.
Thank you for reading this far. This space on Bindery Books is something I’m passionate about growing, and I hope you’ll come along for the ride. I want this to be more than just a blog—it’s a community, a place where we can celebrate stories that make us feel seen and understood. Whether you follow me for free or choose to support me further, I’m deeply grateful to have you here, sharing in this journey. Your encouragement, comments, and engagement mean the world to me and inspire me to keep pushing forward. Together, I believe we can create something truly meaningful and lasting.
- Jordan
