Why LGBTQ+ Representation in Fiction Matters to Me

Growing up, I encountered zero books that I could relate to. None of the characters reflected who I was or who I was becoming. There were no queer kids in the stories I read, no gay protagonists solving mysteries, falling in love, or just existing as themselves. And so, I grew up without that mirror—without that quiet but vital affirmation that I wasn’t alone.

As an adult, I’ve had the chance to hear stories from others in the LGBTQ+ community—some in their seventies—who’ve shared what it was like to come of age in a world with even less representation, less safety, and far fewer people to look up to. Their stories are heartbreaking and powerful. And while my generation still had challenges, theirs reminds me how far we’ve come. Now, when I look at younger generations and see how many queer characters exist in books, TV, and film, it gives me hope. Representation is visibility. Visibility is survival.

That’s one of the reasons I made Frank DeLuca, the protagonist of Murder on Page Street, a gay man. But his story isn’t about being gay. He isn’t struggling with coming out, and his queerness isn’t a point of trauma or a narrative twist. He’s gay. That’s it. It’s part of who he is, just like he’s Italian-American, a former FBI agent, and deeply haunted by his past. I didn’t want his identity to be the center of the story. I wanted it to be normal.

Still, writing a queer protagonist wasn’t without its inner battles. On days when my inner saboteur got loud, I’d have fleeting thoughts like, “What if I made him straight? What if I played it safe and just had an LGBTQ+ character on the side?” But those thoughts never lasted long. Because I knew from the beginning: I wanted the hero of my story to be gay.

What surprised me most, though, was how deeply personal the story became. I didn’t set out to write about grief, or trauma, or healing—but those themes emerged on their own. Maybe it was something I needed to process. Maybe the act of writing brought it to the surface. Either way, Frank’s journey ended up reflecting more of me than I ever planned.

Representation in fiction has come a long way. I’ve read incredible books with queer characters who are complex, joyful, and real. I’ve seen those stories make it to the screen. But I still think we need more. We need more stories where being gay doesn’t end in tragedy. More stories where queer characters get to solve the crime, win the day, fall in love, or just be—without their identity being used as a plot device or a punchline.

If you’re a queer reader, I hope Murder on Page Street reminds you to be yourself, to live your life fully, and to know that you are not alone. If you’re not, I hope you read the story and see Frank for who he is—a man navigating loss, mystery, and redemption. A man who happens to be gay.