Putting Pride Into My Work


As June draws to an end, I felt like this would be a good opportunity to reflect on what Pride means to me in 2026; specifically, what ‘putting Pride into my work’ means.

I’ve blogged before about celebrating my intersectionality through fiction. That post still stands up. In fact, it was a conversation with crime author Liz Mistry during Keighley Library’s ‘Murder in the Library’ event earlier this month that sparked my thoughts for this post.

I was talking about diversity in crime fiction, commenting how so many central characters never seemed to deviate from ‘straight white male’ (and female, occasionally) mould in the books I read as a young person. Nor did I ever question it.

“You’d never have seen characters that looked like you,” observed Liz in that incisive way she has.

Nailed it.

Colour was only one aspect, however. I think back to when thirteen-year-old Roshan would skive school (PE only!) and loiter in Waterstones Bradford, enjoying the aroma of fresh coffee as he hovered furtively near the LGBT section.

He’d occasionally have the courage to pluck a book from the shelf and whisk it off to a more ‘socially-acceptable’ (in his mind) section of the store to thumb through. He would never have been brave enough to purchase a book from that section, risking exposure and judgement from the sales assistant.

In the same conversation, I reflected on the twinge of discomfort I sometimes feel as I see my books being taken away by a new reader. My shame-gremlin starts chittering at me, making me question whether having a gay main character was a good idea. The same thing happens when I post on social media. We’re now more aware than ever of trolls and bots that attack to spread hate. All of this preys on my mind, simply because my work sits outside of the ‘straight white male’ paradigm.

Despite my fears and discomfort, I press ahead because I think of that teenager in Waterstones. If he deserved to see himself on a page, maybe someone else does too.

I also look around, as I did during ‘Murder in the Library’ and other National Crime Reading Month events I contributed to this year, and realise that our audiences are increasingly diverse. I read review after review that praises Louis and the characters around him. People are connecting with Louis not because he’s gay but because he’s human. His needs, hopes and fears resonate beyond labels.

I’m writing crime fiction involving a diverse set of people, which feels authentic because it reflects the spaces I’ve found myself in during the last twenty years as a safeguarding practitioner.

The shame is my stuff, and I’ll work that out in time.

If someone doesn’t like my work, they’re entitled to put it down and pick something else up. I can respect that, difficult as it might feel. Maybe it could spark a helpful conversation?

The important thing, I realise, is to keep going. That phrase ‘You’ve got to see it to be it’ remains at the forefront of my mind. Whether it’s me as an author, or one of my characters, my hope is that the presence helps at least one person feel seen. There’s something truly exciting and humbling about joining the growing number of authors who are adding nuance to the ever-increasing diversity of UK crime fiction.

Years ago, I was too frightened to carry a book with a gay character from the shelf to the till. Today, I write the sort of books I wish I'd been brave enough to buy. If that helps even one reader feel seen, then every page has been worth writing.

That, to me, is putting Pride into my work.