If you've been in the casual-representation game for any length of time, learning how to write an identity you don't share, you've probably heard some variant of the following:

"Just write a person, and then make them [identity]"

This advice is so ubiquitous, it's become the casual-rep equivalent of pithy storytelling pointers like "show, don't tell": an easily packaged, digestible nugget of wisdom for new writers to use as a guide in their craft. And, like "show, don't tell," there's an element of truth in it. Quite a large one, in fact, depending on the context you consider it in. Also like "show, don't tell," that truth should never be taken as universal.

I don't actually agree with "just write a person," but I continue to tell it to newer rep-writers anyway. This is a stance that is by its nature contradictory, so I'm going to make an attempt to unpack it in this post.

I'll start with a definition. Casual representation, or casual rep, is a kind of representation wherein characters of any marginalized identity (be that queer, disabled, any racial minority, etc.) are written into a book that does not center around their identity or the struggles they face as a result of it. Casual rep is a badass spacecraft captain fighting off a galactic threat—when that captain is also queer and Black in a world that fully respects her. It's a dragon-rider preoccupied with raising a dragon pup that's the last of its kind—when that rider also happens to be missing an arm. It's a Romance where the couple struggles to trust one another after past experiences of betrayal—and that couple just so happens to be gay.

Casual rep is the territory where writers who do not share a particular identity should remain. If a book gets into a plot centered around discrimination or unique experiences of being [identity], that story belongs to someone who's lived it and/or its consequences themselves. It is in that distinction—in the "just so happens to be" that I mentioned above—that the beating heart of "just write a character" lies.

If you are "just writing" a character of a particular identity, the assumption is that you are putting them in a position where that particular identity does not drive your plot. When it's realistic, this is a good thing! The world needs coming-out stories, but it also needs badass queer space captains, scientists, starstruck lovers, struggling students, detectives, and more. It needs characters who can go about their lives and accomplish plot-worthy things while just-so-happening to be queer. Or any other identity that faces barriers in the real world, but from here on out, I will focus on queer. Queer folks of all ages need to see themselves represented in media, not just their struggles, and casual rep plays a huge role in that.

The double-benefit of these types of "just characters" is that pretty much anyone who does their research can write one. Or two. Or ten. The characters can take side, major, or even main roles without straying into the complicated territory of "not your story to tell," and while selling these stories is another matter, that's a topic for a different time.

The problem that still faces casual rep, however, is twofold. The first is that these identities are minority and often repressed, so not every writer actually knows a person (or more than one person) who identifies with them. The second is that our society is really, really good at ingraining bias against them in... well, pretty much everyone. Even people who are queer themselves. Internalized queerphobia is a whole thing, but I'll be writing about that in another one of this month's blog posts, so I'll leave that topic here for now.

In the absence of living, breathing, human connection with actual queer people, many writers are left with what the media shows them. And, because the media is bad at this (though it's slowly getting better), the bulk of that is stereotypes. I'm not even going to get into examples because I could go on forever and that's research any casual queer-rep writer should be doing themself, but it's safe to say that a majority of queer characters in media today are either absent, have extremely minor roles, and/or are largely cardboard cut-outs supposed to be representative of their queer identity.

That "representative" part is a real kicker. If there's only one queer person in a TV show, you can bet they're going to be the most ✨identifiably ✨ queer... I hesitate to say human, you've ever seen. All of that rests on stereotypes.

So what's a writer to do? Especially a non-queer writer, or a queer one writing a different identity than their own? Where do they start, if the bulk of their experience with that identity hasn't come from interacting with living, breathing, queer humans? Here is where the power of our initial quote comes to bear: just write a person, and then make them queer.

Writing a person first, and then their identity, shifts the focus from the identity to, well, the person. Their hopes and dreams. Their quirks and foibles. Their goals, drives, struggles, flaws. They go from cardboard cut-out to 3D human because suddenly, they're more than just an identity, and the identity becomes only one of many, many facets of their whole being. This kind of humanization is a potent tool for shifting our perceptions away from stereotypes, and for developing empathy with people whose identities we do not share.

That's not to say it gets rid of the stereotypes, or the biases that society has imparted unto all of us. Remember, these things are deeply ingrained. They're largely subconscious, and it takes effort and discomfort to unearth them. That work is still necessary, but "just write a person" gives people who're just starting in on casual rep a kind of scaffold to work from. It circumvents some of the major pitfalls that stem from dehumanization by fixing the foundation those issues are built upon. If you write a person first, it is harder to fuck up to quite the same degree.

This is why I still hand out this quote to writers who are newer to writing casual rep.

And now I'm going to complicate it. Never trust a Dark-Fantasy / Horror author to not blow things up, whee!

I'll start this explanation off with an anecdote that's also kind of an admission. Bear with me. I'll explain it at the end.

Most visual advertisements make no sense to me.

This has been my experience ever since teenhood, when the absurdity really kicked in. My peers would see an ad and preen, then go buy the thing it was advertising—or at least wish they could. Yet the ads contained no information about the thing they were selling. Sometimes, they barely contained the thing at all. They filled billboards and screens instead with weirdly smiling, slightly creepy people with hair that seemed suspended in zero-gravity, and vaguely threatening taglines about inner beauty or confidence in a crowded room. People in video ads would smile at one another, heads lolling, and then suddenly one would have what they wanted for no apparent reason. If I was lucky, they'd be wearing clothes fit for whatever public space the ad was in.

Suffice to say, these ads do not work on me. Some make me deeply uncomfortable, and I cannot look at a cosmetics billboard without thinking that no real, sober human makes that face. And the thing is, I know now why companies advertise this way. At least on an intellectual level. It took me a few years, but I figured it out.

I'm not dense. I'm just asexual.

I tell this story because it's a good illustration of the single biggest pitfall of "just write a person." If you're not queer and/or not immersed in the queer community, your default "just a person" isn't queer. Because of this, they won't share the unique quirks and angles of social friction that characterize the queer experience. These aren't just passing details. They can shape a character's entire worldview, social experience, and even something as mundane as spending habits, if your character is like me. Queer identity is just one facet of a complex human being, but that doesn't mean it stays contained to its little slice of the pie. It spills over, and can cause ripple effects through other parts of a character's habits and personality.

Capturing this nuance—and thus authenticity—is not something you can do unless the identity is integrated into the character right from the start. It still shouldn't lead that character's development, but it should have a seat at the table and remain in consideration as the writer is getting to know their newest fictional human being. If it's added as an afterthought, the most extreme outcome is queerwashing... a character who is painted queer but built on a different scaffold altogether.

Queer readers will notice this disparity. Even if they do not do so consciously, they will feel a disconnect with a character they're supposed to be identifying with, in the absence of all the little details that make an experience of existence unique. These details can still be added casually. There is so much more than discrimination or coming-out that's unique about being queer! There's community and codes and tension with social norms, celebrations and history, iconography and language and symbols of both subtlety and pride. Even in the absence of organized queer culture or even language, elements of a different social experience still remain.

To do a queer character justice, these factors need to be at least acknowledged, in whatever contemporary, historical, or fictional setting you've built your book's world. It'll take more research, worldbuilding / exploration, and character work, but that's probably work you should be doing anyway.

At the end of the day, then, the real issue I have with "just write a character" is that it lacks nuance. Which should come as no surprise, really: every pithy statement does. I do still think it's an excellent place for writers to start. But it should never be the end of the story.