Ten Books In

Failing, Floundering, and Becoming an Author Anyway

I started writing back in college—sometime in the 90s. I wrote poems and stuck them on the outside of the door to my dorm room, with the name “Spencer A. Hawley” on the bottom. An alias. I’m pretty sure the A stood for Asshole.

I thought it sounded smart. Also, humble.

Who could have possibly written these beautiful words? Oh wait—it’s Spencer A. Hawley. It says so right here, at the bottom of this piece of paper ripped from a spiral bound notebook… right after the last stanza WRITTEN IN GREEN MARKER. Who is this Spencer A. Hawley? Who is this wonder of a man?

(Heads for card catalog in library.)

I kept writing.

In 1996, I was working as a choir director at a small church in Lexington, Kentucky. I had a lot of time on my hands, so I kept at the poetry. Wrote all sorts of stuff in my office and, on days off, sitting outside a strip mall bookstore. I was following all the writing exercises I’d read about. (Don’t lift your pen! Write without stopping to edit or critique.) Little by little, I was getting better.

Back then, submitting work meant snail mail—envelopes, stamps, and that giant Writer’s Market book that listed all the agents from Lexington to Laputa.

One day, I noticed a poetry contest called A Midsummer Night’s Reading. Three winners would get to read their original poems in front of a live audience. Expecting nothing, I submitted a poem.

I wish I could remember the whole poem, but the first line was:

“Grandma’s wig reeks like a bear cub’s fur.”

When they invited me to read, I was thrilled and terrified. One part of the poem speculated about my grandparents’ sex life. And I was a pastor. Those worlds didn’t exactly mesh.

I went and read it anyway. Quietly. I was Colin Firth in The King’s Speech, mumbling my way through, praying not to be struck down by God for the filth and conjecture.

Not long after, I got another poem published in a magazine called Hawkbath Farms… still under the name Spencer A. Hawley. (Does it still count as humility if you make sure everyone knows that you are, in fact, Spencer Asshole Hawley?)

I kept writing.

Next up: a novel. My first book. It would be called Closet Monsters. And this time, I would use my own name.

Closet Monsters was 58,929 words and took five years to write. The opening line?

“I've always felt like I had something to explain to the world that most people just didn't understand.”

So right there, you already know you got a bestseller on your hands. Gonna learn a thing or two.

The protagonist was an eighth-grade girl. She was 6’1” (talk about tension) and had a closeted gay friend named Candy. 🙋🏻‍♂️ Me. I was the closeted gay girl. It’s why my friends call me Spencer-Matt-Candy.

Only two people ever read that book. One gushed. The other said, “Wow… that must’ve been a lot of work.”

About this time, someone told me that it’s usually your fourth book that gets published.

Fourth? Pfft. F*k all the way off. No one has that much to say. But I didn’t lose heart. I was certain Closet Monsters would find a home. The title alone—come on. And the movie version? Starring: Tall Actress and Lesbian.

I couldn’t wait!

But nothing happened.

I kept writing.

A couple years later, I wrote a book about the subculture of Christianity. It was called The Blind Writer: Finding Faith Beyond Our Christian Subculture.

I’d tell you more about this one, but I don’t care. On we go.

By now, not only had I written and had a public reading of a poem about my grandparents’ sex life, published an additional poem at Hawkbath, and penned the classic Closet Monsters, I’d written ANOTHER BOOK.

That’s several bad poems, a bad book on Christianity, and a bad novel. How Do You Like Me Now?

I kept writing.

When I began my third book, I decided to dig into my own closetry. I called it, Are You There God? It’s Me, Gay Candy… from Closet Monsters.

Actually, this new memoir was called, Almost Straight. That title. There was intrigue. I kinda felt like I was onto something, ya know? It felt… honest.

I was definitely stepping it up with my writing, and decided to allow myself to further explore my sexuality—more as a bruise than a blessing, but still. I finished the book in a little over a year and immediately went searching for a literary agent.

It was around 2012 or so, and email submissions were now all the rage.

I looked up agents and started firing off queries. Last count: 113 letters. About five agents asked to see the manuscript. No takers.

Until Kathy, who was the agent of one of my writer-heroes. Out of the blue, she called and quoted a passage over the phone—about someone kneading my ass like biscuit dough. I nearly lost my mind.

I. WAS. SO. HAPPY.

“Please come to Nashville. I’d love to talk to you about writing.”

Cut to me on I-65-South, in a beret.

When we met, the first thing she said was:

“I don’t want to represent this book. You’ll get hit by both sides of traffic. Christian publishers will think it’s too secular. Secular publishers will think it’s too Christian. It won’t work. I’d like to talk to you about writing another book.”

A fourth book? Okay. It was a lot of words.

With absolutely nothing left to say, I said…

“Say more.”

She shared her idea, made no promise to represent me, and sent me home.

I wrote ten chapters and sent them to her. Months passed with no reply. When she finally responded, she called me.

“This is a collection of chapters, not a book. Can you come back to Nashville so I can teach you a few things about writing?”

Cut to me on I-65-South, ass between my legs… still in the beret.

But shortly after that convo on the phone, she sent this text.

And isn’t that all we really need? A little encouragement. A little honesty.

That text lit a fire. It kept me going.

My second time in Nashville, she told me what the book needed. Then said…

“You have some of the most beautiful endings to your chapters I’ve ever read.”

And then:

“Honestly, I think you land the plane better than WRITER-HERO.”

😳

You know those rare, incredible moments when someone says something kind about your writing and something moves down there?

Better than WRITER-HERO?!?! That was enough for me.

I came home, did what she told me to do, and sent the book back. I called it Unredeemed: Finding God in the Ruins. She liked it—and took me on as a client.

In 2016, it was released. (My fourth book. 🙄) But the title had changed.

“That title is too depressing,” said the publisher. “No one wants to read a book where nothing is redeemed.”

Fair enough. So we called it: Finding God in the Ruins: How God Redeems Pain.

(If you ever need to know how God does it, shoot me an email.)

Despite being a first-timer with about ten people on my email list, that book sold surprisingly well.

Go me!

I did a little book tour—spoke at a handful of churches and signed copies at a few Barnes & Noble stores.

I had arrived.

Then I came out… and my Christian publisher pulled the book out of print. I wasn’t surprised. But still—it was a big blow. What was I to do?

I ditched the beret for a harness (not really) and… say it with me…

I kept writing.

After pulling myself up by the heels, leaning further into my queer-voice, and nursing a breakup with my very first boyfriend, I wrote my fifth book. Leather & Lace: A Gay Man, Lost Love, and a Road Trip with My Dead Sister.

This time, I was writing what I wanted to write.

But without a publisher, I had to self-publish.

It sold abysmally.
(Or is it abysmally, it sold?)

Needless to say… badly, it went.

That book was witty, fun, racy, and devastating. For the first time, I leaned fully into who I was—and it was awesome.

I stand by it. It’s well written. It’s a good book.

But the title makes it sound like a crotch-novel. And if you look it up on Amazon, there’s a shirtless cowboy on the cover of a different book with the same title as mine.

Neat.

In 2021, I married a gay dude named Chris. Not a writer—a business guy. But as you can see below, a business guy with writing chops.

By the time we got hitched, I’d spent enough time on dating apps to get the gist:

You’re ugly. You’re old. No one loves you. And… Here’s another shirtless pic of me with a basket of dirty clothes on the floor behind me.

Brutal.

In response to that little nightmare phase, I decided to write a book for all the gay men still suffering in queer-dating land. I called it…

How to Find and Keep a Gay Man: 69 Spicy Tips for Lasting Love.

Short, quippy essays—fun and sharp—on finding (and keeping) a good gay man.

I tried to get it represented.

They said no.

I said yes.

They said no some more.

I said okay.

For years, it just sat there—looking all cute in my “Files” folder.

I kept effing writing.

In 2023, the hubs and I took a trip. Six months. Sixteen countries. Sixty-three cities.

It was awesome.

On the trip—and after—I wrote a 97,000-word memoir. My longest book yet. (And one that feels really special to me.)

I looked for and landed an agent to represent it. But as you know, that’s only half the battle. We put together a proposal and at the last minute, decided to include a few details about How to Find and Keep a Gay Man.

While pitching the travel/romance memoir, one publisher came back and said:

“Let us see the gay book. The funny one. This one’s too serious and landscapey.”

So we showed them the funny gay book. They loved it, bought it, and it’s coming out in April of 2026.

When I posted about it, an old church member DM’d me and called it “gay porn.”

Writing is super fun.

I’m still trying to sell the travel memoir. We’ll see. I remain hopeful. And…

I keep writing.

Last Christmas, over about six weeks, I wrote my fourth memoir. It will likely never see the light of day.

Because. Period.

It’s… a lot. I’m not ready. But writing it was deeply healing. Fastest I’ve ever written anything. It’s not something I’m proud of. It’s something I survived.

That part—I’m proud of.

After that, I took a second-shot at writing another novel. This time, something literary. Poured my heart and soul into it. Took about six months to finish.

And you know what? It’s gorg.

The characters. The plot. The writing.

This one’s getting published. For sure. Trust me.

You: Isn’t that how you felt about your first novel, Closet Monsters?

Me: 🖕🏽

Also me: 💯

And would you believe, I’m working on another one. It is an amazing season of writing for me. I’m having such a blast.

Which brings us to this…

I’ve had quite a few people say, “I have a book in me.” Or, “I want to write a book.”

It always reminds me of when I used to say, “I want to learn to play the piano,” and a woman asked me:

“Do you want to learn to play the piano? Or do you just want to play the piano?”

Rude.

The second.

Writing is hard work. And I love it. Then hate it. Then love it again.

But…

I keep writing.

I’m currently working on my tenth book.

Ten.

WTF.

And every time I start one, I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.

(IYKYK)

Sure, I’ve gotten better—thinking about genre, building outlines, learning how to tell a story. But it’s still daunting. And every time, it’s a struggle.

Yet still…

I keep writing.

I never wanted to learn to play the piano. And even though it wasn’t my plan to learn how to write books, I have.

I’ve put in the time. Joined the writing groups. Hung around great writers. Challenged myself. Collaborated. Listened to editors. Did what they told me, as best I could.

There’s a moment in writing when you pass the point of no return—your creative event horizon. From there, you just keep going.

And when it comes to writing, I’ve done the most important thing:

I kept going. Kept writing.

I may never have a big writer name like Spencer A. Hawley… but I’m writing so many things down. And every single time, I’m glad I did.

KEEP. WRITING.

Unless you don’t want to.

And in that case? Don’t.

You don’t have to, ya know?

But you absolutely get to.

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*Here are a couple of my babies. (Click on image to order & preorder)