hen I wrote my first book, I thought I knew. I wanted to change literature, or at least change the world. I thought all the books about AIDS were nothing like what I was living through. People with AIDS were dying so pleasantly in literature. My novel was intended to blow up how we were perceived. My seething, righteous rage would infect readers, flow in every vein, and men, women, and genderqueers would rise to demand justice. The revolution would ignite. Not only would my
