“I’m truly honored,” I wrote back, “and I’m very open to participating. Just to be clear, though, most of my writing probably could not be characterized as ‘queer writing,’ other than the fact that ‘queer-I’ wrote it!”

I went on to explain that although my newest fiction series featured gay characters whose stories were integral to the plot, I wouldn’t characterize the novels as “gay fiction.” As well, I continued, my sexuality might figure in my memoir and, parenthetically, in some of my other nonfiction, but it was hardly front and center in those books. I concluded by noting that even though I had published a couple of gay erotic romance stories under a pen name, they did not represent my primary focus.

“A perfect candidate for the panel!” the organizer exclaimed.

“Really!?” I exclaimed in turn when I read Kate’s email. And then I wondered: Am I a “gay writer,” or am I a writer who happens to be gay? And, apart from the obvious, what does it really mean to me to be gay?

Before I answer the questions, here’s a Cliff’s Notes version of my story. I came out in 1975, just before my 21st birthday. Twenty-two years later, I fell in love with a woman, got married and had a daughter. After the marriage ended — six years later for reasons unrelated to sexual orientation — I resumed my “gay life” and ultimately wrote my books that include queer content.

Before Kate approached me, I would have answered those questions by saying that I’m a writer who happens to be gay and that, based on what I write, I’m no more a gay writer than I am a Canadian-born writer, a Jewish writer or a Portland-based writer.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that just as my Canadian and Jewish roots inform everything I write, whether or not my books have Canadian or Jewish content (some do), my sexuality and all that derives from it also informs everything I write. How could it not?

Regardless of the plots and themes of my essays, books and screenplays, everything about me — my history, my nationalities, where I live and who and how I love — is in everything I write. More than that, these essential parts of me express themselves in how I live, how I relate to others and how I relate to the world. Of course they do. How could they not?

I am a Canadian-born writer.

I am a Jewish writer.

I would sit with my 6 year old self that wanted dolls to put in the back of his toy truck and tell him “You are ok. You are loved. You are magic.”

I would sit with my 12 year old self that had crushes on all the boys and none of the girls and tell him “You are ok. You are loved. You are magnificent.”

I would sit with my 14 year old self that sat in front of everyone else to watch tv so he could cry without being seen and I would tell him “You are ok. You are loved. Perfect just as you are.”

I would sit with my 17 year old self that decided he needed to come out to his parents as they walked out the door to a church picnic and I would tell him “You are ok. You are loved. You are strong.”

I would sit with my 20 year old self that was disowned for wanting to love and be loved and I would tell him “You are ok. You are loved. Their ignorance is not your fault.”

I would sit with my 23 year old self that left his hometown to be free, once and for all, and I would tell him “You are ok. You are loved. You are so brave.”

I would sit with my 28 year old self that finally gave his parents an earful and said all of the things he’d been wanting to say for years and I would tell him “You are ok. You are loved. It’s ok to not need your birth family.”