The trans art of storytelling: ‘Nevada’ by Imogen Binnie


The trans art of storytelling

It’s the early 2010s in New York City, and Maria Griffiths, a trans woman in her late 20s and the protagonist of Imogen Binnie’s 2013 novel “Nevada,” is writing a blog post in an internet café. After recapping the strange few days she’s had, she turns to a speculative exercise:

Broken – Prologe

It wasn’t suppose to end like this.
She smiled bitterly. Standing in the subdued half light filtering through steel gray November skies, the day seemed created for this moment. A movie scene so perfect it was almost unreal. A freezing mist carried on the fretful wind sought any exposed skin, countless needles striking numbed flesh.

She turned her eyes to the small group before her. So few, huddled in their coats and scarves, looking more annoyed than sorrowful. Men and women who had better places to be, more important things to do. Sadly it was the same attitude she had seen so often, The silent disapproval. The disgust which filled the space between them and her almost as visible as their breath from downturned lips and upturned noses.

Even from where she kept herself, at the edge of the ceremony, she could see the grave. A stark, open would in the frozen earth. Above it, held like a demented cradle in black straps, sat the casket. Dark wood and steel dully gleaming. A bright highlight so out of place. 

National Novel Writing Month




I made a decision this morning to reregister for NaNoWriMo as Kira.

For the past several years I have used my birth name and original email, but that isn’t who I am now and it is time to move on.

As with everything else in my online life, I will now be known only as Kira.

I think it safe to say this is a much needed change and I am excited to face the challenge of this years contest as my true self.

Work In Progress Update



I am continuing to work on “Rayou”, adding bits and pieces as they come. I have the names of most of the major characters, various locations where the story will take place, and I am combing through Google Images looking for more inspiration. 

I have written several small bits of scenes to be fleshed out later, but I also have two that, while no where near finished, I feel are far enough along to give some hint of the style of the story. As I said in the first post though, one I am not comfortable sharing as I know it might be a trigger for people… maybe after more work I will share that, but I do have something I can put out there for you to read and comment on.

I am working helter skelter, writing out this and that as the scenes come to mind with no preconceived plans on where they fit into the story, I am naming each one separately. They are named to give a quick, simple way to remember the basic idea of what they are about.

I have found, for me, letting my mind jump around like this is working the best. When I try and force myself to work rigidly from point A to point B I loose focus and thus the thread of thought I am following. Going about things in a free form type of way allows the freedom to go with whatever comes to mind while following the over all theme I am aiming for.

So with no further ado, here is the scene named “Mirror”.


Erin sat on the bed, looking around the room, with its blue walls and white ceiling. The pictures of airplanes and automobiles, pictures she had drawn, not because she liked planes or cars but because she loved the precision they represented. The stark lines and graceful curves.

Then there was the furniture, the bed itself, small but functional, with its bookshelf headboard where she kept her favorite books; The Hunger Games, The Book Thief, A Wrinkle In Time, and others. There was also her memory box; a small thing made of cardboard printed to look like wood. It contained a few small items she knew her parents would expect, a baseball card, her “favorite” Hot Wheels car, a key she had found at the park. Things that really meant nothing to her but kept her true secrets safe.

From there her eyes swept to the dresser. An oversized monstrosity that hunched against the wall and seemed to glower at her. Her parents had found it at an estate sale and refinished it for her room. She hated it. She hated the masculine lines, all square and hard. She hated the color, a gloss black her Father told her made it look Japanese, but really made it look like a coffin. Most of all she hated the huge mirror that towered upward until it seemed to touch the ceiling. The mirror that held within it her greatest fears. In that wall of glass she could see what the world saw. A truth she could not deny even though it was all a lie. Looking at it, it was all she could do not to smash it with her fists, screaming curses at the gods or fate or whatever it was that had made her the way she was. That had, with cruel indifference, ensured her a life not of happiness, but of damnation.