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Hey there! You're reading the Tuesday Telegrams, a bimonthly newsletter from author Naseem Jamnia. Every other Tuesday, I send out a Telegram that's either writing related or a personal essay. You're currently reading a writing-related Telegram, which is where I give updates on projects, behind-the-scenes look at my work, craft discussions, recent publications, event news, and other publishing things.

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​Last week, The White Guy Dies First: 13 Scary Stories of Fear and Power came out. It's a YA horror anthology where thirteen authors of color took a common horror element or genre and turned it on its head, and where the white guy always dies first, edited by one of my best friends, Terry J. Benton-Walker.

Terry started dreaming up this anthology a few years ago. He's always been a huge horror buff and very conscious of the way race often plays out in the genre. When he started actually putting together an anthology proposal, I told him immediately to put body horror aside for me.

Many trans people, particularly nonbinary people, are drawn to body horror because our bodies are often deemed monstrous. We're "messing with God's will." We're "being unnatural." What's more unnatural than your body doing things you can't control? What happens when you can control it and choose the nonhuman?

My story in the anthology, "Break Through Our Skin," follows a closeted nonbinary trans Iranian American teen who finds validation and acceptance in an unexpectedly ancient source.* (I pitch it as "body horror with a splash of creature feature.") They reclaim their body by reclaiming their rage.

*You might remember a few years ago when people started talking about the world's oldest prosthetic eye found in Iran (see picture in the aesthetic below). It was actually found in 2007, along with ancient pottery that the researchers argued could be considered an ancient form of animation, and a backgammon-like game. "Break Through Our Skin" is as much a look at neocolonialism in academia and archeology as it is a story of reclamation of our bodies.

I've been telling people that I find it hilarious that I'll soon have more horror published than fantasy for two reasons: one, I consider myself a fantasist; two, I only started engaging with horror in any capacity about a decade ago. (That I write so much body horror is also hilarious because I cannot stand watching it. It freaks me TF out. But since I have aphantasia—I can't physically picture things—writing body horror is something I love.)

Horror is a fascinating genre. It is intended to unsettle and scare, but it more importantly reflects humanity's larger fears back at us. You can trace its faraway roots to folktales and religious explorations around death, and more recently, to the Gothic and Romantics. It particularly boomed in the 20th century, where subgenres like cosmic and slashers gained popularity.

What makes horror so interesting to me is its ability to explore thematic concerns in a visceral, unflinching way that other genres might shy away from. Fantasy has a veneer of the unreal, science fiction a faraway dream.* But horror often deals with us as humans, living our lives, being forced to confront that which we've tried to ignore.

(*Please don't come at me; it's another newsletter topic to discuss the ways in which fantasy and sci-fi can be realer than our own world. This is about common perceptions.)

Some may argue that horror doesn't have to have a deeper meaning. If you've followed me for a while, you probably can guess along the lines of my answer to that, which is to say: that's a privileged stance. To want "pure horror" (whatever that is) is to say you live in a world where you cannot imagine what it's like to feel unsafe in your body. Where you think there are no horrors you have to confront in your daily life.

The title of TWGDF comes from the trope that a person of color—often a Black man—is the first to die. (I haven't read it, but I've heard excellent things about The Black Guy Dies First, a nonfiction look at this phenomenon.) It's often someone incidental to the white protagonist and a way for the latter to take the horror at hand more seriously without having to jeopardize them emotionally.

Marginalized people have been reclaiming horror particularly in the past few decades, and that's where horror has gotten really interesting. By integrating everyday injustices we face—racism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, etc—these stories often become more than the horror element, a critical look at the way a white supremacist, patriarchal society underlies how we must move through the world.

Which brings me to writing kidlit (middle grade and young adult) horror.

Children are not uncommon in horror, but they, like marginalized folks, are often used as props. A child is more connected or vulnerable to the horror at hand. A child is able to grasp the horror faster than the adult. A child raises the stakes for the adult protagonist, who seeks to protect them (particularly if they're the child's parent).

A key difference in kidlit horror is a matter of agency*—meaning, the child is centered not just because they're closer to the horror, but because they're the one trying to solve what's happening.

(*If I haven't done a newsletter on the faults of Western notions of agency, then I need to, because I have a lot of thoughts.)

In most of the kidlit horror I've read, the horror is not the point—it's a manifestation of what the protagonist is going through, or a way for the protagonist to work through whatever their issue is. MG horror in particular is often about grief. YA horror is often about identity, acceptance, and belonging (despite belonging being more of an MG concern—"where do I fit in?" versus "who am I?").

The horror elements, then, bring those thematic elements to the forefront by having the protagonist(s) face what's happening and grapple through the consequences. For example, in The Clackity (MG), the protagonist's parents have been missing for about five years (she refuses to believe they're dead), and her guardian goes missing at the beginning of the story, leading her to confront her anxieties about abandonment and her grief about losing her past life.

In White Smoke (YA), the protagonist's mental health issues have led to violence and strain within her blended family, and she has to confront how she's become an unreliable narrator in her own life, gaslighting herself into dismissing what she experiences.

Writing horror for kids doesn't mean it can't be gruesome, but it does mean there's a social responsibility attached—a way out, a way forward, a plan. That doesn't always mean total resolution. Tiffany D. Jackson ends White Smoke and The Weight of Blood (an absolutely stunning YA Carrie retelling thinking through the effects of isolation from one's racial community, internalized and externalized white supremacy, religious abuse, and bullying) both without clear-cut answers; yet you come away from those books not necessarily thinking the protagonist is going to be okay, but that there is more to their story.

(I found it interesting that there are stories in TWGDF that don't have that glimmer—I'm still mulling that over! I'd argue that it's more important in MG horror to have more hope at the end than YA, but I am still thinking about it.)

If you're interested in writing kidlit horror, besides reading what's out there, I recommend thinking through what kind of thematic concerns you want at the forefront. What is the protagonist's baggage? What kind of horror will allow them to work through that, even if there isn't a true resolution?

Also remember the crux of what makes these age groups what they are. MG often asks "where do I belonging in my community, and what community (or communities) is that?" YA focuses on "what do I want and how do I want to be perceived/move through the world as I become autonomous?"

We are in a blessed age of speculative fiction, and horror is no exception. Go forth and write!

WIP Check: I'm doing Sleepaway edits!

Some of you know that my own MG horror debut, Sleepaway*, comes out next year. It's about an Iranian American tween who goes with her best friend to a sleepaway camp and finds a place in the woods where dreams come true... as do nightmares.

*We are actually changing the title, which I think we're announcing when we do the cover reveal! The original art they sent over was incredible. I can't wait to see the final cover. (I will internally, however, continue to call it Sleepaway.)

I've been knee-deep in edits, which are due next week. It's been so nice to return to middle grade after revisions on my adult dark academia cosmic horror-comedy. Sleepaway does take place in the classic setting of a summer camp, but it's a mushroom horror. It deals heavily with questions of belonging and acceptance, asking how we can morph into stronger versions of ourselves while not losing the softer elements that also make us strong. It follows four queer kids of color who feel isolated and alone and step into their power throughout the story.

I did a Telegram some while back on work-for-hire or intellectual property projects; this was one, where a packager came up with the concept and outline and hired me to write it. I'm amazed at how much the story has become my own since then—not just in making all the characters queer kids of color, but in other details too. While the big plot details are the same, and many of the key beats the same as well, the thematic elements have shifted to accommodate the story I wanted to tell. What was once a story of a girl trying to stand on her own without always relying on her best friend is... still that story, but it's also the story of how expectations don't always allow us to be our true selves (especially as you're trying to figure out who that is), and how isolating feeling different can be (even when you find your people), and how violence comes in seemingly innocuous forms.

I can't wait until Pina and Jo and Arish and Eddy come into the world and show marginalized kids that they will always have a place to belong, even when it doesn't feel like it.

Qilwa Corner: Am I supposed to reveal this cover yet?

I have no idea when this will be publicly announced, so I'll announce it here: we sold Spanish translation rights of The Bruising of Qilwa last year! (Spanish as in Spain, to be clear.) I am so excited for this beautiful edition to come to life. The press has been so thoughtful in how they're thinking through all the nonbinary and gender neutral terminology, and I love how they've translated the title.

I'm not sure whether I can do the full cover reveal, so I'll just show the back, because even that is absolutely fabulous.

I will tell you that the front has an absolutely terrific image of Firuz, and the artist took my feedback (to make them fat and give them Persianate clothes) with incredible grace and went above and beyond my expectations. I can't wait to show it to y'all.

Everything sucks right now, so take care of yourselves.

My giveaway offer to send you books for donating to humanitarian causes remains open. Chat with me for more details!

Links to aid Palestinians who are undergoing genocide:

• ​​​Operation Olive Branch​​​
• ​​Care for Gaza​​
• ​​​Adalah Justice Project​​
• ​​PCRF​​​
• ​​​Jewish Voice for Peace​​​
• ​​​​Autostraddle's round up of resources​​
• ​​The BDS Movement​​​
• ​​​Resistbot to contact your officials​​​

Where you can learn about violence in:

• DR Congo - M23, Cobalt​
• Darfur, Sudan - International Criminal Court, CNN, BBC (Overview); Twitter Explanation on Sudan​
• Tigray - Human Rights Watch (Ethnic Cleansing Report)

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