The problem becomes especially pronounced when the stories in question belong to marginalised communities. “You can’t define authenticity in a way that simply suits your capitalist interests.” Silver observes that queer fiction often seems to oscillate between two familiar tropes: “There’s either a very dark, traumatised version of it or a very fantasy-based version, which perhaps isn’t always a true representation of how queer people interact.” But where, he wonders, is the room for the messier, more mundane realities that make a life recognisably human?
This messy, human spot is exactly where Fruit Fly is situated. Leo is no caricature; he is layered—wicked at times, vulnerable at others, both wrong and wronged. “Leo isn’t a saint, and he isn’t simply a victim. In many ways, he’s part of his own problem, and he needs to get out of his own way, but he won’t,” says Silver. He isn’t obviously against sad queer stories but believes they need to be balanced with narratives that offer greater complexity. “It’s really important that we tell those stories as well and that people do know how difficult it is. But it’s also important to give people from different backgrounds more dimension.”
In the book, this pursuit to flip the sad queer narrative yields prose that is deliciously juicy and unabashedly entertaining. “She’s a style icon, a homeware influencer, just a total fucking mood”. Where else would you find Virginia Woolf described like this? It was this humour and exceptional pacing that made me devour the book in no time. The chapters, alternating between Mallory and Leo, are short, gripping and end at just the right juncture to make you want to flip to the next. Silver takes familiar ingredients— creative desperation, publishing-world satire, queer characters—and fuses them into a propulsive thriller that feels remarkably original.