By Claire L. Heuchan

Labrys Lit is now two years old. I have newfound sympathy for those mothers who insist on sharing their child’s age in months, because every single one is a victory. I have kept this alive. Of the 24 months our international lesbian book group has been running, every last one was filled with growth and learning. Some lessons were hard, others easy – and all worthwhile. Like a baby, Labrys Lit has ceased to exist as an extension of myself and grown into its own unique character. It’s shaped as much by the women who make up this community, the authors who share their ideas and time, as any of my contributions.

Labrys Lit has continued to evolve in ways I couldn’t have imagined. By popular demand we now have a writers’ group – A Zoom of Our Own – to support our members in penning the next generation of lesbian books. We have three film nights planned; when the book we’re reading has been adapted for screen, women are keen to share it as a group.

Women find friendship and creative encouragement in this space. One of our members, Amanda, recently published her fist novel: Miss Lister’s Guest House. Amanda’s American, but the book is set in Yorkshire and was inspired by her participation in the Gentleman Jack fandom. And through the Labrys Lit members’ Facebook group she found Yorkshire women to verify the authenticity of her dialogue. That’s a beautiful outcome embodying the very best possibilities of a book group.

Thanks to the infrastructure put in place alongside FiLiA, I hope that – if necessary – Labrys Lit could continue without me. But I have no intention of giving up facilitating this group. And big plans for continuing to promote lesbian culture in the UK, and further afield. Earlier this year, on the basis of Labrys Lit’s success, I was appointed FiLiA’s Director of Lesbian Community Engagement. This new role is an incredible opportunity to continue building on work I’m deeply passionate about.

Every so often someone will ask me: Why lesbian books? Not any of our members, who believe wholeheartedly in the value of reading lesbian stories. But straight people who are perplexed and a little amused by the idea of a distinctly lesbian literature.

In a way I can’t blame them. Publishing is foremost an industry, in which social biases and a capitalistic eye on the bottom line determine whose stories gatekeepers deem worth telling. Straight stories are assumed to be universally relatable. And lesbian stories were, until recent years, written off as niche. A mixture of social change (i.e. the legalisation of same-sex marriage across western democracies) and pioneering work by indie authors & small, independent presses have triggered a shift. The Big Four publishing houses are printing more lesbian books than ever before now it’s been proven there’s a market for these stories.

But there’s still a long way to go in terms of lesbian representation. Sapphic characters continue to be killed off at an alarming rate on screen. And on the page, white middle-class women are still massively overrepresented in the lesbian stories published. This is my biggest headache and heartache in the facilitation of Labrys Lit.

At present we have a commitment that every year we’ll read a minimum of three books by women of colour and three books by working class authors. In an ideal world, those texts would make up the majority of our reading lists. But we don’t live in an ideal world. To quote bell hooks, this is a white supremacist capitalist patriarchy. And yesterday, working to finalise our 2024 reading list, I ended up in tears over the realisation that a wonderful book by an Asian author couldn’t be one of our set texts.

Despite winning multiple prizes, despite being excellent from start to finish, this book has failed to secure a publisher outside of North America. Which means it’s difficult and costly to import. Therefore it doesn’t meet two of the core criteria for a Labrys Lit book: being easy and reasonably cheap for women to access. It’s hard to imagine a straight white male author capable of producing such extraordinary work running into a similar barrier. His agent would have sold the book internationally even before he’d won literary prizes.

And that’s the issue. That’s why this work matters. No one person can achieve systemic change alone. But through intentional acts of resistance, amplifying and supporting voices overlooked by the mainstream, we can achieve progress. Book groups do influence the ecosystem of publishing. They add to the audience of chosen authors’ work – not only the set books, but past and future works too. They assert the importance of the commonality running through the group’s reading list; in Labrys Lit’s case, lesbianism.

Why lesbian books? Because these stories matter. They entertain, transport, and teach us. They treat lesbian life with dignity, lesbian love and desire with respect.

Culture is a funny thing – it’s often presented as a monolithic experience, universally relatable to everyone belonging to a specific demographic. For example, Scottish literature. I do find familiarity on those pages – the cadence of speech, shared cultural reference points, a particular sense of humour. Yet there are real limitations. A lot of publishers behave as if Scottishness were synonymous with whiteness. And while there are notable exceptions, like Jackie Kay and Maud Sulter, women of colour are rarely visible on Scotland’s cultural landscape.

Straight people (except those who feel compelled to police the Scottishness of Black folks – and there are lots of them) can take it for granted that Scottish culture resonates with me. Conversely, the idea of a lesbian culture that transcends the bounds of nationality is a bit alien to them. It doesn’t occur to them that heterosexual culture does the same thing, because it’s the dominant culture – and therefore invisible.

Though often unrecognised by outsiders, this is the beauty of lesbian culture. It doesn’t matter what country the author is from or what creed she holds. There’s a common thread running through her experiences and mine. We share membership of a community; a way of loving and being that creates kinship.  

Lesbian culture is something we must actively choose to seek out. Few of us are immersed in it from birth. We don’t grow up with the adults around us presuming we’ll be lesbians. While many of my feminist friends have resisted treating their child’s potential heterosexuality as an inevitability, that’s not a typical upbringing in this society. Which means that we all come to lesbian books as beginners, more or less; on equal footing.

And that’s part of what makes Labrys Lit so special – we’re a group of women united by a desire to explore a heritage we’re embracing, rather than one we have simply inherited from our foremothers. There’s a keen interest in lesbian ideas, politics, family structures, and so much more. A hunger that drives us to the marrow of every text.

Lately I’ve noticed a trend of the term “book club fiction” being used to describe novels. Sometimes as a positive marketing strategy. Other times as a pejorative way of dismissing genre fiction as lesser. And I’m always bemused by the latter. The term “book club fiction” is used to denote a shallowness and simplicity, but many of the most profound conversations I’ve ever had about books came from the women of Labrys Lit. Every single month it’s a gift to spend time with them.

To join Labrys Lit, sign up here. Membership is strictly lesbian-only.

Follow us on Twitter @LabrysLit.

Browse the 2023 Labrys Lit book list on the FiLiA Bookshop.