#MeToo and The Cosby Case

As many of you have probably have, I grew up watching reruns of The Cosby Show. Cliff Huxtable, played by Bill Cosby, was a father most anyone could love. He was kind, considerate, loving to his wife, a good father to his children. He was also, in a way, a perfect representation of what fatherhood should be: a process in which young people, shielded and protected by their parents, are allowed to grow without fear of rejection from within the home.

Unfortunately, some empires tend to fall.

When I heard about the accusations against Cosby, I thought, Surely it can’t be this Bill Cosby. It had to be someone else? Right? How could Bill Cosby, the man who played Cliff Huxtable, be accused of such crimes?

Thing was: the accusations were against the beloved Bill (Cliff Huxtable) Cosby, and as they continued to come in, the horror of the situation became very, very clear. A divide was forged, sides taken. Some favored the victims while others defended the predator. There was no way to tell who thought what of whom, and as a result of that, talking about sexual assault became very hard, especially for people like me.

Not many people may be aware of this, but I also fell prey to a predator like this once.

I’ll put a full stop right here and say that I don’t consider myself to be a victim of sexual assault—at least, not in the way that Cosby’s victims were. While I was, in fact, forced to submit to certain actions out of the need to protect my safety man, I was not raped, or drugged. However—after being triggered by an event that went on that night, I was unable to fully consent to the actions and events that occurred thereafter. I thought, This is what I need to do to protect myself. And I did.

My story is simple:

While living in Austin, Texas some three years ago, I went out with someone I considered a friend—believing, at the start of this outing, that we were simply going out to chat and eat pizza at a local restaurant. This man—whose name I can’t even recall anymore mostly because of PTSD—picked me up in his car, drove me to the restaurant, then ordered pizza and drinks for the both of us. We talked. We laughed. We had a good time. Then he pulled his phone out and showed me a video of what he claimed was an underage child, and triggered me so badly that I entered a fight or flight state.

I won’t go into details about the events that occurred thereafter. I will say that, after this moment, this individual did the best he could to isolate me from other people. We left in his car, went to a secluded place on the highway, he performed sex-acts on me that I could not willingly consent to due to my state of mind, and then took me to a pornography store that featured private rooms and did the same thing again. There was no way I could leave—at least, at the time. I was trapped by my emotions, and rather than risk being stranded in the middle of nowhere without transportation, my mentally-ill brain thought it would be best to remain with said individual. I thought, I’m overreacting. This can’t be what’s really happening.

Thing is: it was happening, and I was a victim in the center stage of it all.

While I came out of it mostly unscathed, I am still haunted by these events whenever I think about them. I was not even concerned for myself at this point, but more for the underage person whom was on his phone—and whom he’d claimed to have met with himself.

You might be wondering: why do I mention this? Because in the wake of the #MeToo movement, it became somewhat acceptable to come out and share our stories—the stories of people who fell prey to others. While there were people who decried the movement (and still decry it to this day,) it offered a voice to those of us who felt they couldn’t speak before.

In this regard, I only have one thing to say:

Justice may have been served against Cosby in that he will go to jail for his crimes, but Cosby’s victims—and victims of sexual assault in general—are never free of the acts that have been committed upon them. There is always a great divide within them that questions whether or not they should trust someone, whether they should be alone with them, whether they should be willing to become isolated with them. Experiences like those depicted in the #MeToo movement inflict wounds that, while eventually able to somewhat heal and scar, always remain. And that, unfortunately, is a truth that cannot be erased.

How Readers Can Support my Writing

If there’s one thing I’ve learned while running a Patreon account, it’s that not everyone has the ability to become a patron. While this might seem like a roadblock to some readers when it comes to this website, there are many things that fans of my writing can do to participate in my writing career and spread the word about my work, all without spending a dime!

So, you might be wondering: How can I help you?

Fortunately, I have compiled a list of things you can do!

1.  Share my Facebook posts!

If you see me posting about my work, share the post to your wall! The majority of my Facebook posts are public, so you’ll never have a problem sharing anything you wish on my wall.

2. Retweet my Twitter Tweets.

If you see me tweet about a book (this will usually be a brief tagline with hashtags (#) or something similar,) give it a retweet!

3. Review my work on Amazon and Goodreads.

Reviews help writers by letting other readers know what you think of the author’s work. A review (be it good or bad, positive or negative, glowing or not) can influence a purchase, which means extra money in a writer’s pocket.

4. Share my mailing list.

Every so often, I send out information about deals, promotions, or free books (my own and others!) Sharing these on your various social networks (Twitter, Facebook, Google+, etc.) can help immensely.

5. Request my books at libraries!

Some of my novels are available in paperback format (and as such have ISBNs associated with them.) Because of that, they should be able to be requested by libraries. I’m always willing to provide librarians my work at printing prices, so be aware of that!

6. Recommend my work to friends and family.

Word-of-mouth is a powerful tool. If you’ve read one of my books (or even purchased a paperback or eBook,) recommend my work to a friend or family member (and if possible, lend them the book!) Free reads can sometimes be the best!

Author’s Note: This list will be updated as I think of more free options to help readers promote my writing. In the meantime, if you have any suggestions, feel free to leave them in the comments section of this post!

Why Are You Anxious?

I must admit that I’ve written this blog post before. In its previous incarnation, I was plagued with anxiety—trapped, you could say, in a cycle in which I believed that something bad was going to happen as a result of events that occurred previously. It made for sloppy writing; and, in my opinion, was not as coherent as I wanted to be.

So, with that being said, you might be wondering:

What is this blog post (and was the old one) about?

It was, and is, about anxiety, and the way that I don’t deal with it well.

You might also be wondering:

Why don’t you deal with anxiety well? Isn’t it a normal feeling?

Yes. Feeling anxious about something is a normal feeling. It’s a biological construct that has allowed us to survive over countless generations as our brains evolved. Unfortunately, evolution is a slow creature, and has not yet caught up with the reality of the modern-day world. Most people don’t deal with the fears we used to hundreds of years ago—mainly: the fear of the night, of the monster, of early death. Now we have fears such as taxes and governments and the ability to survive in a society that is oftentimes not as sympathetic as we like it to be.

You might also be wondering why I mentioned evolution. In this case, it’s meant to display the downfalls our brains can impose upon is.

I’ve written about why I have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in the past. What you might also not know that I also suffer from Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder, both of which contribute to my already-erratic thought processes caused by distressing events from my childhood.

When I originally wrote this post, I was suffering from anxiety related to my day job. Though I can’t go into detail about it due to confidentiality agreements, I can say that the situation I originally wrote about hasn’t presented itself as a larger problems. At the time, however, the fear that it would affected me immensely.


I will use the original metaphor from my old post to demonstrate, as others who have read my original post stated that they identified with it.

Imagine you’re throwing pebbles into a lake. Normally, those pebbles would create minuscule splashes upon contact with water, then ripples that would extend as far as their force of impact would dictate. However—what would happen if you threw a say, quarter-sized pebble into a lake, and it created an impact that you would expect from something much larger (in this case, we’ll say a fist-sized rock?) You would be shocked, naturally; and as you watched the ripples from this new impact extend, you would wonder: why did this happen? Why is it doing this? And where did this sort of reaction come from?

With this metaphor in mind: many people with mental health disorders experience magnified levels of stress. One stressor (pebble) is different from another (pebble,) and the impacts they cause (ripples) depends widely on the person and their ability to handle stress (the undulating waves.)

Most people can brush off simple stressors as if they are nothing. Others, like myself, feel the residual energies from the impact as the aforementioned waves crash against the shores of our consciousness. One ripple can be doubt, another frustration, another paranoia and then panic. In my case, my stressors are amplified by conditioning relating to past events. In this way, my brain constantly goes from zero to one-hundred on the panic scale. In that regard, it postulates: if I’m not freaking out about a stressful situation, surely it isn’t stressful. Right?

That’s wrong, and I’ve fought for years to try and recondition my brain to defeat this form of hell. Fortunately for me, I have recovered some, in a way. But like all brain damage, there are scars. And if we know anything about scars, it’s that wounds run deep, and once there, never truly leave.

Why I have PTSD

While speaking with my therapist yesterday morning, I confided in her that, out of all of the traumatic events I experienced throughout my childhood, I believe one of them did the most damage. Of course, there’s always an accumulative affect when it comes to trauma—a stacking effect that, once it reaches its peak, eventually causes the overall structure to come crumbling down. Most of these events I refuse to speak about in an open forum, as I feel they’ll contribute to nothing but heartbreak and conflict. I will, however, detail the one event that I feel affected me the most adversely.

So, without further ado, I present to you:

Why I have PTSD.

I grew up in a small town in the middle of Southeastern Idaho, where any difference could either ostracize or make you an easy target. Be it your religion (or lack thereof,) your weight, your appearance, your disabilities (as minor as they may be,) anything could be used against you to make you feel as though you were small. The kids were mean, as some would be fit to say, and once settled upon you like a pack of angry wolves, they wouldn’t often let you get away.

I’ll forego the meatier details of the bullying I experienced throughout my early childhood for the sake of brevity. What I will say, however, was that I was picked on mercilessly—be it for my weight, the fact that I wasn’t Mormon, the fact that I had acne, glasses, an odd group of friends and, at the time, was struggling to figure out whether or not I was gay. I went through this from about the second grade (when I was seven) all the way up until I was eventually driven out of school when I was fifteen.

Yes. I said driven.

The event that would ultimately change my life for the worst began on an early evening in April—when, while walking outside to accompany my father and younger brother to the local fast food establishment to get ice cream cones, I was confronted by the sight of a police cruiser in our driveway. Lights on, officers standing, we approached with confusion only for one of them to ask, “Is Kody Boye here?”

“I’m here,” I replied.

“Is something wrong?” my father then asked.

“We’re here to investigate reports that you posted a death threat against [REDCACTED] High School on MySpace.”

I froze. LITERALLY froze. My heart seemed to stop beating, the blood in my veins chilled. I could do nothing more than stare.

The officer then said the one thing I never wanted to hear:

“We have proof that you posted a death threat against [REDACTED] High School on MySpace.”

I couldn’t believe it—could not, absolutely, one-hundred-percent believe it. I’d never done any such thing—would never in my life ever conceive of threatening someone in such a way—but there they were, two officers, standing there, declaring something I could not even imagine.

That was when they continued by saying, “Let’s go inside.”

My mother—who had been drawn by the attention from flashing lights outside in the descending darkness—could only watch and stare as my father, my little brother, and myself led the two police officers up to our front porch, then nod as they explained the situation and let themselves inside. At the time, we were too shellshocked to ask about a warrant, too scared to refuse access when we could’ve been able to, too intimidated to even begin to think to call a lawyer. The situation, as grim as it happened to be, skewed all sense of thought. So we let them in.

And thus the interrogation began.

Most of those first two hours are a blur to me. I remember simply sitting on the living room couch while the two officers drilled me on the aspects of my high school life. Having already accessed my MySpace account, they were privy to all sorts of information—including whom I talked to online, whom I interacted with, what groups I had been invited to. They kept claiming that they had proof that I had posted this death threat even though they would not produce it, and though I tried to access my computer at the time, it was slow as hell (and in hindsight, likely infected with a virus to make it that slow.) Thus: there was no way to produce my MySpace page for them to comb through.

At one point, an officer pulled me aside—away from the eyes of my parents—and said, “Just admit it. It’ll make things easier.”

“But I didn’t do it,” I replied.

That was when it only got worse.

No less than ten minutes later, an agent from the FBI walked through the door.

Thus began the next two hours of torture.

I was, at another point during the interrogation, pulled away from my parents by the FBI agent and asked whether or not I had anything I would like to tell him. Completely isolated from my parents, I could do little more than stammer out that there was nothing I could tell him, no leads I could give. He confided in me that this report had come from a school bus filled with kids on the way back from an after-hours field trip, and that was the moment I immediately knew that this was a practical joke—an anonymous ‘tip’ from someone who wished to destroy my life. Shortly thereafter, we returned to where my parents and the other police officers were and my interrogation continued. They worked to dismantle my family computer, seized the jump drive which held all of my life’s writing, then departed the home.

By the time it was all over, four hours had passed from the police officers’ initial arrival to the time they and the FBI agent had left.

Thus began their investigation into the matter, and the hell of not knowing what they might find that would come soon after.

During this time, which stretched over the course of two weeks, I was subjected to extreme anxiety—first because I irrationally feared that they would somehow find something to show that I had done it (even though I hadn’t,) then because I feared they would lose everything I had ever written. At one point they called my mother and tried to claim that one of the stories I’d written—which featured a CARRIE-esque destruction of a fictional high school—was proof enough that I hated school and had an agenda against the local high school. My mother, in response, claimed that it was simply a story and nothing more, and as such left it at that.

I wasn’t allowed to go back to school during this time—and was encouraged not to do so by the principal himself, whose thinking was that: if someone was willing to go this far to pull a prank, who was to say that they wouldn’t resort to physical violence?

I was still allowed to attend driver’s education, however (which was sponsored by the high school.) It was here I learned, from a fellow classmate, that a ‘rumor about me posting a death threat to the entire school’ was floating around campus—which, according to the officers who interrogated me, was ‘not supposed to be happening.’ A friend was even threatened to be charged with ‘impeding a police investigation’ when she tried to get to the bottom of the rumor to try and find out who spread it.

After those two horrible weeks were over—and after I was cleared of any wrongdoing—I finished out the last of my coursework for the year at home. Teachers offered condolences over the act that had occurred, offering me support in folded and stapled messages in schoolwork they sent home or by giving me passing grades simply for my prior attendance, and life continued on as it normally would—but not for me.


The damage had already been done, the act already perpetrated, the person whom reported the case never found. I was told—in no uncertain details—that they could ‘probably, possibly’ find the person who anonymously reported the call, but by that point was so emotionally and mentally exhausted by the ordeal that I just wanted it all over.

So it ended—then and there, without resolution.

Come time the next school year came around, I tried to attend a high school the next city over. As I mentioned, however, the damage had already been done. I lasted all of three days before extreme paranoia that a similar event would happen eventually caused me to call home, crying my eyes out and faking sick, and never go back again.

I was homeschooled until sixteen, then dropped out when I couldn’t take the back and forth struggle of online schooling when teachers would not respond to queries and my grades began to fail. It would be two years—when, finally away from that area and down in Texas—that I would apply to take and then receive my GED.

It’s been around ten years to the date since this occurred, and I still sometimes have nightmares over what occurred. The fact that I never allowed it to be resolved (or attempt to be resolved) still bothers me at times, as that person should have been punished for doing what they did to me, but there’s little I can do about it now.

So… there you have it.

Though many events throughout my childhood (some spoken of previously, others not) contributed to my multiple mental illnesses, this was likely, and probably undoubtedly, the one that affected me the most.

The Horror of 2015

2015 was, in a nutshell, horrible.

After being diagnosed with HIV only a few months prior, I began the year as a bundle of nerves and continued to progress with them in the following months. Having lost my confidence in writing, I ambled through my daily routine without purpose and tried to work on rationalizing my feelings around my diagnosis. During this time, I was subjected to multiple meetings with government employees, social workers, infectious disease specialists and advocates within HIV/AIDs community in Austin — which not only triggered my PTSD, but left me overwhelmed and emotionally drained.

April began another chapter of my life. On the 7th I turned 23. The day after, I started antiretroviral therapy. I vowed, on that day, that I was going to get myself back on track and continue writing. I restarted, and eventually completed, my fantasy novella THE DRAKE OF EHKNAC. The mere act of writing the final sentence was enough to restore my confidence in myself as a writer.

But alas, the bad times I’d just come out of in 2014 were about to return. In late May, it became obvious that my roommates and I could no longer continue to live in the house in Austin — the home I’d spent the first five years of my adult life in. Finances had plummeted on every side. At one point it didn’t even seem like we would be able to make the final month’s rent. Thanks to the city of Austin and their AIDs services, however, we managed to survive our final month.

After a brief and utterly-terrifying stint that occurred in a hotel (during which time I had planned on staying to wait for my disability hearing before rejoining my roommates,) I relocated to stay with them and their family in Fort Worth. It took five trips between there and Austin in order to move what few belongings we could not store.

In September, my roommates drove me to Austin for my disability hearing (during which I massively disassociated, nearly succumbed to a massive panic attack, and became incoherent at least twice.) I did not receive a decision that day and still have not.

Which segues into the next part: in which, after my anxiety built to its breaking point, I admitted myself into a psychiatric hospital. While I only remained for six hours, I was diagnosed with adjustment order (caused by the move and the anxiety surrounding it.) I was then referred to, and participated in, a partial hospitalization program for two weeks. It was during this program that I began to come to terms with something I’d blocked out during my childhood. While it’s yet to completely surface, and though I am not willing to discuss it publicly as of now, its implications are astounding — and, in some ways, explain some of my past behaviors. I was also rediagnosed with Bipolar 1 (the more dangerous of the 2) and will start their three-hour program this next week. I have been referred to a therapist specializing in cognitive therapy and to address the self-harm issues that have recently begun as a result of my stress.

I’m still waiting on my disability decision. Last I heard, the judge was editing the letter that outlines her decision. It has, undoubtedly, been the focal point of my mental illness.
Much of 2015 was spent in misery, and though I managed to release three new projects during the latter part of it, the suffering I endured was abominable, and something I would never wish on anyone. I am hoping, in this new year, that my life will even out — and that, as a result, my anxiety will drop.

As hard as it was to experience these things, it was at least cathartic to write about them. I can only hope that this year is better.

On This Day Last Year


On this day last year — between 4 and 5:30 PM — I submitted to, and then received, two preliminary-positive HIV test results. Though it would be days before I would undergo bloodwork to determine the specifics of my disease, it took mere moments to realize that my life would be changed forever.

My first thoughts were of the people I’d recently been in contact with — of the six individuals with whom I’d physically engaged with throughout the entire year.. Who? What? When? Where? Why? Doing what? How? Could it have been prevented? Was it something I had done? Was it something they did? Was it something that could have been prevented? Or was it, by mere happenstance, simply meant to happen? These thoughts, and more, went through my head–when, in but one drop of blood, my future. and potentially the future of several others, was revealed.

I went through the steps to contact each individual. Some were shocked. Others were sympathetic. One was downright volatile. My meeting with the Disease Intervention Specialist from the Health and Human Services Department was invasive, embarrassing, humiliating and completely and utterly depressing. It’d be months before I would be admitted to treatment. Hours of paperwork would need to be filled out. And, most horribly, was the aspect that I had exposed several people to a violent, incurable, and incredibly-stigmatizing disease.

A year to the day, my life is, in a word: normal (or as normal as it could be.) I get up, grab my phone, check Facebook, drink a soda, eat breakfast, shower, and go about my day normally. I suffer chronic pain as a result of the infection (which I will deal with for the rest of my life,) and I navigate hurdles related to my serostatus (mainly dating,) but beyond that, my life has changed very little.

I, in layman’s terms, survived.

My life did not end when I contracted the Human-immunodeficiency Virus. My future did not crumble around me. My aspirations did not dwindle, nor did friendships fade away. None of the people I exposed became positive as a result. If anything, I learned that the majority of people are undoubtedly good — and, if asked, are more than willing to help.

I may have a slightly shorter lifespan than most people (though not by much.) I will always deal with random bouts of chronic pain. I will be at a higher risk for certain illnesses due to my compromised immune system. I’ll suffer stigma due to the lack of education surrounding the disease. I’ll also face discrimination from potential partners. But regardless of those things, I am healthy. My viral load is undetectable. My T-Cell counts are incredibly high. My spirits, though sometimes daunted, are generally in good standings.

A year ago — while lying in bed, crying at the thought that my world was going to end — I never thought I’d be able to say this:

I’m HIV-Positive

I’m happy.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Trigger Warnings” are for Trauma Victims, not Copouts

According to Dr. John M. Grohol of PsychCentral.com, a trigger is, “something that sets off a memory tape or flashback transporting the person back to the event of her or his original trauma.” A trigger is caused by one of the five senses — including sight, sound and smell — and can be activated by something as simple as a cough, an unexpected sound, or an image displayed in the media.

In other words, a ‘trigger’ is a psychological response to trauma.

As a victim of PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) and GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder,) I am prone to and suffer from anxiety attacks due to events I’ve experienced in my past. As a result, I am triggered by certain things — including, but not limited to: authority figures (such as police,) loud noises, and conflict that involves yelling or physical altercations. 

The media has been populated with stories about students on college campuses who claim they cannot participate in classes because the subject matter is ‘triggering’ to them. A simple search of college campus trigger on Google yields dozens of articles on the subject. Most of the headlines include words such as ‘coddling’ or question whether or not ‘they [trigger warnings] can be stopped.’ Trigger warnings, in other words, are no longer being seen as a preventative actions for the mentally ill and are instead being viewed as annoyances.

Someone on Facebook once said the content in a book was ‘triggering.’ I asked them if they suffered from PTSD or had experienced any sort of psychological trauma. When they replied no, I inquired why they had used the word ‘triggering.’ They replied, I just don’t want to deal with it.

The trigger warning — which was initially designed to alert those who’d survived severe psychological trauma of specific content — has now become a way to disregard something when you don’t want to deal with it.

I understand that certain subject matter is difficult to discuss. Rape is horrible. Murder is abominable. Abuse against animals or children is downright evil. But unless you’ve actually experienced those things — and as a result, experience intense, uncontrollable emotional and physical reactions at the thought or even mention of it — you can’t claim to be ‘triggered’ by them. By saying ‘you’re triggered’ by something when, in fact, you have experienced no trauma at all, you are not only minimizing and diminishing the experiences of those who have survived such events, but giving the mentally ill a bad name.

I used to be able to say if I was triggered by something without bringing about immediate speculation (because 95% of the time, people would ask why I was triggered by it and what it did to me.) Now, people automatically assume I just don’t want to deal with it (and am therefor ‘copping out’ of serious discussion matter.)

It’s sad that, in this day and age, the mentally ill are ridiculed when they express that something is upsetting to them. It’s bad enough to have gone through such traumatic events. It’s even worse when people discount your experiences.

Why Representation is Important — an Article by Kody Boye for the 2015 Zombie Crawl

Hello everyone!

For those of you who know me—welcome! For those of you who don’t: My name is Kody Boye. I’m the author of a zombie novel called Sunrise, which features a young gay man and centers around not only his struggle to survive the zombie apocalypse, but also the reality of a new and unfriendly world. The Band of Dystopian Author’s annual Zombie Crawl is an awesome event that I unfortunately didn’t get to take part in last year, but now that I am, I’m excited to participate! You can find out more about my novel (and enter a giveaway to win a few eBook copies) at the end of this article.

So, without further ado, here is

Why Representation is Important

I initially struggled to decide on what I wanted to write for this article. At first I wanted to discuss LGBT characters in zombie films, but upon asking my audience for recommendations and only receiving only four responses, I began to think about how little representation there are for them in the horror genre. We’re used to seeing the common stereotypes of effeminate gay men and butch “woman who wants to be a man” lesbians. Transgender characters, or even those whose gender identity is slightly within the shades of grey, are treated even worse. This is an incredibly frightening realization — because growing up, we’re taught that diversity is important, and that we should attempt to understand people who are not like ourselves. It’s a fundamental aspect of the human experience to know that we are different from one another, whether it’s through skin color, religion, sexuality or even culture.

As of recently, I’ve begun to run into an argument that only serves to discount diversity in fiction. Usually it is presented in the form of a statement such as, ‘it isn’t necessary for characters to be defined by race or sexuality.’ A defense is then offered through the addendum ‘ because we’re all human.’ Some people don’t claim to see skin color or sexuality. Others say it isn’t important to a character’s development or story. A few even say that they don’t want to see it at all. While we can all agree that the later statement is born of ignorance, I’d like to address the former by explaining why it’s important that we not only understand what other people go through, but that we allow those stories to be presented without fear of censorship.

I grew up in a predominantly-white, Mormon town in Southeastern Idaho, experiencing not only homophobia, but witnessing the racism projected at the small Hispanic population that was present. I didn’t see a person of black or Asian descent until I was fourteen, and it wasn’t until the age of sixteen that I began to even accept the gay community and its various subcultures. Because of this sheltered lifestyle, you would think that I’d have opened my mind enough to where I could easily see through the ‘personal lens’ of my own existence, especially after I moved to Austin at the age of eighteen.
Not too long ago, however, I realized how ignorant I was to other people’s experience. This was revealed when, while reading a book, I completely ignored the description of a black character. I had, unconsciously, assumed he was white.

While this isn’t surprising (considering my background and the representation seen throughout the media in the later parts of the 90s and throughout the early 2000s,) I was completely mortified that I—a minority, if only by my sexuality—had unintentionally disregarded another person’s experience. It wasn’t out of malice, but ignorance.
This single event—captured within a span of five minutes—was enough to change my entire outlook on what many people consider unimportant in entertaining media. The ‘I don’t see color’ declaration was completely disregarded when the default narrative of straight and white is automatically inserted into a piece of fiction, which is exactly what I did when reading that book.

I could go into immense detail about how I experience the world differently from other straight men—including, but not limited to: the way I am perceived, the assumption of ‘dominant or submissive roles’ based on my personality, or that I like or dislike certain things based solely on the fact that I am gay. But since this article isn’t about me, and is instead about acknowledging the fact that people of different backgrounds (whether they be racial, sexual, religious or cultural) have different experiences, I will leave you with one final reminder:

I ignored the declaration of a black man’s skin color because I automatically assumed he was white.

If that isn’t enough to make you think, I don’t know what is.


My novel Sunrise is currently available for purchase and loan through the Kindle Unlimited Reading Library on Amazon.com. If you’d like to purchase a copy (or read a sample,) you can do so by clicking here.

If you’d like to win one of 10 eBook copies of Sunrise (and it’s tie-in novel when it’s released) for free, you can do so by entering and performing the various Rafflecopter tasks below:

a Rafflecopter giveaway

z crawl schedule

Zombie Crawl 2 – Blog Party

October 22 – 31, 2015

by Band of Dystopian Authors & Fans

How it works: Each day, the scheduled authors and bloggers will post awesome zombie-tastic content for your enjoyment along with a giveaway on their site/blog/page. You can hop around to all of the participating sites and enter as many giveaways as you like! If you would like to be emailed links to the new posts each day, join this Zombie Crawl Daily Digest list which will ensure you don’t miss a post (or join the party on Facebook to get notifications). Make sure to leave comments and interact with the participating sites. Thanks for joining the party!

The Schedule:

OCTOBER 22 – Thursday

Band of Dystopian Authors & Fans (Party & Grand Prize Host)

Jo Michaels Blog (author)

Rissa Blakeley (author)

OCTOBER 23 – Friday

Claire C. Riley (author)

2 Girls & A Book (blog)

Emily Shore (author)

OCTOBER 24 – Saturday

Kathy Dinisi (author)

Us Girls & A Book (blog)

The Voluptuous Book Diva (blog 18+)

OCTOBER 25 – Sunday

Casey L. Bond (author)

THE KATY blog (blog)

OCTOBER 26 – Monday

Saul Tanpepper (author)

Warren Fielding (author)

The Leighgendarium (blog)

OCTOBER 27 – Tuesday

Kody Boye (author)

Rhiannon Frater (author)

ER Arroyo (author)

OCTOBER 28 – Wednesday

Allen Gamboa (author)

Armand Rosamilia (author)

Ethan @ One Guy’s Guide to Good Reads (blog)

OCTOBER 29 – Thursday

Kate L. Mary (author)

aftershockzombieseries (author)

Eli Constant (author)

OCTOBER 30 – Friday

Aria Michaels (author)

Brian Parker (author)

Mama Reads Hazel Sleeps (blog)

OCTOBER 31 – Saturday

Cindy Carroll (author)

M. R. Pritchard (author)

Toni L.H. Boughton (author)

Digital Dirty Girl (blog)

To learn more about Band of Dystopian and/or to enter our Grand Prize Giveaway, visit BandofDystopian.com and don’t forget to join the group on Facebook!

An open letter to Principal BJ Buchmann of

After learning of and reading about the gay valedictorian whose graduation speech was silenced by school administrators, I felt compelled to reach out to Mr. BJ Buchmann with my own story – not only to tell him of the struggles I experienced throughout high school, but to also remind him that stripping someone of their narrative and ability to come out is damaging beyond compare. You can read the letter I sent to the school (and the principal) below:

Mr. Buchmann,

It is no surprise that your name – along with your actions against Twin Peaks Charter Academy high school student Evan Young – has been greatly publicized over the past few days. While I could easily join the flock of those internet commentators who have condemned your actions as outrageous and, some may say, homophobic, I wanted to reach out to you and tell you a story instead.

Growing up in Southeastern Idaho in the early 2000s, I was subjected to near-constant discrimination due to my sexual orientation through the media, by society, and by my peers and those adults around me. Though it would take me years to become fully comfortable with myself as a person, I suffered constant harassment and bullying through my one and only year of high school – a time which should have allowed me to comfortably transition into young adulthood without fear of violence. None of my family knew I was gay, nor did any of my friends. The idea of anyone finding out was, at the time, the most horrifying thing I could possibly imagine (and it was not unwarranted.) Stories such as Matthew Shepard’s – the young man who, in October 1998, was bound and left for dead in a Wyoming snowstorm – were haunting artifacts of a past that could easily become my future.

I don’t need to mention the countless individuals who have died for their sexual orientation or gender identity in the past year, or even in the past few months. Childhood (especially young adulthood) is a time when we should nurture our children and encourage positive reinforcement in their development. For you to have declared Evan Young’s experience as an ‘agenda’ that he was attempting to ‘push upon others’ speaks of an inherent ignorance that you as an educator should not have. Your actions not only dissembled a young man’s confidence at a time in which he could close one chapter of his life, but also stripped him of his God-given right of choice (and, in an alternate circumstance with a potentially less-fortunate outcome, could very well have endangered his life.)

As a young gay man who suffered through the education system believing that I had few, if any allies, I would encourage you to reach out to Mr. Young and attempt to make right the wrongs you have committed against him. Not only would this serve to reinforce your character, but would also reflect highly on the values of your school – which, I am sure, you do not wish to endanger in any sense.

Thank you,

– Kody Boye

The Serial Killer Phase

I think most writers (especially those of horror) go through at least one major phase where they become complete and utterly fascinated by serial killers. Where it stems from can be debated. For some, we see something on TV. This usually occurs when we’re young (the True Crime network or Cold Case Files.) We’re horrified, fascinated, intrigued, disturbed. We have nightmares, doubts. We think, How is something like that possible? How can someone commit such violent acts? Normally the killer’s motives don’t matter. How gruesome their crimes or the psychology behind them aren’t necessarily considered. We, at such a young age, can only think: Why?

Eventually, evolution takes place. Old habits die hard. We almost always return to our roots. Though I grew up on True Crime TV and Cold Case Files, it wasn’t until after I watched the made-for-TV miniseries The Deliberate Stranger (which dramatizes in chilling detail the murders committed by Ted Bundy) that this surge of macabre fascination returned.

Some joke that ‘every writer has their serial killer.’

Mine was (and, up to this writing, still is) Jeffrey Dahmer.

I was inspired to write this post after concluding a condensed hour-and-a-half viewing of Dahmer’s trial. This montage — which contains the actual recording — isn’t glamorized, as many documentaries are privy toward. It’s edited, sure — mostly for length, as the trial went on for weeks — but goes into detail about the psychology behind Dahmer’s actions and history. Testimony by his victims (and I say ‘victims’ to include those he did not kill) is also included. This was perhaps the most disturbing information I’ve ever encountered upon researching Jeffrey Dahmer. His last victim (who thankfully escaped without severe injury) described in chilling detail the paradox of the man, the machine, and monster that was Jeffrey Dahmer — and how, like flashes in the dark, he would appear as one thing, then another.

I decided to forego including pictures in this post because of the nature surrounding Dahmer’s crimes. Primarily a necrophiliac, he is confirmed to have participated in sexual acts and to have consumed pieces of his victims. This information is documented — not only in text, but photograph. One of the most disturbing things I’ve ever seen was a crime scene photo taken in Dahmer’s home the night he was arrested. This was found via a Google Image search under the man’s name. I do not, under any circumstance, recommend you search for it. Reading about it is bad enough, but actually seeing the photograph is haunting beyond comprehension. It was something I could never be prepared for, and something I will ever be able to remove from my mind.

This segues into my continued fascination. Morbid as it may be, my interest in Dahmer increased after I became aware of his psychiatric diagnoses. He was, by grand jury, considered of sound mind, but psychiatrists were in full agreement that he had much wrong with him — including not only sexual paraphilias and borderline personality disorder, but also GAD.

Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

A condition I myself am diagnosed with and am in medical treatment for.

His ghost (and legacy) was only brought closer to home after discovering this fact. Dahmer’s struggle with his sexuality and then resounding coming-of-age is not unlike what a lot of young gay men experience, and is, in part, easy to relate to. I was fortunate enough to have been born on the cusp of the new millennium. But Dahmer? He was a child of the 60s. To see what he must have seen — to experience what he must have experienced — as the monster inside was festering? That is something too monstrous to imagine. Somehow, though, I am always drawn back to this — to this paradox of a person: of man, machine and monster.

I am always left to wonder: Why? When? How? Was illness his trumping demon? Did society play a role? Could something — anything have been done to prevent the seventeen deaths and the countless terror this man has wrought? Was it the result of genetics? A freak accident of the psyche? Something he saw? The psychology here is stupendous. It is the fodder of nightmares and the stuff writers can only dream of orchestrating.  In the end, this is what fascinates me the most — and what continues to draw me back to his story even when I am inclined to pull away.