Alecander Seiler
Writing
I write contemporary fiction centered on queerness, identity, and the fragile ways people try to understand each other. My work lives in the tension between desire and grief, intimacy and distance. I work across short fiction, playscripts, and poetry, using lyrical prose and introspective voices to capture what feels sharp, unresolved, and human.
An Extended Definition of "Man" Hybrid Poetry - Tap into Poetry (2026)
Polybaiting in Media: The Fear of Queer Possibilities Non-Fiction Article - Archer Magazine (2026)
Assorted Music Reviews Staff Writer - Imperfect Fifth (2025)
Why Is Track 1 Silent? Short Story - University of Redlands 2025 Fiction Contest Honorable Mention
Thread By Thread & "Oh, So You Sing?" Non-Fiction Articles - NeuroDrama (2025)
[Unset] History Hates Lovers Short Story - Redlands Review (2024)
PUBLICATIONS:
CURRENT PROJECTS:
Awards:
Autopsy Notes for a Life the World Denied - University of Redlands 2026 Fiction Contest Winner
Stuck Where Dead Birds Can Hit You - University of Redlands 2026 Fiction Contest Honorable Mention
I’m especially interested in:
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Queer narratives
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Hybrid and experimental forms
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Blurring fiction and poetry
Available for:
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Editing
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Collaboration
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Publication opportunities.
B.A. in Creative Writing, University of Redlands
Quotes from my Writing
“I’d rather die of flowers blooming in my lungs than I would learn to unlove the only person worth loving.”
“You start to see that the math isn’t mathing unless they’re all dating each other.”
“I wonder if silence is my inheritance.”
To the untrained eye, this was summer-scorched earth between a splintering fence and a still kiddie pool, its surface skin thick with pollen and dead gnats. But to those with vision, it was a kingdom. Casey, aged eight and a half, led with a stick and the confidence of someone who’d never paid a bill. Owen, age seven, believed in portals, ghosts, and that if you said “fart” in front of a microwave, it gave you cancer or worse…. a lecture. Together, they ruled.
I think about the notebooks shoved under my bed, pages of him pressed between the lines like dried flowers. The songs, half-finished and humming in the back of my throat, all orbiting the same thing. Him, him, always him. The way he moves, the way he talks with his hands, the way he exists in a space like he belongs there without ever realizing it.
“What if we don’t grow up?”
“Our hamster didn’t.”
"By the end of the night, it was clear this wasn’t just a concert, it was a communion of trans and queer artists and fans alike. Every set bled with care, creativity, and the kind of truth that rarely gets stage time."
“I don’t think I’ve ever been that person.”
I almost laugh.
Not because it’s funny, but because it’s so unbelievably, devastatingly wrong.
"And something in me unspools, some old ache recognizing itself for the first time not in a mirror, but by your hands, your hands."
