Let me start with the part that should be said plainly: I was interviewed by Lindsey Danis for this book, and I think disclosing that is important. It matters ethically as well as personally. I had a terrific time talking with her. The conversation was easy, smart, lively, and full of the kind of back-and-forth that happens when two people actually care about the subject in front of them. We did not just skim the surface. We got into the real stuff: what queer travel can feel like, what it can demand from us, what it can give back, and why too many travel books still act as if LGBTQ+ people either do not exist or only exist in a handful of rainbow-drenched zip codes with overpriced cocktails and suspiciously tiny hotel towels.

That interview left me excited about this book long before it’s slated to hit shelves.

And honestly, a book like Out on the Road feels extremely overdue.

Queer people travel for all the same reasons everybody else does. We travel for joy, escape, work, romance, family, grief, discovery, rest, chaos, reinvention, and the occasional deeply questionable decision that starts with the words, “It will be fun.” We travel to get away from people, to see people, to become new people, or to remember who we were before life got loud. Some of us love an itinerary with color-coded tabs. Some of us pack ten minutes before the rideshare shows up. Some of us treat travel like a spiritual practice. Some of us treat it like a dare. Most of us, at one point or another, have stood in an airport security line wondering how humanity managed to build a system this expensive and this strange.

So yes, queer people travel. A lot. That is not new.

What has been missing is a book that treats queer travel as a full, serious, layered experience rather than a niche side note or a glossy marketing category. That is what makes Lindsey Danis’s project feel so necessary. This is not just a book saying, “Here are a few gay-friendly places, have fun, do not forget sunscreen.” It sounds like a book that actually respects queer travelers enough to speak to the realities of moving through the world in our own bodies, with our own histories, with our own calculations running quietly in the background.

That kind of respect is rare.

Too much travel writing aimed at LGBTQ+ readers has been painfully thin. It tends to fall into one of two camps. One camp ignores us almost entirely, as if every traveler is straight, cisgender, unbothered, and moving through the world without a second thought. The other camp gives us a polished little box: go here, stay here, spend money here, smile here, and please do not ask what happens outside the safe marketing perimeter. It is rainbow capitalism with a room key.

That gets old fast.

Queer travel is bigger than a neat list of approved neighborhoods. It is bigger than Pride events, bigger than nightlife, bigger than branded inclusion. For some people, queer travel means taking a road trip with a partner and deciding where it feels safe to stop. For others, it means figuring out whether a destination will respect your name, your gender, your relationship, or your right to exist without becoming a conversation piece for a stranger behind a hotel desk. For others, it means taking that first trip alone after years of feeling watched, boxed in, or told to stay close to home. For many, it means asking questions that a lot of travel books never touch: Will I be safe here? Will I be welcome here? What should I know before I go? How do I plan well without scaring myself out of living?

Those are real questions. Adult questions. Necessary questions.

That is why Out on the Road stands out to me. From the description, and from the kind of conversation Lindsey and I had, this book is trying to do something useful. It is trying to offer a framework, not fluff. It is trying to help queer travelers prepare, think, advocate for themselves, widen their comfort zones, find community, and move through travel with more confidence. That is a lot more valuable than another breathless listicle telling us where to find the best rooftop bar and a rainbow crosswalk.

I am especially drawn to the fact that the book weaves together personal experience, data, and interviews. That is the right mix for a subject like this. Personal stories matter. Data matters. Community voices matter. Put together well, those pieces create something richer than a travel guide. They create trust. They create context. They create a sense that the reader is being spoken to honestly rather than sold to.

And trust matters a great deal in this discussion!

Travel can be beautiful, liberating, hilarious, and a little ridiculous. It can give you those rare moments where you look around and think, “I cannot believe I made it here.” It can give you stories you laugh about for years. It can give you perspective, delight, and a renewed sense of self. It can give you bad coffee in three countries, sore feet in six cities, and the deeply humbling experience of trying to look composed after dragging an overstuffed suitcase up a staircase that clearly predates modern human rights standards. Travel can be magic, sure. It can even be character-building, which is rude but sometimes true.

Yet queer travel often comes with an extra mental checklist. That does not mean every trip is grim. Far from it. It means many queer travelers know how to scan a space a little faster, read a tone a little closer, and think two or three steps ahead. A straight couple may worry about flight delays and weather. A queer couple may worry about those things and whether holding hands in the wrong place changes the emotional temperature of a room. A cis traveler may not think much about identification documents. A trans traveler may have to think about them a great deal. A solo queer traveler may be looking for adventure and freedom, but still be doing quiet calculations in the background about safety, community, presentation, and backup plans.

That does not make queer travel tragic. It makes it real.

A strong book on this subject cannot ignore that reality. It cannot coat everything in fake positivity and call it empowerment. It has to tell the truth without making fear the center of the story. From what I can see, Lindsey Danis understands that balance. That is one of the most promising things about this book.

I am glad, too, that the book centers female and nonbinary points of view. That choice gives the project greater depth and honesty. Too much queer coverage defaults to a narrow perspective and then quietly presents it as universal. A book that makes room for voices that have often been sidelined is doing good work from the start. It tells readers this is not a one-note story. It tells them that queer travel has many textures, many concerns, many pleasures, many risks, and many ways of finding home far from home.

That reflects the real world far better than a generic “love is love on vacation” slogan ever could.

My own experience talking with Lindsey Danis made that clear. What struck me was not just that she was interviewing people. Plenty of writers interview people. What struck me was the quality of the attention. She was curious in a real way. The conversation did not feel performative. It did not feel like she was collecting decorative quotes to hang on a prewritten argument. It felt like she wanted to hear how queer people actually move through travel, what we notice, what we carry, what we hope for, and what gets left out of the usual conversation. That kind of listening shapes a better book. You can feel when a project has been built with care rather than assembled from buzzwords and wishful branding.

That is one reason I feel good about supporting this book publicly.

The other reason is simple: queer readers deserve it.

We deserve books that do more than flatter us. We deserve books that equip us. We deserve books that admit the world can be hostile in one paragraph and still remind us in the next that we have every right to explore it. We deserve books that speak to our caution without shrinking our horizons. We deserve books that tell us we are not foolish for wanting adventure and not paranoid for planning carefully. We deserve books that understand there is a difference between fear and discernment.

That is a distinction Out on the Road seems prepared to honor.

And let us be honest, discernment is a travel skill for everyone. Sometimes it is political. Sometimes it is personal. Sometimes it is knowing how local laws or culture may affect your trip. Sometimes it is knowing that “rustic charm” on a booking site usually means there will be one outlet, no elevator, and a mattress with the emotional support of a graham cracker. A good traveler learns to read details. Queer travelers have often had to become especially good at that.

So the idea of a queer travel book that helps readers build confidence, assess risk, and become more self-reliant feels not just useful, but affirming in the best sense of that word. Not affirming in the shallow, corporate sense. Affirming in the sense of saying: your questions are valid, your concerns are real, your desire to see more of the world is legitimate, and you do not have to choose between courage and common sense.

That is a message worth putting in people’s hands.

There is another reason this book feels timely. Public life has become more hostile for many LGBTQ+ people across the United States and beyond. Anti-LGBTQ+ laws, anti-trans policies, censorship efforts, public harassment, and political scapegoating have made many people more cautious about where they go and how they move. In that climate, a book like Out on the Road is not just a lifestyle title. It is a practical and emotional resource. It says the road is still yours, even when the map feels tense. It says preparation is not a weakness. It says queer life does not have to be limited to a few supposedly safe corners of the world.

That is powerful.

I hope readers pick this book up for that reason. I hope they pick it up before a first solo trip, before a long-awaited getaway, before a cross-country move, before a reunion, before a road trip, before a passport renewal, before a leap into the unfamiliar. I hope they pick it up and feel less alone in the questions they have had to ask quietly. I hope they pick it up and feel seen, respected, and better prepared.

And yes, I hope they pick it up and enjoy it.

Travel writing does not have to be stiff to be smart. A good travel book should offer knowledge, but it should have a pulse. It should understand that travel is full of absurdity and delight. Flights get delayed. Bags disappear. GPS voices lie with confidence. Tiny hotel soaps multiply like they are planning a coup. Somewhere, at this very moment, a traveler is power-walking through Terminal B with one untied shoe and a coffee they regret buying. Travel is messy. It is human. A queer travel book should be human, too.

From everything I have seen, Out on the Road has that potential.

So here is the plain version: yes, I was interviewed for this book. Yes, I had a wonderful time talking with Lindsey Danis. Yes, that experience gave me faith in the seriousness and heart behind the project. And yes, I am supporting it before release with real enthusiasm.

I am supporting it since it appears to meet a real need.

I am supporting it since queer travelers deserve more than crumbs, caveats, and rainbow brochures.

I am supporting it since a book that helps LGBTQ+ people travel with greater confidence, awareness, and freedom is not frivolous. It is valuable.

Most of all, I am supporting it since this sounds like the kind of book that does what good books do: it opens something up. A road. A possibility. A sense of self. A wider map. Maybe even that little spark of nerve a person needs before saying, “You know what? I am going.”

That matters.

And if a book can help more queer people feel ready to go, ready to plan, ready to protect themselves, ready to find joy, ready to take up space in the world, then I would say that is a trip worth taking.