Emerging Writers Series: Thomas Vowles
“We like to think that we can be known, even that the goal is to know yourself, perhaps because we want to gain a feeling of control, or maximise our potential, I don’t know, but there’s something neurotic about it, don’t you think? I'd suggest that we’re much more complex than that, and that the soul is capable of producing mysterious imperatives.”
Thomas Vowles’ debut novel Our New Gods (2025, UQP) is already winning the hearts and minds of readers Australia-wide. Gritty, psychological and powerfully queer, Vowles' has created a novel that treads the thin edge of passion and obsession, wholeheartedly tipping readers into the void as he unpacks a folie à trois filled with twists.
We caught up on Vowles’ background as a screenwriter, unreliable narrators, depicting authentic queer experiences, and why writing these books for the queer community over mainstream audiences is more important than ever.
I always like to start with a little bit about you! Could you tell us more about your journey into writing and your background?
I’d been training and working as an actor after high school, and devising theatre helped me see that I enjoyed writing more than the lifestyle of being an actor, which had always been hampered by the need to audition. So, I got myself to Central Film School, London, to study screenwriting. Once there, I started receiving messages from tutors that it takes about ten years of consistent practice to work at a level where people want to make movies (and publish their books!). I committed to that process because I felt energised towards it, towards a life of devotion to the craft. This was coupled with a youthful ambition, I should add.
And yeah, it took ten years—actually, a little more. I want to emphasise this because during those years of apprenticeship, which often felt quite desolate, having people confirm that yes, it really does take that long was always very meaningful.
It gave me patience and the courage to make the necessary sacrifices, and it also helped me understand that the reward must be found in the act of doing.
Our New Gods reads like a fever dream of queer longing, lust, and paranoia all tangled together. What drew you to this particular collision of themes for your debut?
It was the outcome of an alchemy of a few things, most vitally a profound recalibration in my personal life. During this time of intense disorientation, I would search through bookshops for the book that could help me with the big questions I was grappling with, which were around love, power and the ways we deceive ourselves and each other.
It's not that I expected answers; more that I wanted to feel less alone as I navigated these fraught spaces. Literature had always provided me with companionship, but I had begun to see a gap in the types of queer stories that were being told.
The book opens with Ash teetering on the edge of a party, already unmoored. From the outset, we’re inside his isolation. How did you approach building such a claustrophobic, unreliable narrative voice?
I started the book by asking myself what experience I wanted to give the reader, and connected with an urgent need to convey how it feels to contend with the terror of unreliability, which is at the heart of being human. The psychological thriller offered a doorway into that experience. As a genre, it’s built around the idea that so much of our lives is an outcome of perception, which makes reality inherently flimsy. Ash feels the tremendous threat associated with that, which is part of the claustrophobia, I think, especially as the stakes are so high.
Something I found compelling as I wrote Ash was the concept of a character the reader is very close to, but is doing things they have difficulty justifying or explaining to themselves. We like to think that we can be known, even that the goal is to know yourself, perhaps because we want to gain a feeling of control, or maximise our potential, I don’t know, but there’s something neurotic about it, don’t you think? I'd suggest that we’re much more complex than that, and that the soul is capable of producing mysterious imperatives. One of the ways I built the story was by putting pressure on Ash in the interest of getting closer to the parts of him that were hidden or even unknowable.
The Melbourne queer scene, as you depict it, is electric but also brutal, full of blurred lines, voyeurism, ambiguous consent and emotional hunger. What responsibility did you feel in how you portrayed this space?
That’s a fascinating question. I've not spoken about this before, but as I was writing, and especially when I’d finished and was taking the manuscript to publishers, I wondered if anyone would be willing to publish it, because of its depiction of queer lives, which, as you say, is pretty knotty at times.
In some ways, the book could be read as affirming the narratives about queer people that have historically dominated mainstream culture – that we’re dangerous, morally corrupt, sick. And I mean, of course, we are, everyone is, or has the ability to be. But there’s a difference between demonising a group of people and allowing them to exist in the discomfiting and irreconcilable.
I wrote the book for queer people. If I’d written it for a mainstream readership, it would be a weaker book, it would be a defanged version. The responsibility I felt was around granting us the full breadth of our humanity, in all our complexity and potential.
Ash’s obsession with James is one of the most disquieting threads of the novel. What did you want to explore about queer male intimacy, especially in a world where it often feels like everyone is both searching and performing?
I see Ash’s hunger as an imbalance recognisable in a lot of queer men I know. At the very least, I recognised it within myself, and it was something I had to confront to write the book. Not fun. I'm talking about a desperate need to be validated, to be given a sense of belonging.
I think it comes from existing in a world that’s hostile to our existence. That’s pretty rough when you think about it. Much of the novel's plot comes from pushing that to the extreme, and yeah, I agree that it’s disquieting, but I also find it devastating.
This idea becomes more complicated and dangerous when we consider how much of our lives is performance. It’s a question of trust—in a world of performance, who can I trust? Can I even trust myself? The danger is the risk of exploitation. That felt inherently dramatic, especially when taken to the next level: Am I being exploited, or is that interpretation just another layer of artifice?
You have a background in screenwriting and I imagine writing a novel requires quite a different approach and consideration of a reader versus a viewer. How did it feel to turn those talents to a debut novel?
It was transformative in how I think about myself as a writer. I’d never written a novel before, but my screenplays and short stories were also preoccupied with people’s internal experiences.
When I turned to the form of the novel, I was thrilled to discover the expansion of possibilities as to how to go deeper into a character as they face dilemmas and are forced to act. This idea of action has always been important to me, largely because the nature of film means the screenwriter’s task is to tell a story through action.
So it’s how I understand narrative at a foundational level. I was curious about the aesthetic project of taking a story invested in the drama of action and combining it with focusing on the nuance of someone’s internal world.
Our New Gods is already receiving lots of praise. What’s one thing you hope readers take away from the story?
It would be cool if people were given pause to think about the fragile theatre of our lives.
And lastly, what’s next for you? Are you working on anything new at the moment?
The next book is in the works, and I’ve been adapting it into a TV show as I go. People can expect a similar tone and world. In the meantime, I’ll be at the Emerging Writers’ Festival in September.
Thanks for having me, it’s been a pleasure.
Thomas Vowles lives in Naarm/Melbourne. As a screenwriter, he’s worked with production companies based in Los Angeles, London and Australia. He released a collection of short stories as an episodic zine, and is a graduate of Central Film School, London, and the Faber Academy. Our New Gods is his debut novel.
Elaine Chennatt is a writer, educator and psychology student currently residing in nipaluna. She has a special interest in bibliotherapy (how we use literature to make sense of our lives) and is endlessly curious about the creative philosophies of others. She lives with her husband and two bossy dachshunds on the not-so-sunny side of the river (IYKYK). Find her online at wordswithelaine.com.
