Here's what happened when they tried to cancel me

Telegraph

15 hours ago

The whole brouhaha ended on Monday when the Polari Prize abandoned this year's award entirely, an interesting example of self-cancellation, to focus instead on 'increasing representation of trans and gender non-conforming judges on the panels'. I don't doubt that the founders and organisers have been put under just as much pressure over the last week as I have but this statement worries me.
It suggests that gays and lesbians who do not conform to a specific gender ideology will be rooted out and excluded from future consideration, the court effectively stacked against them in this obsessive need to amplify the voices of trans people, a strange fixation considering one would get less amplification at a Metallica concert.
Winning a prize isn't of major importance to me, although, of course, it would have been nice. I'm halfway through a career that's exceeded all my expectations, but it's worth considering how this new emphasis might damage younger LGB writers and their right to both hold and express perfectly valid, entirely legal opinions on any subject.
What saddens me most, however, is that from its dramatic opening to its disappointing conclusion, no one from the Polari Prize ever had the decency to contact me. Had they done so, perhaps a happier resolution might have been found.
I don't feel any antipathy towards the debut writers who withdrew their titles. Indeed, I had a very polite and respectful email exchange with one on Friday evening, where we explained our positions and, I think, parted amicably. That said, as someone who's been part of this industry for 33 years and pretty much seen it all, I do think they should reflect on how they would like to be treated should their names ever be maligned, their characters misrepresented, or their words twisted out of all context. If the scolds ever come for them, I hope they receive the same support I did from other writers and the global publishing world. Honestly, my phone hasn't been this hot since I was last on Tinder.
They might also ask themselves whether they want to be known for their books or for the cartoon characters others will create in their likeness. After all, should another of their books ever be nominated for an award, do they really want the judges to consider anything other than the beauty of their writing, the brilliance of their storytelling and the power of their ideas?
For the record, there was never a possibility that I would withdraw. To have done so would have endorsed a mob mentality, ensuring that, going forward, all writers who made the list would be vetted by their colleagues for wrongthink. In true Trumpian style, their past publications and social media posts would have been scoured for anything that went against the orthodoxy.
Novelists would have been given free rein to spy on each other and report their neighbours. Soon, other prizes would have followed suit, and it wouldn't have been long until those lucky enough to be given a publishing deal would have gone through similar scrutiny from the moment those deals were announced. I couldn't be a party to that; it would have been the death of ideas.
We operate in the books world. We're supposed to believe in free speech and freedom of thought. We're meant to treat each other with respect, not look for ways to tear each other down. To value the written word and not denigrate, insult and push people to a point where those who are emotionally vulnerable might not survive their attacks. Most of us have the maturity to understand that, but it's clear that some, particularly those at the start of their careers, still have to learn it.
It's the difference between playing the part of a decent person on social media and actually being one in real life.