Carrie Kills A Man, by musician and broadcaster Carrie Marshall, is about growing up in a world that doesn’t want you, and how a tattooed transgender rock singer killed a depressed suburban dad. Touching on topics from coming out to trans parenthood, fashion disasters and pop culture icons, Carrie’s memoir is both frank and funny. She talks to Books from Scotland to tell us more. 

 Carrie Kills A Man: A Memoir
By Carrie Marshall
Published by 404 Ink  

Can you tell us a little bit of what we can expect from Carrie Kills A Man? 

I’d love to. Carrie Kills A Man is a bit like a Scottish version of Titanic where the boat is my life, the iceberg is me being trans and nobody wants to paint me like one of their French girls. It’s about growing up weird, escaping into pop music and trying to hold things together until you can’t hold them any longer – and what happens when you have to hurl a hand grenade into the middle of an apparently perfect life. 

That sounds pretty serious, I know, but CKAM isn’t a misery memoir. It’s also about the power of music and of friendship, the joy of being your best self and what it’s like to go out looking like the sole survivor of a terrible accident in a clown factory.  

You’ve written a number of books before in differing forms – how did you find writing your own story? Why did now feel the right time? 

It’s been really interesting and a little bit strange, especially with some of the more difficult memories: you’re taking things that used to cause you great shame and sometimes pain and putting them out there for others to see and potentially judge you for. There were definitely times when I had to ask myself, ‘are you really sure you want people to know about this?’

I didn’t originally plan to write a book; I was just keeping a diary. But unfortunately for me, coming out coincided with the beginning of a huge pushback against trans people, especially in the UK and Scottish press and on social media. And the portrait being painted of us is a monstrous one; it’s like people are competing with one another to see who can make up the nastiest stuff about us. Because lots of people don’t know any openly trans people, some really bad actors are taking advantage of that. So if the press aren’t going to get it right, then we need to find other ways to tell our stories and connect with people. 

The book itself touches on ‘growing up in a world that doesn’t want you’ as a trans woman, but is also described as laugh-out-loud funny; how do you manage to find the humour in telling your story, even in some of the darker moments? 

I think being Scottish means I’m just naturally drawn to that – we Scots are brilliant at mining comedy from pretty dark seams sometimes, and we’ll tell the most horrendously embarrassing stories to make our friends laugh. I’ve done that all my life, so it was natural to do it in the book too.  

At first I wasn’t sure about whether being funny was appropriate, but I think it’s important because there’s a poisonous narrative of trans people and the wider community as militant, humourless, thought-policing snowflakes when the reality is completely different. The LGBT+ people I know are some of the daftest, least precious and funniest people I’ve ever met. 

You touch on a lot of lessons throughout your life, whether through coming out, fashion choices, friendships – what would you say the most important lessons you’ve learned have been? 

That’s a really good question. I think probably the biggest lesson I’ve learnt is that most people aren’t playing life on easy mode; I just thought they were because as an apparently straight cisgender guy I was playing life on easy mode. And I still have it easier than many. 

Culture is a constant thread within your memoir, whether influences, crushes, favourite bands – who are some cultural figures who had the biggest impact on you and why? 

I think the two most significant figures are Shirley Manson from Garbage and Eddie Izzard. I could never decide if I wanted to be Shirley or marry her: she’s just incredible, a rock star warrior queen who sings about queerness and androgyny and writes anthems for outsiders of all kinds. And Eddie just blew my mind. To be a closeted trans person and see Eddie up there on stage, out and proud and absolutely loved by thousands of people, was like discovering a whole new colour.  

The book does come somewhat full circle when you recall meeting someone at Category Is Books in Glasgow, and hearing about their life as a young LGBTQ+ person. How do you feel things have changed since your own youth? Do you feel hopeful for the future? 

I do. Things feel really dark right now, but there’s a huge generational shift happening and it’s really beautiful to see. For my kids and their peers, whether you’re gay or trans or non-binary is probably the least interesting thing about you. It’s just not a thing. You can push a culture war, ban books and try to bring back Section 28, but that knowledge and understanding and empathy is out there now. That genie isn’t going back in the bottle.  

What do you hope readers take from Carrie Kills A Man? 

I really hope readers see themselves reflected a little bit, whether that’s in the funnier stuff – I think we sometimes need outsiders’ eyes to remind us of just how weird and funny a lot of the things we take for granted are – or in the bigger picture: you don’t need to be trans to wonder what it’d be like if you decided to reboot your whole life and take a different path. Most of all, I hope people will understand that we’re not an issue, an ideology or a fad; we’re just ordinary people who’d really appreciate decent healthcare and snacks. 

Carrie Kills A Man: A Memoir by Carrie Marshall is published by 404 Ink, priced £12.99.