If at all possible, it is best to do whatever Thora Siemsen says.
When Thora suggested I might want to see a copy of Tom Cole’s upcoming monologue Chimes, released by The Song Cave, and spoke of it without any extra context, I felt a spark of anticipation. It is exactly the kind of book you’d hand to someone without any preamble—like a potent intuition or a surprising windfall. Its slender size makes it feel like a small gift rather than a burden, and I found that the inner life at the center of Chimes resonated with me deeply as a queer commentator who often rants inside a private world.
I sensed the events unfold in the early days of the pandemic, yet the piece carried a timeless heartbeat, as if we’re forever cycling through stretches of isolation, upheaval, ordinary routine, and absurdity. I hadn’t encountered Tom’s work before—partly because he isn’t a familiar presence on my usual cultural touchstones, like The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. After reading Chimes and then sharing a tea-and-thunderstorm chat with him in my apartment, I found myself becoming a devoted Tom Cole advocate. I’d urge you to pass this book to another solitary soul trying to escape a rainy day, with no setup whatsoever.
–Morgan Bassichis
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Morgan Bassichis: Chimes was the first thing I reached for after wrapping up my own show, Can I Be Frank?, about another self-conscious queer performer, the late Frank Maya. Reading your monologue felt like a buoyant, soothing presence during that odd, disorienting moment after finishing a project. I inhaled it quickly and felt immense gratitude for the experience, which leads me to this conversation. On a practical note, what did the writing process look like for you?
Tom Cole: In the summer of 2020, I presented segments of Chimes as a serialized audio drama at Le Petit Versailles, a community garden in the East Village. We set up speakers along the garden’s edge and invited people to step inside and hear the drama unfold in four weeks of forty-five-minute episodes, one new installment each week. I crafted it as fiction with a theatrical tilt—a hybrid approach. My intention was for the monologue to feel immediate and engaging, perhaps more readable than a conventional play with multiple characters and stage directions.
I’m not a reliable narrator of my own experience, and I’m trying to capture that.
The initial draft of Chimes ran more than twice as long as the final version. I undertook a brutal pruning process to shrink it to the present 120 pages. I sifted through more than a thousand notes from my editors at The Song Cave, trimming away many beloved passages so the book could be read in a day or two, and so it would feel as much like a performance as like a book.
TC: One thing I prize in your writing is your humor, even when you’re tackling thorny, weighty matters. That was a deliberate aim for this piece. Do you think you come across as aiming for a laugh at every moment?
MB: Absolutely. A crying queen is a scheming queen. That line remains one of my favorites.
TC: There’s a moment in one of your performances where you remark that someone would die if they don’t laugh.
MG: Ah, yes—that line about a medical condition where the absence of laughter could be fatal. Maybe not instantly, but eventually.
TC: I insist I’m dealing with the same affliction!
I’m wrestling with how to label the work as “autofiction.” Do you think of what you do that way, given how much you perform and how much of it isn’t strictly true? How would you categorize it?
MB: I don’t spend much time labeling it. For humor to land, there has to be truth somewhere in it, even if the exact events aren’t factual. They don’t have to have happened as written. Do you follow?
TC: I do.
MB: Steve Martin put it well: “Humor arises from what’s happening, and there’s always something happening.” So it could feel true on some level, even if it isn’t literal reality. It’s real in emotional terms, but not necessarily factual. I don’t feel obligated to stay within the rigid bounds of truth. I’m trying to capture a sensibility, not a diary entry. In my view, the unnamed narrator in your book is profoundly unreliable on the surface, yet deeply trustworthy when it comes to emotional truth. In my show I even say my name is Morgan. Do you imagine the narrator as Tom?
I’m definitely a shame-based writer.
TC: No. I deliberately left the name off to emphasize that this isn’t memoir but autofiction—the material didn’t all happen exactly as described, and presenting it as my life would be unethical. The goal is to reveal something through construction that gets you closer to truth. How did you experience this nameless narrator as you read it?
MB: I read it as if I were speaking through the narrator’s voice. The lack of a name allowed me to inhabit the psyche more freely, as if this were a mind I could borrow. I enjoyed that experience; I wasn’t checking for backstory or provenance so much as joining a mindset.
TC: The real-life elements that inspired me were far grimmer than anything in the book and scarcely funny in themselves. In truth, life can be far more brutal than fiction.
MB: I find that revealing ugly truths invites a broader resonance—things we worry are shameful often feel universal when spoken aloud.
TC: I’m very much a shame-based writer as well.
MB: Me too.
TC: I grew up in Louisiana and North Carolina and still think of myself as a Southern writer, even after many years in New York. I’m drawn to Southern Gothic’s etiquette mixed with grotesque humor and darkness. Reading your pages, I sense Catholic upbringing and the way Catholic guilt has shaped my own voice and approach.
MB: What does writing toward shame give you personally?
TC: It’s where the heat lives. When the shirt-searing heat of shame appears, I know I’ve touched something worth including, even if it makes me uncomfortable. Those parts tend to connect most powerfully with audiences. It’s a somewhat masochistic way to work, but it’s the pattern that pays off.
A few years back, some material from this book appeared in the anthology Pathetic Literature, edited by Eileen Myles. While promoting that volume on tour with Eileen, I worried about how audiences would react to the material. Would they laugh or recoil? They laughed, and that experience felt intimately connected to what you’re doing here. I suspect you’ve had a similar moment with your audience.
MB: To me, performing is a form of masochism—opening my chest and inviting strangers to judge it. The narrator of Chimes embodies that same hunger and drive—the need, the demand, the velocity of craving. It’s almost a compulsion. Performance can be hell, and when it lands it’s sublime; often it’s a blend of pain and exhilaration.
TC: Right on.
MB: May I share a snippet from Chimes that struck me as a particularly effective joke?
ToeTag loved me. His screen name evoked the tags tied to the toes of corpses. I loved ToeTag back. We never spoke because when he came over, I was dead.
That’s a perfectly distilled moment—an odd, almost perfect intertwining of romance, decay, and punchline.
TC: I adore how ToeTag goes so far as to cover his pedicure expenses. That’s a touch of sexual hospitality that feels almost liberating in its depravity. I’m glad the book made you feel seen in that way.
MB: That sense of recognition is exactly what I hoped for. I wanted the reading experience to be brisk, almost performative—like stepping into a show and stepping out again, while still being a book. And yes, I’m gratified that you felt it was both entertaining and substantial.
MB: After finishing, I immediately asked The Song Cave to send an advance copy to my friend Neil Greenberg, certain he would love it too.
TC: Neil is a genius, and he helped you shape Can I Be Frank? as well.
MB: He significantly contributed—not just by safeguarding Frank Maya’s archive, but by urging me to pursue my own project. He’s a rare artist who understands that archival work must give room for a work in its own right to emerge. He kept saying, “Make your own piece of art.”
It truly feels as if you’re untangling American sexuality by wading straight into the knot.
You’ve also dedicated a great deal of energy to elevating other people’s work—through your day job curating and producing theater, your leadership at Dixon Place, and your support of fellow artists. It’s a kind of midwifing, or perhaps doulaing, of others’ art. And yes, you could call that sacred work. If you could snap your fingers and decide, what would you wish for Chimes and your own career? Would you want it performed by you or handed to someone else?
TC: My answer is complicated. I’d prefer someone else perform it, but there might be something more affecting in actually doing it myself. I’m not sure yet. What would you do?
MB: I’d tell you to give it a try, even as an experiment. If you insisted it must be someone else, there would always be that lingering question: should I have done it at all?
TC: If someone approached me about staging it themselves, I wouldn’t hesitate to say yes.
MB: May I continue reading excerpts for you? This isn’t a formal audition, though it might feel that way. There’s a scene in a hotel where the narrator—still a teenager—tends to sleep in the same room as his parents, and the father attempts to coerce the mother into sex.
TC: That’s right.
MB: My father woke up, climbed onto my mother, and forced her into sex. I felt a strange mix of arousal and disgust while witnessing this; as he pressed on, I fantasized about being downstairs in a grimy bathroom, kneeling, blindfolded, waiting for others to arrive. Then the scene shifted—part of me wanted to become my mother. She didn’t satisfy him, he got out of bed and did what he did in the toilet. I imagined I would have satisfied him instead.
It feels like you’re unpacking American sexuality by diving into its mess, and I’m utterly captivated by it.
TC: I’m glad that moment landed with you.
MB: That line, “I had a lot of sexual energy as a child,” might even serve as the title for our shared memoir, no joke.
TC: Our interview, perhaps.
MB: Our shared memoir, indeed. I had a lot of sexual energy as a child, certainly.
TC: Should we put that at the very top? Let’s try it.
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Chimes by Tom Cole is available from the Song Cave.
