Bill Hulseman is a writer, ritual designer, and former educator whose work explores identity, belonging, and personal agency. His debut book, Six to Carry the Casket and One to Say the Mass is a collection of deeply personal essays examining the identities we inherit, the traditions we navigate, and the power we have to shape our own narratives. Through reflections on family, Catholicism, and queer identity, Hulseman offers a nuanced exploration of what it means to carve out space for oneself in a world that often seeks to define us.
A former middle school principal, teacher, and campus minister, Hulseman holds degrees in religious studies, the comparative study of religion, and education leadership. His time in Catholic schools gave him both a profound appreciation for faith and a firsthand understanding of the tensions between personal identity and institutional tradition. His writing is informed by this background, as well as his deep love for pop culture—where figures like Madonna and “The Golden Girls” helped him see himself long before the world was ready to.
Hulseman now lives in Seattle with his husband, Jonathon, where he continues to write, design rituals, and lead meaningful conversations about identity, faith, and belonging. Learn more at BillHulseman.com.
Why do you write in the genre that you do?
I’ve never enjoyed the gift or suffered the ambition to write fiction, but I love writing as a form of reflection, as a tool for exploring my experiences, for excavating memories, and for my own moral discernment. My own love of writing is rooted in my parents–my mother inspired in me not just a love of language but an appreciation of its power. She was a voracious reader and consumed just about every book within a mile’s radius of her, and she was also a great storyteller with a precise and expansive vocabulary.
My father, on the other hand, wasn’t much of a reader, but he wrote poetry for a long time. For him, it wasn’t an artistic endeavor–it was a purely spiritual practice.
My own writing is probably rooted in what I gleaned from my parents, with heavy influence from my own forays into poetry and the kind of writing I’ve done academically and professionally. As a teacher and administrator, most of the writing I did was directed toward students and school communities. That encouraged conciseness for me (hard to believe if you’ve read or heard my wanderings through a complex, paragraph-long sentence) and helped me hone my voice and tone.
When I turned to writing to process grief, to think about how I landed where I landed, and to identify who I wanted to become, I think all of these influences pointed me to short essays. The genre allows me to play and dance around between storytelling, philosophizing, and poetic musings, and I can tap into my eclectic professional and academic background naturally.
Do you keep a notebook of ideas?
I have dozens of notebooks, filled with sketches, ideas, and reflections, but handwriting is difficult for me (well, handwriting legibly is difficult for me). In the past few years, I’ve shifted to the Notes function on my phone.
Many of the essays in Six to Carry the Casket started as phrases or questions that emerged while out for long walks with our (now deceased) dog, or from moments after a deep tissue massage when I scrambled to capture an idea that emerged when my massage therapist was digging into knots. When I was ready to write, I would return to what I’d captured and use those word jumbles as prompts to start writing.
Are you more of a fan of plot-driven stories or character-driven stories?
Yes.
A disclaimer: the physical act of reading is really hard for me. Audiobooks have been a game changer in recent history, but I don’t read as much as I’d like to. I do love good storytelling in all forms–books, stories, films, TV shows, drag, performance art…and I’m drawn to stories that are propelled by either plot or by character.
TV shows provide an interesting variety of plot and character-driven stories. Before the 90s, TV sitcoms were plot-driven–characters were “types,” and the greatest actors made them feel like real people. The details of characters’ lives were vague and malleable enough to fit the story that the show was trying to tell.
My favorite show, The Golden Girls, is, objectively, factually, and scientifically speaking, the greatest show of all time. It relied on a classic, plot- and situation-driven formula like the sitcoms that preceded it, and I think of it as the greatest and end of this era of plot-driven sitcoms. As a result, there are all sorts of narrative inconsistencies throughout the show, and superfans fall into rabbit holes trying to unpack and impose some coherence. But the point of the show wasn’t introducing these four women and inviting us to get to know them–the point of the show was exploring what women like these characters would do and how they would respond in a variety of situations.
Since the 90s, TV audiences and creators have been increasingly obsessed with hyperrealism, giving us character-driven stories and narrative consistency. I’ve loved shows like The West Wing, 30 Rock, and black-ish because of the ways they’ve developed interesting characters and expanded the details and stories of their lives.
Looking around at the kinds of shows that are popping up, I wonder whether we’re entering a new era of hybrid storytelling, whether Hollywood has figured out how to be both plot and character-driven. New shows like English Teacher and Overcompensating introduce very real, very believable characters, and the details of their lives drive the plots just as much as the situations those characters are dropped in.
Is one approach better than the other? No. They are responding to some bigger cultural trends, and I like to consider that context when I enjoy a show–it helps me connect to the creators and to their intended messaging. But do I love English Teacher as much as the Girls? Oh, hell no.
Fill in the blank: “People will like your book if they like stories about…”
People will like my book if they…
- …like to think about the impact of pop culture, especially if they share my nearly irrational love of The Golden Girls and Madonna.
- …like to think about how experiences from long ago shape or prepare us for our experiences today.
- …like reading about the ups and downs, the hilarity and the burden of family dynamics
- …like to hear about others’ formative experiences or don’t know where to start with unpacking their own.
- …like to do a little philosophizing and make connections between their experiences and the wider world.
What are your thoughts on typewriters?
The typewriter plays a significant role in one of my favorite TV shows: Murder, She Wrote. The series revolves around J.B. Fletcher, a widow in Maine whose celebrity as a mystery novelist positions her to solve murders everywhere she goes.
The early seasons depict J.B. (“Jessica” to her friends) working on a typewriter at her kitchen table, and she frequently praises it as a dependable, familiar, and beloved tool. That said, throughout the series, she models adaptation to new technologies beautifully. Angela Lansbury, the star of the show, didn’t want to play a woman who was stuck in her ways. She wanted to show a woman “of a certain age” navigate the changes and challenges of the modern world, and it’s delightful to pay attention to her technology as seasons progress.
After a few seasons, the typewriter on the kitchen table is replaced by a word processor, and when Jessica moves to New York City, she acquires a desktop computer. Along the way, the show’s writers introduced newer technologies to keep both the show and the central character fresh and engaged with the modern world, from espionage and hostile corporate takeovers facilitated by floppy disks to the numerous episodes featuring both young and older early adopters of computers and mobile phones.
In one episode, Jessica’s internet access from her desktop PC through the telephone line (a real novelty at the time) is key to unraveling one particularly complicated murder investigation. While the show updated the opening sequence with its iconic theme song to conclude with Jessica printing a manuscript from her computer, it still opens with Jessica’s well-manicured hands typing on her classic, sturdy typewriter.
For me, it’s a physical thing: I don’t use a typewriter because the rake of the keyboard–even the rake of flatter PC keyboards that retain the classic clickety-clack of a typewriter–is difficult for me to type on, and I have thoroughly adapted to the flat keyboard on my MacBook. If a typewriter works for you–great.
My mom loved her typewriter, and, frankly, didn’t need what a computer could offer. I find myself at a similar juncture that she faced–AI is poised to do all the writing and typing for us, but it’s just not something I need, so I don’t anticipate using it any time soon. Typewriters do seem to be a lightning rod of sorts these days.
The folx who cling to them, as the stereotype goes, are either stubborn curmudgeons or trying-to-be-ironic hipsters. The stubborn ones are inspired by nostalgia (and I’m always suspicious of nostalgia), and the hipsters are inspired by…well, I have no idea. Don’t really understand hipster fascination with old timey ways.
And for the record: my husband and I included a typewriter at our wedding. Our invitations used a typewriter-simulating font, and instead of a guest book we invited guests to type us a message. Unfortunately, it malfunctioned pretty quickly, so people weren’t able to write as coherently as they wanted, but it made for a cool piece of word art.
Would you rather own a bookstore or run a library?
Neither. I don’t trust my skills as a manager for such important institutions.
A library would be cool to work in–libraries provide so much more than book storage, and I would enjoy being part of the broader functions that libraries play in communities. A bookstore would be cool to work in, too–I tend to like people who work in bookstores. There’s something very trustworthy about them.
What is your favorite website that you use to promote your writing?
For several years, I posted on Medium, but I learned that getting traction on the platform (and getting any sort of compensation through the Partner Program) was a full-time job. I was more interested in writing thoughtful pieces, but most Medium clicks went to pithier posts that seemed to just collate information instead of providing thoughtful analysis or deep reflection. So, I bailed.
Recently, I’ve started posting on Substack, but, like Medium, gaining visibility through these platforms requires a fair amount of time and strategizing…and it’s just not how I want to spend my time. Any recommendations?
If Hollywood bought the rights to your book, would you want it to be turned into a movie or series?
Why, what have you heard? Did they ask you about it?
In my mind, my life already is a movie. Specifically, a musical. But if Hollywood were to knock, I’ve already cast Siobhán McSweeney (who played Sister Michael in Derry Girls) to play my mother. Dick Van Dyke is too old to play my dad, but is Matt Smith available? My dad was kind of a mix of Smith’s Doctor Who and Prince Philip, so…Matt, call me?
Who is your dream audiobook narrator?
Meryl Streep. Oh, to narrate my book?
Hmm…Neil Patrick Harris. I’ve just always felt like we’d vibe. Half-way through his first stint hosting the Tony Awards, I turned to my friends and asked (really, demanded), “Why are NPH and I not friends?!” I think he’d understand me and my voice. And then, since he narrated my book, we’d have to be friends. So…Neil Patrick Harris. Final answer.
Do you have any writing rituals
Well, let’s talk about “ritual.” We refer to habits, patterns, and particular practices as “rituals” to elevate them, to emphasize their import or impact, but for me, a ritual is something done with an intention for some kind of transformation. When I hear people talk about writing “rituals,” they’re usually pointing to practices that develop and bolster their writing discipline or that lead them to clarity or a flow state. If others enter their writing practices with transformation on the mind and they call it “ritual,” great, but I think we do ourselves a disservice, and we dilute the meaning of ritual, when we impose the title “ritual” onto habits, patterns, and practices. And besides, aren’t “habits” powerful? Aren’t “patterns” uniquely insightful, and practices already meaningful?
For me, finding clarity or getting into flow usually depends on where I’m writing. Perhaps my favorite throw-away line in all of film comes from Fozzie Bear in The Muppet Movie. Road-tripping with Kermit, Fozzie sighs with pride, “A bear in his natural habitat: a Studebaker.”
To paraphrase Fozzie, I write best in my natural habitat: a coffee shop. As a college and graduate student, I could never focus in a library. I tried the tables in the reading rooms. I tried carrels tucked away in the stacks. I couldn’t get anything done in the library.
Drop me at a tiny table in a crowded coffee shop with music blasting, though, and I’m unstoppable. The noise and the commotion of a coffee shop force me to focus, to carve out space, and when I hit an impasse, or when I need some inspiration, I just have to look around the room.
Most of the essays in Six to Carry the Casket were written, rewritten, edited, revised, or wept-over after ordering an oat milk latte and a scone or breakfast sandwich and finding an open table at my local coffee shop. Does that constitute a “ritual?”
What are your passions/obsessions outside of writing?
Music has always been central to my navigation of the world. It kind of runs in my family–my dad played the piano, and his mother grew up as a performer on the Vaudeville circuit. Later in life, she cut a series of albums and made-for-TV variety specials with B-list actors, but as a kid watching Imagine That or Rose on Broadway on betamax or VHS tapes, I thought she was a superstar. I started playing the piano when I was about 9, and I found out I could sing when I was cast in Godspell during my first year of high school. I’ve been singing ever since, and for some reason my husband hasn’t gotten sick of it…yet.
I love art–painting, sculpture, printing, photography. As a kid, I spent hours at the Art Institute of Chicago with my sister, Peggy, a talented artist in her own right. I can remember being 5 or 6 and accompanying Peggy to the museum. She’d point out things to pay attention to, and I think that planted a seed in me.
I’ve been searching for beauty everywhere I go ever since, and I’ve built an eclectic collection of art at home. We’re out of wall space, though, so my husband has slammed the breaks on new acquisitions for now.
I’ve turned one major passion into my primary work: ritual. I did a master’s degree in the comparative study of religion–my focus was on how we use ritual to shape relationships and build community.
I tried to translate what I’d learned into my teaching and the liturgies and retreats I designed as a campus minister, but when I left education, I returned to ritual and have been focused on designing wedding ceremonies and other events to reflect the experiences, identities, and values of the people at the center. Making those rituals authentic often means unpacking, deconstructing, adapting, or rejecting the practices that we associate with weddings.
Over the past few years, with no small nudge from watching too much Great British Bake Off during quarantine, I’ve really dived into baking. I spent a solid year trying to perfect a pie crust (success!), and I love making vegan cakes. My vegan buttercream is getting quite a reputation.
I might finally note a lifelong obsession: fangirling. Beyond Madonna, most of my BFE (big fangirl energy) is directed toward drag performers. My husband and I are avid and enthusiastic fans of local drag and devoted viewers of RuPaul’s Drag Race.
Who would you most want to read your book?
Neil Patrick Harris.
Oh, you mean more generally? For me, the book emerged from a desire to understand what delivered me to a place of burnout and reinvention, and in the context of 2020 and the challenges that overtook us I wanted to understand what delivered us all to that moment. I wasn’t alone–I can’t think of a person I intersected between 2020-2024 who hadn’t experienced existential dread, and I published the book to invite people into similar reflection and offer a model for considering their formative relationships and experiences with compassion–for others and for one’s self. I hope that people who have engaged in or are searching for a way to process what’s happened in the world or in their lives will read the book.
Beyond that, there are two specific audiences that I hope will pick it up: queers and Catholics. So much of my identity and how I understand the world comes from living at the intersection of Gay and Catholic.
My sexual identity informs my religious identity, but vice versa, too. I hope queer readers will find parallels to their own experiences and consider ways to embrace and queer-up their own religious and spiritual engagement. And I hope Catholic readers will hear my story as an invitation to consider the impact of anti-queer rhetoric that looks to theology and scripture for justification, and to see examples of “good” Catholics who recognize and uplift the dignity of queer people, even and especially in Catholic spaces.
Who is on your Mt. Rushmore of greatest/inspirational authors?
I don’t say this in any objective sense–these are the four with the biggest impact on me and the way I write: Catherine Bell, Michael Cunningham, Shusaku Endo, and David Sedaris.
Ever read something and think, Yeah, that’s exactly how I see the world. Catherine Bell’s work did that for me. Bell was a scholar of ritual and professor at Santa Clara University until her death in 2008. Her approach to ritual resonated deeply with my experience, and I’ve leaned on her work to understand ritual and develop my own approach to it.
To most folx, it’s dry academic writing, but her Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions was like a scrying mirror for me, helping me see and understand not just ritual but the world more clearly. One line continues to serve as a life mantra for me: “If people do not challenge the style, they are effectively accepting the content.”
I first read Michael Cunningham’s Flesh and Blood just out of college, as a young gay man exploring life as an independent(-ish) adult, and it smashed open my worldview. The book follows generations of a family and explores the lives they share and the secrets they keep, and, not just because of the name, I quickly related to the character Billy.
Cunningham captured in Billy so much of post-Stonewall gay culture, both in his youthful abandon and exploration and his growth into middle age. It was part blueprint, part warning, and part inspiration. I devoured The Hours and A Home at the End of the World, hoping I would absorb more insight into queer identity and culture, and I was not disappointed.
While in Divinity school, I read Deep River by Shusaku Endo in a course on ritual theory. The book follows a group of Japanese tourists on a Buddhist pilgrimage/vacation in India in 1984, and it dives into the pasts of a handful of characters to explore why they chose to do this trip and what they were searching for in their lives. It remains my favorite book, in part because of its description of encountering the religious and cultural other, in part because of the pluralistic theological vision that Endo subtly weaves into the book, but mostly because it tapped my soul like an IV. Every re-read is a new infusion of spiritual nutrients for me.
And as for David Sedaris…from his big break with “The Santaland Diaries” on This American Life and his early collections of ridiculous and moving insights into his family’s life to his more recent, deeper dives into the complicated family dynamics and grief that he kept hidden between the lines, I look to Sedaris for inspiration and comfort. I’ve always admired (and perhaps unconsciously emulated) his knack for weaving pain and joy, for mixing grief and fear with levity. He models for me deep reflection, cutting insights, wonder at the world around us, and being able to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
Have you ever mentored another writer with their writing?
All of the writing mentoring that I’ve done was with students. Sure, students wrote for the courses I taught, but I really “mentored” students when writing homilies and speeches for retreats, chapel services, formal assemblies, and graduation.
Coaching students on the speeches they gave for retreats was the most fulfilling. We took students on the Kairos Retreat, which includes a series of talks from student and faculty leaders reflecting on their experiences and where they experienced challenges, growth, or spiritual insight.
It wasn’t the typical speech you might’ve heard students give–leaders often dove into very personal and vulnerable territory, but the point wasn’t just dumping their stories on the retreat group. They were modeling reflection and inviting the group to ask similar questions, to open themselves to similar insights. Every time I worked with a student on a retreat talk, I was aware of the enormous privilege of hearing their stories, of helping them relay what they’d gleaned about themselves, about others, and about the world.
Are you a big reader? Do you own a large collection of books, or are you more of a borrower?
I have…so…many…books. Even after thinning my collection when I moved to Seattle, I still have far too many full shelves of books.
Is there such a thing as too many books? No…but I haven’t read most of the books that occupy my home for decades. Some have traveled with me since college and grad school, others are more recent acquisitions.
If I was a faster or more facile reader, I might peruse my old books more often, but at some level, I know that I just hold on to them because of the profound advice that John Waters famously gave, “If you go home with somebody, and they don’t have books, don’t fuck ‘em!”
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