David Uptin
I think the musical concept of a “one-hit wonder” can, to an extent, be carried over into literature. Of course, once authors do have their breakout novel, it ensures their future work will be more successful. But, this future work is inevitably going to be compared to that original breakout. This is especially noticeable when an author’s breakout is also their debut; for instance, Melina Marchetta’s 1992 debut Looking for Alibrandi became one of the most successful Australian teen books of all time—yet, she has shown an increasing desire to distance herself from it, stating, ‘Even back when it was released, I knew I would spend the rest of my life competing with [Josephine Alibrandi] and convincing the world that she wasn’t me and that there was more to me as a writer.’
It is my firm belief that judging any writer based purely on their most successful work diminishes the possibility of their having anything else of note to say to the world, and nothing convinced me of that more firmly than reading Becky Albertalli’s most recent novel, Imogen, Obviously.
Albertalli, an American Young Adult (YA) fiction writer, could very easily be considered a hallmark example of the literary one-hit wonder. Her 2015 debut, Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda, was wildly successful, with both it and its film adaptation Love, Simon contributing to the enormous popularity the gay male romance subgenre is seeing today. Since then, Albertalli has released four solo-written novels and one novella (in addition to some collaborations), yet of these five pieces, three actually take place in what she affectionately calls the “Simon-verse”. I can see how Albertalli could be viewed as somewhat of a one-hit wonder, especially since none of her works since Simon have been as successful in their own right.
Though her fifth novel overall, Imogen, Obviously is only Albertalli’s second solo novel not featuring any characters from Simon. The story opens with Imogen, in her senior year of high school, visiting her slightly older friend Lili at college. Imogen assumes she is straight yet is surrounded by queer women; her sister is a lesbian, Lili is pansexual, and her other close friend, Gretchen, is bisexual. Imogen refers to herself as a “capital-A ally”, attending Pride Alliance meetings at her high school with Gretchen, but from the very beginning of the novel her inner monologue reveals insecurities about whether she is allowed to be present in such a space, and about her relationship with queerness more generally:
‘I spent weeks reading every blog post and Reddit forum I could find about allies and safe spaces, and whether it was even okay for me to show up at the meetings. Was I just another straight girl invading queer territory?’
‘My voice always pitches higher when people talk about girls kissing—which makes literally no sense, seeing as I’m surrounded by queer people 24/7.’
Such statements regarding who is allowed to be present in queer spaces of course speak compellingly into very topical conversations. But, I will say that after a while Imogen’s internal monologue about this did become a little repetitive and did make it quite obvious where her story would progress from there.
The inciting incident is Lili’s revelation that, in an attempt to fit in with her new queer friendship circle, she lied and told them Imogen is her ex-girlfriend, forcing Imogen to pose as bisexual during her visits. This does exacerbate Imogen’s aforementioned anxieties, but she finds herself growing closer to Lili’s friends, particularly the chaotic, lesbian tomboy Tessa. Here is where Albertalli leans into her greatest strength as a writer: portraying the zest of young, majority-queer friendship groups, and revealing in a heart-warmingly palpable way how fulfilling connecting with such a group is. This is what endeared me to her writing in the first place when I read Simon, and it is awesome to see it here too. Like her contemporary Alice Oseman, Albertalli is a master of replicating every-day queer teen life in an uplifting way:
‘I study the photo – the group of us in a staggered line, Lili and Mika holding either end of the ten-dollar bill like it’s the world’s smallest banner. The lighting’s atrocious, but every single one of our expressions is pure, unfiltered joy.’
As Imogen spends more time with Tessa, their connection deepens, and Imogen considers the possibility of her having a crush on Tessa. This leads to further interior monologuing regarding whether she is appropriating the queer female experience, and through a series of flashbacks, it becomes apparent that Imogen’s insecurities actually, in large part, stem from her relationship with Gretchen.
One of the most compelling plotlines is indeed Imogen and Gretchen’s friendship, developed in a thought-provokingly subtle way. Albertalli includes long text conversations between the two, establishing the firmness of their connection, but sprinkles in anecdotal flashbacks detailing occasions on which Gretchen accused Imogen or others of appropriating queerness. Imogen recalls a Pride Alliance meeting where everyone shared their celebrity crushes and she named Clea DuVall, only for Gretchen to later tell her this was essentially fetishisation. Such instances lead to Imogen being afraid to reveal her feelings for Tessa to Gretchen, out of fear that Gretchen will make similar accusations.
Admirably, though, Albertalli does not portray Gretchen as the irredeemable villain of the narrative. Further flashback scenes illustrate that Gretchen has been the victim of casual homophobia in public, and that safe spaces she has been part of in the past have been invaded and destroyed. This is a compelling stance of compassion to take, and only amplified the respect I already felt for Albertalli as a writer.
It would also be remiss of me not to mention the timing of Albertalli’s releasing a book with such a subject matter.
In recent years, much criticism has been levelled at Albertalli, as well as some of her contemporaries, for being “cishet women writing gay men’s stories”, the core of the accusation being these writers’ supposedly fetishising gay male relationships. Albertalli was constructed by many as an appropriative, predatory creator, to the point that when she ultimately came out as bisexual, she felt she had been forced to, and published an essay detailing how damaging such criticism was to her as she questioned her sexuality.
It’s not difficult to see the parallels between Imogen’s arc in this novel and Albertalli’s own experiences; just like her character, Albertalli is a woman who identified as straight but was immersed in queer spaces and queer culture (before writing Simon, she worked as a psychologist specialising in LGBTQ+ youth). Just like Imogen, she began to question her sexuality while also facing criticism from people who could be described as “gatekeepers”. Just like Imogen, she clearly took this criticism on board to a point where it formed the bulk of her insecurities.
I, of course, don’t want to base my view of this novel purely on its relation to Albertalli’s personal life—art is about so much more than the creator’s personal life—but I do think it is worth noting, especially given how public Albertalli’s coming out, and the preceding events, were. In many ways, Imogen, Obviously could be read as a thesis statement extending compassion towards those who criticise questioning people as being appropriative (in the context of what happened to Albertalli, the compassion extended to the character of Gretchen honestly becomes more admirable), while also paying tribute to the experiences of those questioning people. Through Imogen’s story, Albertalli calls for queer spaces to make themselves safe for anyone who varies from norms, even if they don’t fit the typical queer experience or aesthetic, and I find myself agreeing with her, especially since (as she points out) the entire foundation of queerness is that we don’t fit into social hegemony in the first place.
Even though ‘By the bestselling author of Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda’ will forever be plastered on the covers of all her books, Imogen, Obviously, with its compassionate commentary on a very relevant conversation, has reminded me just how important it is to never discount any writer as purely a one-hit wonder.
David Uptin is an emerging writer, currently living in Magandjin/Meanjin (Brisbane). He is studying Creative Writing at QUT and working on two novels. He loves writing about young queer people figuring out how to live fulfilling lives. When not writing or reading, he can usually be found listening to 2010’s pop music or watching BookTube.
Inspired by childhood classics such as Shirley Barber, Monster High Dolls, and Sailor Moon, Erin McKenna (she/her) aims to create whimsical, ethereal, and uncanny contemporary artwork. She mainly works in a digital space and discusses her personal experiences with mental and physical health, sexuality and liberation, and her relationship with her body.
Instagram: @erinxisobel