The opening of Tim Manley’s YA novel My Own Kind of Person is tense: Protagonist Sean has just turned 17, and he’s about to have sex with his girlfriend Christy for the first time. Ruminating on how they began dating and how she told him to ask her out, Sean shares: “It was a relief to have someone tell me what to want.”
That line opened up so many questions for me. Why was it a relief? What was Sean avoiding? What was he scared of? And what does it mean to feel more comfortable being told what to want than having to figure it out for yourself? The rest of the novel dives into exactly those questions, following Sean as he starts to examine the assumptions he’s made about himself, his relationships, and what he thought his life was supposed to look like. What begins as a moment of uncertainty becomes a much bigger exploration of the strange, sometimes frightening process of learning to recognize what you actually want — especially when that answer might complicate everything.
High school senior Sean O’Brien is the funny guy. He’s good at making everyone laugh, both in class and during his sets at the local comedy club — and as long as everyone is laughing, he can avoid his own complicated feelings about things like his (single) mom working constantly, his failed attempt to lose his virginity with his girlfriend Christy, and the social pressure he feels about not feeling “masculine” enough. To cope, he makes people laugh. At least until he meets Elijah, a gay ballet dancer in his English class. Elijah’s confidence is very different from the bravado put on by people like class bully Jay Romero. Meeting Elijah changes something for Sean. Preparing for his first big comedy show, he begins grappling with his identity, chasing after his true voice. How does he know what he wants, versus what he’s been told to want?
My Own Kind of Person deals with themes of growing up, heteronormativity, and the power of different kinds of storytelling, ranging from individual conversations to Sean’s stand-up comedy sets to The Moth live storytelling event. The novel focuses on questions of voice, analyzing Sean’s attempts to identify and speak his truth even when, as the book description says, “your voice shakes.”
Because of this wider focus on voice, My Own Kind of Person doesn’t feel like a coming-out story, though Sean does realize he’s bi during the course of the novel. He tries out different terms for himself, including bi, pan, and queer, but the plot doesn’t revolve solely around Sean’s sexuality. Without spoiling too much, the novel takes a more zoomed-out approach to voice: in addition to realizing he’s bi, Sean is also exploring other aspects of his identity; he’s learning to be honest and open up to people, even if it makes him anxious. Sometimes this means sharing his sexuality with someone, like his nonbinary friend Andi, from whom he requests advice.
Other times it means being honest on stage during one of his sets. He often does a bit about a girl who pushed him down on the playground in elementary school. His original joke is more along the lines of “ha ha, a girl beat up a boy,” but as the novel progresses, Sean begins to wonder if that joke isn’t as funny as he initially thought. Maybe it relies too much on gender stereotypes. What if he pushed his material deeper? What if he made it more honest? Would the audience still laugh?
Sean’s grappling leads to a number of great scenes, such as when he shares with Christy that he’s feeling less funny lately and more emotional. Nervous about over-sharing, Sean thinks: “I don’t know if I’m being needy by burdening her or being generous by sharing with her.” It’s a great line about the difficulties of learning to open up — for Sean, sharing is fraught with anxiety. These fears make him feel all the more human; they help readers root for him as he tries to face his fears and feel better in his skin.
Another fantastic scene comes much later in the novel, in which a fellow comedian shares with Sean: “I used to think if I performed in bigger rooms and got bigger laughs, then I would feel good.” That didn’t pan out. Instead: “I learned that there is no amount of applause that will make me feel okay.” While that sounds pessimistic, it’s actually freeing for Sean. He feels less alone in his anxiety — and less pressure to make people laugh so that he can feel better about himself as a person. If no amount of laughter is objectively correct, then maybe it isn’t the best metric with which to judge his performances. What if he evaluated himself by different criteria instead?
These deeper conversations around comedy apply outside of stand-up and in everyday life. In addressing these difficult topics, My Own Kind of Person fosters dialogue around acceptance, the kind that comes from others as well as the kind that comes from within. The novel also deals with other heavy topics, such as issues of biphobia, though it doesn’t explicitly use that word. That said, it does explicitly discuss double standards that bi folks often face, including the assumption that bi women are secretly straight and bi men are secretly gay. These are key in the second half of the book, though I won’t say more about it to avoid spoiling some major plot points!
Throughout the novel, Sean’s comedy lands well, as do his anxieties; the juxtaposition of so much fear in someone who’s also very funny creates an interesting tension in the novel. The ending felt a little too perfect for my taste, but depending on how you like your endings, your mileage may vary. Overall, My Own Kind of Person was an enjoyable read. I read it quickly, in just three sittings, and it had some great lines that I’m still thinking about, nearly a week later.