What Is The Main Conflict In 'Autoboyography'?

What hooked me about 'Autoboyography' is how it reframes the classic star-crossed lovers trope. The conflict isn't just boy-meets-boy; it's boy-meets-boy-in-a-system-that-denies-his-existence. Tanner's sarcastic, pragmatic voice contrasts sharply with Sebastian's idealistic Mormon worldview, making their attraction feel both inevitable and doomed. The tension isn't explosive—it simmers in stolen glances and half-finished sentences.

Provo's Mormon culture isn't a caricature; it's a tangible force shaping every interaction. Tanner's fear isn't abstract—it's the very real risk of Sebastian choosing duty over desire. The novel excels in showing how systemic prejudice becomes personal agony. Sebastian's internalized homophobia manifests as self-sabotage, while Tanner's defensiveness hides vulnerability. Their joint novel project becomes this brilliant narrative device—writing one story while living another. The resolution isn't tidy, which makes it resonate. It's less about 'solving' the conflict and more about showing how love persists despite it.

The heart of 'autoboyography' revolves around Tanner, a bisexual teen who falls hard for Sebastian, the Mormon prodigy writing their shared novel class. Their romance clashes with the conservative Mormon community's expectations, where same-sex relationships aren't accepted. Tanner's internal battle is brutal—he's torn between embracing his feelings and fearing rejection from both Sebastian and the town. The external pressure mounts as Sebastian grapples with his faith versus his heart, creating this beautiful, painful push-pull dynamic. What makes it gripping is the authenticity; it's not just about coming out but navigating love when the world around you says it's wrong. The novel's conflict lingers in those quiet moments of doubt rather than grand gestures.

'Autoboyography' delivers a layered conflict that's both personal and societal. On one level, it's Tanner's struggle to reconcile his identity with a community that doesn't fully accept him. He's out to his family but closeted at school, and falling for Sebastian forces him into uncomfortable visibility. The Mormon backdrop adds intense stakes—Sebastian isn't just any love interest; he's being groomed for leadership in a religion that historically opposes queer relationships. Their writing class becomes a metaphor for their tension: crafting fiction while hiding truths.

Then there's the emotional warfare. Sebastian's conflict isn't villainized; it's portrayed with empathy. His faith is genuine, and his attraction to Tanner isn't framed as rebellion but as a profound crisis of conscience. The novel avoids easy answers, showing how love can destabilize even the strongest convictions. The pacing mirrors real-life ambiguity—no clear villains, just flawed humans navigating impossible choices. It's rare to see a YA book treat religious conflict with this much nuance.