If you begin Jen Michalski’s All This Can Be True on the bus, you’ll almost certainly miss your stop. Written in alternating points of view, the book is as much a story of self discovery and queer coming-of-age as it is a story of love, and Michalski tells it well. Our protagonists are Lacie Johnson and Quinn (a pseudonym whose surname I don’t recall, if we ever learn it), and though only half the chapters come from Lacie’s POV, I would argue that she is the main character. A stroke suffered by Lacie’s husband, Derek—who is also, unbeknownst to Lacie, the father of Quinn’s now-deceased child—leads Lacie and Quinn to meet at the hospital, and their instant attraction serves as a catalyst for the events of the rest of the book.
Beneath the beautifully designed, evocative cover is a novel that does not shy away from messy truths—postpartum depression, addiction, suicidal ideation, infidelity, and terminal cancer, to name a few. All This Can Be true embraces mental and physical health struggles as the real, shaping forces they are. It’s worth noting that those unused to seeing such many-layered challenges included in commercial fiction may find it hard to believe that each character would have histories so filled with unfortunate events, but I do feel, based on my own group of friends, that their experiences are acceptably realistic.
Michalski writes shock’s numbing effects and the butterflies of a crush equally poignantly, establishing the emotions as equally important to the story—which they are. Of Quinn’s life after her daughter’s death, we read, “[Quinn’s] head was barely out of the waters of grief. Not even her whole head—just her eyes, sometimes her nose. Occasionally her mouth cleared the waterline and she gasped greedily for breath, before sliding back under,” and, similarly, of Lacie’s emotions immediately following Derek’s stroke: “The waiting room felt far away and impossible to access, as if she would have to wade through it to get back to the moment.” These lines are, for me at least, achingly true depictions of how grief and shock can manifest, and their physicality anchors us in each character’s emotional moment. The same is true of Quinn and Lacie’s first interaction at the hospital, when Quinn kisses Lacie on the cheek in (flirtatious) farewell. Michalski writes that “[Lacie] could still feel it, the slight pressure of Quinn’s lip against her. She touched her lower lip, almost expecting blood, something left there. A wound, or maybe something sweet, the cream from a donut. In the elevator, she licked her lips. They still tasted like her own, and for a moment, she was disappointed.” Again, a small moment is made vitally important through beautiful description and physical grounding, offering us insight into the direction this relationship could go—yearning, despite the damage that might result.
Though it’s becoming ever easier (thank goodness) to find books with queer main characters, queerness often becomes their only notable trait, or the story ends in tragedy, or the characters are as three-dimensional as one would hope, but the quality of the writing stands in the way of a true connection with them. As a queer reader, I’m always in search of that elusive combination of believable plot, queerness, and a well-written, emotionally engaging narrative. With All This Can Be True, Michalski has managed it. It’s particularly refreshing to journey with a main character who embraces her queerness later in life—an experience that is both fairly common and seldom written.
That’s not to say that the book is without its issues. Michalski favors sentence fragments, a style some will find jarring and one which made it hard for me to push through the first few chapters, and she tends to over-describe her characters when they’re first introduced. This doesn’t keep Lacie and Quinn from becoming deep, complex individuals in whom we invest emotionally, but that initial vividness fades for supporting characters, like Lacie’s daughters, who remain largely two-dimensional. Similarly, early scenes between Lacie and Derek, or Quinn and Derek, feel rushed, as though Michalski is as eager as us for Quinn and Lacie to meet. I can hardly blame her for that.
While depictions of sex and scenes of confrontation are not always executed with the clarity one might hope, Michalski is at her best when describing Lacie and Quinn’s quiet internal reflection, the kisses they exchange, and each character’s exploration of emotional nuance. In the early days of their romance, for instance, we read, “Something fluttered in [Quinn’s] chest, and she leaned forward, as if Lacie could see it—the delicate, nervous beat of her heart.” Even in a moment as simple as that, it is easy to find poetry in Michalski’s prose.
Much of the novel does focus on Lacie’s love for Quinn (and vice versa), but Michalski makes it clear—without trivializing the women’s relationship—that this is not the core of the novel. It is, instead, a necessary step on the deeper, internal emotional journeys that come into sharp focus in the latter half of the book. We come to understand All This Can Be True as a story of personal growth—Lacie’s, especially—in which she learns to honor her own desires and seek the happiness she had not imagined for herself before meeting Quinn. Ultimately, All This Can Be True executes on the promise of its title, offering us a tender, queer reminder of the power of choice.
All This Can Be True, by Jen Michalski. Nashville, Tennessee: Keylight Books, June 2025. 288 pages. $32.99, hardcover.
Elizabeth H. Winkler (she/her) is a queer, Austin-based writer with a publishing day-job who calls Upstate New York’s Adirondack Mountains home. When she’s not cycling, making friends at estate sales, or exploring any city with canals, she writes about small beauties in the everyday—which is to say, she writes about love. Her work can be found in publications like Wasafiri, t’ART, and Chill Subs’ Thread Lit Mag, with more forthcoming in Austin American-Statesman and Business Insider.
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