Not a Word

Early on in the novel writing process—even before the process began, actually—I encountered a problem: when you’re writing a novel, the people around you, if they know you’re writing, will inevitably ask you, “What’s it about?”

Now one can imagine the predicament. Of course the very idea that I was writing a novel greatly excited me and as such I wished to tell my friends, my family, people at work, et cetera; yet so many of them asked this same question. Right away I realized that I hated the question and all the answers it could provoke. This is how the conversations usually go:

Other: So what have you been up to?
Me: [cautiously] I’ve been writing a novel.
Other: Oh really? What’s it about?
Me: [grinding teeth] It’s… [sighing] It’s my own version of the coming of age story.
Other: Ah. [awkward nod]
Me: [cough]

I’m always put in a position where I want to say to this person, “I prefer not to answer that question,” but unfortunately most of these conversations take place with someone I don’t know all that well or I’m not comfortable enough rejecting, so instead I give them the lame answer above, which in all honesty took me a long time to come up with the first time it happened.

You really can’t blame these people for asking that question. In a way it seems inevitable. They only ask out of politeness. They ask because this is what they think they’re supposed to say. They think that all writers can rattle off a summary like that found on the back of a book. It’s what they’ve seen writers do in movies and on television shows. They don’t realize what an invasive question it really is. Again, you can’t really blame them.

My irritation with this question really falls into my overall countenance regarding this process: secrecy. More and more I’m finding that I don’t want to tell people anything except my current word count. The idea of providing even the briefest of expositions or summations makes my skin crawl. The same applies for the writing itself. I’ve had people ask me when they get to read it, to which my answer has often been, “When you pluck it from the shelf at the bookstore.” I often regret my pez-dispensed answer about it being a coming of age story.

I think the root of this secrecy stems from one simple fear: the fear that people might get the wrong idea, the fear of being written-off. I’ve never really felt anything like this before. In the past my habits were to discuss my open projects at length, to post underdeveloped drafts in workshop forums, to ask for feedback on something about which I hadn’t really thought thoroughly. Now I’m taking a different approach. I talk openly about the process and the surprises and experiences that come with it, but not the novel itself. Perhaps I’m finally developing the confidence to believe that my writing can tell the story without me holding its hand, without me guiding the reader or potential reader. There is now in my mind a separation between complete and incomplete, and my current belief is that anything incomplete is to be guarded as one might guard and protect a small child. Until she can hold her own in an argument, she’ll have me there to deflect any questions asked. You can know her name and her age. Everything else is my business.