Like being lied to? Then ask me what my book’s about.

“You wrote a book? That is SO cool. What’s it about???”

And with that simple question begins an avalanche of burning fury and rancid deceit the likes of which the world hasn’t seen since The Great Burning Fury & Rancid Deceit Festival of 1984.

Since most of my 30 readers today are my friends, let’s just come right out and say it: Chances are, you’ve asked me what my book is about.

And chances are you’ve been lied to.

Yeah, yeah. We’ve been through a lot together. We had that great experience that one time, where we did that thing, and it was like Ohh man! and we got really close and everything, and we’re so close, and we’re such good pals, and we’ve always trusted each other, and Oh man, we’re such good—

Just shut up, and accept it. I lied to you about the contents of my book.

Why, you ask? After all, I’m an honest guy. Pathetically so. I wouldn’t even lie to save the whales.

Sadly, some whales have not yet found Jesus.

And yet I’d lie to keep you from knowing what my book is about.

Is it because the question is overly simplistic? Oh, that’s part of it, I suppose. What is any book really about?

Is it because I haven’t written my synopsis yet, and don’t know how to make my book sound like anything other than a whiny teenage coming-of-age “he’s not afraid to talk about sexuality” pile of buffalo dicks? Yeah, there could be some of that.

Is it because I frankly don’t know what my book is about? That your question reminds me, cringingly, of my own self-doubt, and my fears that I haven’t fleshed the book out enough to even have a plot, let alone a Pulitzer-worthy one? Sure. All true.

But here’s the real reason: I lie to you because the book is about me. The goddamn book is about me.

As first novels often are. And, at times, I wonder if I’ll always be this averse to revealing plots. One day maybe I’ll write about a down-on-his-luck starfish whose kid needs a blood donor, forcing him to travel to the Arctic Ocean to find an estranged uncle banished there for a crime he didn’t commit, who has become bitter (the coldness of the ocean a metaphor for his cold soul) and needs to learn to love again.

But that’s not what this book is about.

Nope. This book is about my old man. With his Boston accent and his boners for self-destruction and his unrealistically good looks, which I didn’t even inherit, yet I inherited his self-destructive tendencies and his temper and his love of delicious drugs (even though I’ve never actually done drugs, which is good cuz God knows the booze gets me, and if I ever did do drugs, God knows I’d like them a little too much).

In other words, my father was like a Kennedy, minus the education, riches and power. Reckless.

And it’s not like you would necessarily know that. It’s not like, if I tell you the book is about a college student who doesn’t know how to grieve the gruesome loss of his father and so begins systematically destroying all of his relationships, it’s not like you’d say, “ohhhhhhhhhhhh, that explains a lot, you freak.”

But I feel like you know. I feel like, behind your eyes, you’re thinking, “First novels are always autobiographical, first novels are always autobiographical.” And me having a lousy poker face, I can’t handle the tension. So I just make things awkward for everyone by telling ridiculous lies. Some real-life examples:

You: What’s your book about? Me: It’s a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure.

You: What’s your book about? Me: Oh, it’s Nancy Drew fan fiction. Nancy finally gets some dick.

You: What’s your book about? Me: It’s about the time I killed you. Unless you shut up. Then it’s about the time I spared you.

You: What’s your book about? Me: It’s the sequel to “Everybody Poops.”

And then, every now and then, something close to – close to – the truth:

You: What’s your book about? Me: [laughing nonchalantly] Oh, you know. Drugs, college, suicide, sex. What all books are about.

The weird thing is, it’s easier for me to talk about my real-life baggage than it is for me to talk about the slightly warped translation of it in my fictional novel. I don’t know what that says about me. I suppose, in real life, I’ve grown into myself, learned where I stop and the Things That Aren’t My Fault begin. But the book is about a time when that wasn’t the case, where everything from my father’s failures to my facial structure was a reflection on me (and only me). Maybe that’s it.

In any case. I write this so that I finally have an answer to that godforsaken question. Next time you ask me what my book’s about, I’m going to refer you to this post. And nobody likes referrals.

(Unless you’re an agent. In which case I’ll write you a dissertation on literally every line, if that’s what gets you going).

Am I the only writer for whom this hits home? I feel like many writers love nothing more than to talk a blue streak about their work. Then again, I feel like there are plenty out there like me. Who effing hate it.

Comments welcome.