"What's your book about?" "I DON'T KNOW."

   I ran into a friend's mom today during school and we got into one of those tiny conversations that I always hate to be involved in. You know the ones; you were on your way to do something else, or maybe you weren't, when they seem to come out of nowhere and ask you how you've been doing and talk about something you have in common and ask what you've been up to and you stand there trying to be friendly, all the while trying to think of a way to escape without seriously offending them. The worst part is I very well may have trapped myself; I may have instigated this encounter by asking her how she's been and I remember her trying to walk off at one point but I started talking.
   Anyhow, she asked what I'd been up to recently, and so I told about twenty-percent of the truth - "Oh, working on my novel, mostly." This, of course, is a lie of omission - well, actually, thanks to the mostly it's an outright lie - because, really, I also spend a good chunk of time doing nothing on the internet while still managing to feel like whatever I'm doing is somehow important. And when I'm not doing that, I'm watching Doctor Who or Star Trek. Really, most of my writing takes place during my third period and at one in the morning when I feel guilty because I haven't done any writing since I got home from school, and even then I allow myself to be a lazy bum by forcing myself to write only four hundred words.  For future reference, four hundred (out of context) words looks like this*:

   “Interesting,” River breathed. She took a moment to look at the girl. She didn’t look a day over sixteen; River had to wonder how old she really was. Lydania’s hair was a dark purple with the occasional silver streak and her horns curled similarly to Xylander’s. “You remind me a bit of Lord Holtman.”
   “His mother was a Mathis, like mine,” the girl answered. “At best, we’re distant cousins.”
   Something made River want to keep Lydania around. “With Eloise gone and the big wedding coming up, I’ll need someone to fill her duties. I don’t suppose you know your way around a dressing room?”
   “Well, Milady, I don’t mean to boast, but I did assist a theatre troupe, a pretty good one at that, with costumes and makeup before I started working here,” Lydania replied, smiling.
   “I’ll talk to Xavier about getting you reassigned, then.” River looked down at her night clothes; she had yet to get dressed. “In the meantime, I don’t suppose you could help me get properly dressed before he comes bursting in here and teases me?”
   “Of course, Milady.”
    Where it usually took Eloise half an hour, Lydania took only fifteen minutes to get River dressed and made up.  Eloise had always preferred to put River in warm colors, yellows and oranges, but Lydania chose earthier tones. Looking at herself in the mirror, River smiled; she liked the way the colors worked together and the way they didn’t bring out the blue in her skin. She’d almost gotten used to thinking of herself as a Smurf.
   There was a rough knock at her door, an impatient rapping of the knuckles.
   She sighed and crossed the room, but the door opened before she could lay a hand on it, and Xavier slipped inside. He was frowning and barefoot and looked like he’d just jumped out of bed. “This is the fifth time you’ve done this in the past week; they know you’re here,” she said bluntly as she close the door. “And you can’t just burst in her like that, I could have been in the middle of changing or something.”
   He scoffed and gave her a sidelong look. “It’s not like I haven’t seen an iceberg before,” he said flatly.
   “You’re as sweet as vinegar,” she said, feigning adoration.

   Using the default settings of Word 2007, that's a little over half a page. See how lazy I am? And that was a tangent.
   She seems impressed by the fact that I'm writing a novel - a sentiment I can't mirror, since I'm of the opinion that any idiot with a pen can write a story, maybe even a full-length novel - and asks me what its about. It's a question I've had to answer often enough. Every time someone finds out that I'm writing a novel, they ask the same question, "What's it about?"
   What I hate about this question in particular is that I can be perfectly prepared to start talking about my novel until it comes out of their mouth. Suddenly, there is literally nothing in my mind that could possibly be used to explain the damn thing. In fact, I'm pretty sure my mind has to reboot entirely before I can even begin answer the question, which explains the long pause that follows every instance of the question. This pause is usually followed by some horrible attempt to explain the plot without making it sound totally lame. This attempt is a failure. Sometimes I simply tell them my problem, "It's hard to put into words," or "It's hard to explain," or, "I don't know right now." These are my better moments in relation to this question. Today? I came up with one of the best answers yet, "Oh, it's fantasy." This is a huge leap forward in my attempts to explain the enigma of my novel.
   If they're still interested, I could elaborate. "It's a cross between a modern faerie tale," of course, they'd hear, "fairy tale," but I'd ignore that, "and high fantasy." Not completely accurate, but close enough for government work. It's a starting place, because that's really what I need. Then I'd be able to say stuff like, "It's about a high school student who agrees to help a demon usurp Hell's throne," or "Oh, it's about a girl and her involvement in the end of the world. Also, demons." See? Easy.
   Though, really, there's nothing quite as amusing as their reaction to, "I don't know." I can only imagine they think I'm some kind of head case. I know I'm writing a novel, but damn if I know what it's about. For all I know, it's just a 126,000 word long string of seemingly random characters. They see this; I know there are real words there, but there's no way to explain that with my limited vocal skills. I'm a monkey, and I've been mashing on a keyboaraf;lksdhgas s;adlkghas;dlgk has ;glksh gs.

*Actually, it's only 383 words. 
For the record, I did try to draw something for this. Yeah. No. It didn't work out at all. Maybe I should acquire an illustrator. Hmm.