When You Can’t Answer “What’s Your Book About?”

The Dinner That Stayed With Me

Years ago, I went to dinner at a friend’s house. Her partner was there too: a published author, actor, from London. Charismatic, assured, a bit alpha—or at least, that’s how I saw it then.

My friend knew I was writing a novel and kept trying to include my work in the conversation. I was quiet. Twenty-something and shy. Still very early in the writing process. The novel felt too new to talk about, too unformed.

Then he turned to me.

“Go on then,” he said. “What’s your novel about?”

I stumbled over my words and mumbled something vague. It was excrutiating. I already felt out of place in their effortless existence. That class thing that you can’t quite put your finger on but you know you’re out of step somehow. Not keeping up. I’d also brought the wrong wine, which had been communicated by a glance between them that smacked of pity…

At the dinner, I was busy trying not to make a mistake. Not to be found out as some kind of imposter. Like Julia Roberts in that Pretty Woman scene (although a lot less glamorous), I reminded myself that the cutlery went in order from the outside in.

I tried not to notice how many times they referred to having moved to Wales as if it was a quaint holiday. How they assumed my only ambition in life would be to move to London. The people that I must know, and the surprise when I didn’t.

My book was the last thing I wanted to talk about. And my description of it, or at least what I knew it to be at that point, came out in a stammering shyness.

He cut in before I could finish.

“If you can’t even describe your own book, you’re not going to get very far.”

The shame flooded through me. What had I been thinking. They’d found me out: I didn’t belong here at all.

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The Wounds Writers Carry

Writers carry many wounds.

We remember the teacher who said our work was too much.
The agent who didn’t reply.
The loved one who made a joke.
The friend who said, “You’re still writing that?” with a raised eyebrow.

We remember showing our work too early to the wrong person.
Or the feeling of wanting to disappear after describing your novel to someone and watching them nod politely.

Not all stories make it. Some get lost in the sea of not-belonging, not being allowed in, not being understood, or downright discrimination.
Some are abandoned long before they reach a page.

I kept writing, not out of confidence, but something quieter and more insistent: the desire to understand the world, and a persistent creative impulse to tell stories. The most human of instincts - making meaning and imagining.

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Do Welsh People Really Speak Like That?

While Truth Like Water was on submission, I heard things like:

“Do Welsh people really speak like that?”
“Oh, I love Wales as the backdrop to a cold case. Genius—it’s so mysterious.”
“Could you kill off a few more people… women?”
“Have you thought about a triple twist? Something that really pulls the rug out?”

None of these comments saw the heart of the story I was trying to tell. I was also guilty of trying to shoehorn the book into places it didn’t fit—thinking there was only one commercial motorway to writing success.

Thankfully, I took some time to reflect on what I really wanted the book to be. Who I wanted to be as a writer. Where I might want to go next. I re-wrote my submissions letter, changed my comp titles, and learnt how to tell people what my book was really about.

Through that process, I found my publisher, Parthian, and it has been a joy to work with them on bringing Truth Like Water into the world. My editor didn’t want to add to the body count, she wanted to draw out the emotional fullness of the characters and community.

The very first editorial meeting we had, where she asked questions about the novel with such care and insight, will always be one of my writing highlights, more so than winning any prize. I felt my voice was seen and understood for the first time.

I’m grateful to Parthian.

For the work they do and the writing they support.
And for my own quiet resilience to see this story told in a way that honours the characters and the place they came from.

Where I come from.

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What Truth Like Water Is Really About

It’s about a young woman who cannot face the emotional cost of change.
It’s about grief, and how it lives in our minds and imaginations.
It’s about silence, and the weight of carrying the unspoken.
It’s about rural life, the land, and what it means to people.
It’s about what we inherit emotionally from our parents.
It is about how art saves us, sometimes.

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And Now?

I would handle that dinner differently. Able to reply confidently from process and experience:

This is a story of lost women—some who can be found again, and some who can’t. Set against the shifting tides of a Welsh estuary, Truth Like Water follows Catrin’s search for a missing girl—one that unearths long-buried family secrets and shatters the silences that have shaped her.

But I still like to remember that art doesn’t begin with clarity. It begins with a question.

And if you’re still following the question of your novel, still listening to what it wants to become, then you’re exactly where you need to be.

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The Whole Writer is a human-written newsletter about creative living. If you know someone who might enjoy it, please feel free to share. You can learn more about me and my work here: www.carysshannon.com.

Thanks for being here,

Carys x