"Uh, okay. So, there's this woman? And she doesn't like people. So one day this guy breaks into her apartment and she beats the crap out of him and sticks him in her half-bathroom, and she forces him to write a novel for her, and when he gets writer's block she breaks his ankles! Plus there are flying cars."
See, it makes a lot more sense when I'm in front of you, making the appropriate gestures. (The "beats the crap out of him" gesture is particularly evocative.) On paper, my novel sounds like the infelicitous wedding of 1) a run-of-the-mill Gen-X novel about how we are all alienated from our fellows by the punishing weight of soulless modern society and 2) one of those bloated high-concept short stories I wrote in high school, where I made up for my lack of writing ability by introducing lots of plot twists. That is, it seems to have both too much and too little of everything. It's biting social commentary! No, it's a pulp horror novel! No, it's a love story! No, it's a sweeping symbolic examination of human relationships!
I'm not kidding about the flying cars, either. They're coming up in Chapter Ten. Dinosaurs, too.
Total word count: 64,627