As I’ll be moving on from New Zealand shortly, I have a few weeks where I can be completely devoted to writing. This has led me to the realisation of how much I hate coming up with book titles.
Sometimes, I know from the beginning, which is great. When I don’t, I come up with a placeholder, because every file needs a name, right? Then I get to the point where I need a title and nothing seems to work. Nothing seems to fit. Worse, the more I think about it, the more ridiculous my brain gets until I just feel frustrated. In the end, everything sounds like a bad porn movie.
This past week, I have had to come up with two new titles for books in very different genres. The first is one I am submitting to agents to try to take down the traditional publishing route. I know that if I am lucky enough for it to go somewhere, then the title will no doubt get changed anyway. But I still need something a little catchy to begin with if I want to grab attention.
The second is for the first book in a series I am intending to self-publish under a pseudonym. That means there will be no team of professional title-makers to come up with one for me. Annoyingly, the second and third books have had their titles from the start, but this has been stuck with it’s placeholder for nearly a decade. That’s made it hard to shake in my own mind. I finally had the breakthrough last night, which means I can finally think about getting the cover art done. Yay.
Titles. I hate ’em (apart from when I love them).