Titles matter. The old saying goes, “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” but we still do. It’s what compels us to pick up a book in the first place—and the title is a key component of that. To Kill a Mockingbird. A Tale of Two Cities. And more recently, Where the Crawdad’s Sing. These are evocative titles. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (my daughter’s personal favorite). Something Wicked This Way Comes. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret. I could go on, but you get the point.
What is one of your favorite titles? It doesn’t have to be a well-loved book for the title to stand out.
You would think a person who can write an entire novel (or fourteen novels) could come up with an intriguing title. Of my own books, my favorite thus far is Mayhem and Moonlight. It is not only somewhat catchy (in my humble opinion), but it also fits the story. However, it doesn’t quite have the same impact as The Silence of the Lambs.
Some may argue that a romance novel doesn’t require a creative title, but I doubt Jane Austen would’ve agreed. Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Persuasion. All creative and compelling—all romance novels.
Before I landed my first book contract, I assumed (based on the scuttlebutt from published authors) that a working title was just that—a placeholder until the publisher came up with something more appropriate and sell-worthy.
I was wrong.
When Surrendered came out, one reviewer shared her frustration that the title didn’t match the story. What, exactly, had Tess O’Shay surrendered to? I could have debated her, but she just proved that titles matter to some (maybe, most) readers. I did a little better with Illusions, since it adequately described the key problem that plagued the Schaffer family. And Providence managed to hold its own, too. Creative? Not so much.
Here I am, writing book number fifteen. It’s a new Southern fiction series as I was ready to move away from Bedford County. This series will have the railroad as a backdrop, since I’ve always had a fondness for the wail of a train whistle—or more accurately, whistles. It’s never just one, and each pattern means something specific. Two longs, a short, and a long is required when a train goes through a town. Just a little tidbit I’ve learned in recent research.
Last month, I offered my newsletter subscribers an opportunity to help me out with the title for this new book—anyone willing to give it a go was encouraged to contact me for the back cover blurb. The winner (if there is one) will receive an acknowledgment in the book when it’s published. I had one taker, and she recently received the short synopsis. No suggestions yet, but I’m hopeful.
So, I’m including the back cover copy below in case you want to give it a go. Just so you know, I had what I thought was the perfect title—The Last Train Home—and then I plugged into a book search on Amazon. At least twenty other authors had the same idea, so it’s a no-go. I did the same thing when I came up with Mayhem and Moonlight, although the original title was Moonlight and Mayhem. I was dismayed until someone suggested I flip it around (thank you John Vonhof!)
FYI—this back cover blurb is a first draft. I was up at 2:30 this morning (any other menopausal women out there feel my pain?) and worked on it. Although morning is my most creative writing time, this was a little early even for me.
Here it is:
No one likes to hear “I told you so,” but it would be a whole lot easier coming from anyone other than Mama.
Sarah Beth McAllister returns home to Rossville, Georgia broken and wiser after being estranged from her mama for eight years. She’ll surely have to eat a little humble pie to get back into Mama’s good graces, especially since all she has to offer is a four-year-old granddaughter and a boatload of guilt. Maybe if Sarah Beth had taken to heart Mama’s life-long lament on the evils of men, she wouldn’t be in such a fix. Like mother, like daughter.
But a lot can change in eight years. Mama’s taken to bed, the family-owned motel where she was raised is crumbling around her, and a stranger seems to be her only lifeline.
The railroad is in Aaron Cooper’s blood. It should be since he’s the fourth generation to make a career of it. But times are changing, and a smart man will make whatever shift necessary to keep up. Like buying the rundown motel next door—or rather the land it sits on—to build a spec home. Fix ’em and flip ’em. Only problem is, Georgina Pickett is as prickly as a porcupine and doesn’t much like him, even though he’s keeping her in groceries. But it doesn’t appear she has anyone else caring for her, which might could be why she’s so cantankerous. It’s his Christian duty—even if he has an ulterior motive.
He doesn’t take into account Sarah Beth McAllister. When she arrives on the scene with a precocious little girl, a high-maintenance puppy, and a mystery to solve, she starts to chip away at the wall he’d built around his heart.
