I’m going to be a little scarce for the next few days. There’s only one week this year when I am not with my children the vast majority of the time, and this is it. I’ve made a pretty unattainable list of goals for myself. We’ll see what actually gets done. If nothing else, I should have Wren ready to send out to my readers by next Monday (yay!). One of those unattainable goals is to come up with a real name for the story, but we know how I am with titles. (Incidentally, both stories mentioned in that post sold, questionable titles and all.)
I’m leaving comments open here today, in case anyone wants to share some goals. Preferably writing, though if you really want to talk about your master plumber’s license, go for it. I’m going to be in and out, so if it takes a while for your comment to come through moderation, don’t despair. It’ll happen.
Rainpocalypse is done and out the door. Not with that title, of course, though it was tempting.
I’m terrible with titles. I love titles, interesting ones, the kind that feel like they could front a thousand different stories, but are truly perfect for just one.
My titles though? I cringe to think about them. I’ve got one story out, one I dearly love and truly think is one of the best things I’ve written, whose title is more or less A Story about Dark and Depressing Things for People Who Long to be Dark and Depressed. At least that’s how it feels at the moment.
Titles are such bold things. They demand attention, reek of confidence. Look at me, they say, I’m not only worth my space in the world, I’m also worth your undivided attention. Great ones capture the essence of a story, which requires that the writer be clear about what that essence is, as well as be prepared to announce it to the world. It’s the difference between A Book about Some Unhappy Times and Some Better Times and War and Peace.
I’ll keep trying. I like to imagine that someday it will take me less time to write a 7,000-word short story than it does to write a five-word title.