Titles are some of the most irritating things ever invented. By that I don’t mean the titles themselves – a clever title can attract the right kind of attention – I mean the belief that a piece of writing isn’t complete until that all-important label is in place.
Who’s the genius, anyway, who decided every writer needed to sum up their entire book or screenplay in a few measly words?
I realize that I’ve never been particularly good at coming up with titles, but this latest book is really giving me problems.
Oh, I can think of titles galore. I have a long list of them that I look through every so often.
But none of them are right. They don’t fit.
It’s like when you need a new pair of shoes. You go to your favorite shoe store, confident that you can select the perfect pair in just a few minutes. But the first pair is too small and the second the wrong color. An hour later there you are, frustrated, beside an embarrassingly tall pile of discarded choices. Your only hope is that the mess gets cleaned up before your friends see you or some unwary soul gets too close and causes an avalanche.
For me, the worst part about not having a title is that it feels like I’m driving with the parking brake engaged. I’m moving, but I can feel the drag of the brakes.
If I could find that perfect title, I could release the brake and get up to highway speed.
I’d love to feel the wind whipping through my hair as I cruised to the end of the book.
Titles. Bleh! Bleh! Bleh!