Please be gentle!
When I go around hawking my book, I give a series of workshops and one is on titles. I don’t know if it will be possible to recreate some of that experience here or if anyone will be game, but if you would like to test out your title, leave it as a comment. What we do in the workshop is use everyone as market research. Writers float their titles and we get a show of hands who likes it, who doesn’t, why? And then a deeper conversation ensues about the importance of titles and why we like some, not others, how useful they are for marketing, what they need to accomplish given the genre, how well they capture the essence of the book, how they can attract and galvanize, or get lost in the crowd.
What makes you pick up a book in the store? You have a title, jacket art, an author’s name, some descriptive copy. What grabs you? Some combination no doubt. But when you are pitching to agents (and agents in turn to publishers), it is even more critical to get the title right. I pitched a book today and the title and sub-title said it all. And when I pitched it, the editors said things like: that’s a brilliant title, that title gave me chills, I feel like I’m going to cry, etc. This is called a bulls-eye. It doesn’t guarantee a sale, but you’ve got the door open and editors will look at it more quickly.
I’ve heard too many writers say that the title is a place holder because they know it will change. Or they say they’re not good at thinking up titles. Or the title is good enough. I beg you to find a great title. A truly great title. You cannot underestimate how much it helps your cause.
So, if you are working on your title and want some feedback (and please post anonymously if you like), show us what you got. And we’ll tell you if we like it and why, or send you back to the drawing board. Or just tell us what some of your favorite titles are and why. I will send a FREE AUTOGRAPHED copy of The Forest for the Trees (Revised and Updated for the 21st Century) to the best loved title submitted. No joke.
Filed under: Books, Marketing | 590 Comments »
The problem with watching too much In Treatment is that you begin to take on Gabriel Byrne’s characteristics, his brooding mien, his Irish accent, his eye twitches that signal he gets it. You start telling people to get a good look at themselves, to find the connections among various life events, to pick up the almighty pattern. And then you try to offer a little hope, just a wee bit of salvation or redemption or revelation. You know: insight.
Over Thanksgiving holiday, my nephew (also my tech person and the smartest person in our family if Harvard admissions is any judge) suggested that I scrub up my blog if I ever wanted to apply for any job. This hit me like a ton of books. It’s not like I’m posting pictures of myself on Facebook wearing a tube top and throwing up at a backyard party, or doing bong hits in the ladies room of the Nassau Coliseum. I don’t even have a Facebook. I took umbrage at his remark; was I really that over the top, out of bounds, or to use the dread word: inappropriate. Was I eating dead babies? Smearing feces? Carving swastikas into my forehead. What was he talking about?
My husband has been reading the Saul Bellow letters. Over the last few days, he read out parts to me. I am a huge Bellow fan and plan to read the letters myself. Part of me wants to tell him to stop, don’t ruin it for me. But I don’t. I love hearing the riffs and moments that catch John’s eye. I think the theme is the same: space. How much you allow yourself as a writer.
I know I have a great deal to be grateful for, but I hate this fucking holiday. When people say, have a good holiday, shit, when I say have a good holiday, it always sounds like: try not to kill yourself. It’s funny, but I don’t think I’d be a writer if it weren’t for my family, by which I mean trying to get away from them. The crawl space under the stairs. The fort behind the house. The high school parking lot. The single in Tooting Bec. The little study painted in baby aspirin orange. The quarry in Rockport. And the fat raccoon who wished me well. Every twelve-plex. Every overcast sky. Every trail littered with leaf rot. Try not to kill yourself. And by that I mean, a happy and healthy to all of you wonderful malcontents and bitchin’ ass writers who show up here every day or from time to time. I am certainly grateful for you.
http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/jonathan-franzen-tops-bad-sex-in-fiction-award-nominee-list_b17633#more-17633
Coming home from Miami last night, my daughter was reading Are You There Vodka, It’s Me Chelsea. A far cry from Are You There God, It’s Me Mags. And yes, I bought it for her. Look, she knows about periods. I’m a bad mother. But when I was thirteen I was sneaking Harold Robbins novels from my best friend Lisa Zimmerman’s mother. God, those books were fat and racy. You could feel yourself up reading them.
I received over one hundred emails today — my inbox runneth over. I’ve heard from old bosses, booksellers, colleagues, friends, writers, beloved clients. I ‘ve heard from people I barely remember and people I slept with. I’ve heard from friends of the family, and family. I’ve heard from England, Holland, Italy, France, Korea, and Japan. I’ve heard from scouts, movie people, even other agents. I’ve heard from people I can’t stand who have treated me like crap and people who mentored me and helped me grow. I’ve heard from people I hate and people I love. But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares to you.
Betsy Lerner 