Choosing a title is my favourite part of a lot of things. Sometimes I think I’d like to have children just to bestow awesome names on people. Still, it’s not an easy task, even for someone who’s into snap decisions.
Sometimes, I get the title first and I have to work to live up to it for the sake of a my poetic genius. Other times, no matter how great I think my story is, the title is limp and simply a result of having to refer to it in one way or another.
A title may have no bearing on the quality of a story, but man, when I have a great book with a correspondingly heavy title, it adds an extra narrative to my subconscious life. It becomes the song stuck in my head. For example, when I was reading, Wuthering Heights, I repeated the title over and over in my mind all the time—while I walked down the street, as I dropped boxes of cereal into my cart at the market, even right before I went to bed. In that case, it was to the tune of Kate Bush’s Gothic-pop song, which is a bonus. Continue reading