Today I went in search of “happy” news after a friend shared a number of news stories about kids dying or killing themselves. (And, honestly, who wouldn’t need a pick-me-up after that? There is a reason I don’t watch the nightly news.) During this quest, I stumbled across the following article about the winner of the “Oddest Book Title” contest. I love the fact that such a contest exists; it amuses me almost as much as the titles that won (my favorite came in fifth: Governing Lethal Behavior in Autonomous Robots). It reminds me of the time that my friend and former college roommate and I created a faux anthology of “stories” that was really just a list of the fun and crazy titles, because we never got around to writing the stories. As a writer I have always loved titles. I won’t judge a book by its cover, but I will judge it by its title. And I hate when a title is more intriguing than the book itself. A few years ago I was disappointed to learn that marketing departments often title books rather than writers…and I stopped picking up interestingly titled novels without in-depth perusals. It also saddened me because I've always titled my stories before writing them. I can't work on a story if it doesn't have a title. It might change, but I have to title it. When I was in school, I titled just about anything I wrote on note paper. After all, there's that huge space at the top of each page that practically screams "Title Me!" One of my biggest pet peeves with art and poetry is when someone calls a piece "Untitled." Why should I spend time looking at something and trying to figure it out if you couldn't even be bothered to title the damn thing in the first place?
The lesson: Titles rock. And if it's odd enough, you could win a prize!
The lesson: Titles rock. And if it's odd enough, you could win a prize!
