Hi, ya'll!
I purchased the membership of Jericho Writers for myself as a Christmas present đ, because writing is the thing I want to do and because I HAVE to get writing in earnest!
I've just been sifting through the materials and already been helped.
Wow, is all I can say!
I've been writing since I retired at 65. Of course, I also wrote before that but didn't really have the time. Writing requires time - at least in my case and an uninterrupted chunk of time at that. Let's see how it goes. I have been studying how to write for at least ten years and have a gazillion books about writing from John Truby, Ann Lamott to Robert McKee, among several others.
I'm a native Finn, live in Finland and write in Finnish. I hope to find friends with whom to discuss "the unbearable lightness of writing" đ and to share tips.
Oh! I almost forgot! I write in the Cozy Mystery genre.
Happy to be here!
Thanks for reading!
Of all the writing habits I have, one of the worst â the worst from good financial sense point of view â is that I like writing LONG books.
My first novel was a spine-breaking 180,000 words. Not one of my novels has ever been less than 110,000 words. The first âshort storyâ I wrote was 8,000 words, which is to say miles too long to be an actual short story. Heck, even this email is likely to be far longer than any other email you get in your inbox today.
Ah well. There are some things you canât fight, and my addiction to length is one of them.
But that also means that when it comes to short-form copy, Iâm at a loss.
Iâm not especially good at book blurbs, which want to be about 100-120 words (depending a bit on layouts and where youâre expecting them to appear.) Since titles need to be short and punchy, Iâm not especially good at those either.
In a word: Iâm pretty damn rubbish when it comes to coming up with titles ⊠and this email is going to tell you how to write them.
Which means if you want to ignore the entire contents of what follows, on the basis that I obviously, obviously, obviously donât know what Iâm talking about, then I have to say that the evidence is very much in your favour.
That said, I think itâs clear enough what a title needs to do. It wants to:
- Be highly consistent with your genre
- Offer some intrigue â for example, launch a question in the mind of the reader
- Ideally, itâll encapsulate âthe promise of the premiseâ in a few very short words, distilling the essence of your idea down to its very purest form.
The genre-consistency is the most essential, and the easiest to achieve. It matters a lot now that so many books are being bought on Amazon, because book covers â at the title selection stage â are no more than thumbnails. A bit bigger than a phone icon, but really not much. So yes, the cover has to work hard and successfully in thumbnail form, but the title has more work to do now than it did before.
Genre consistency is therefore key. Your title has to say to your target readers, âthis is the sort of book that readers like you likeâ. It has to invite the click through to your book page itself. Thatâs its task.
The intrigue is harder to do, but also kinda obvious. âGone Girlâ works because of the Go Girl / Gone Girl pun, and those double Gs, and the brevity. But it also works because it launches a question in the mind of the reader: Who is this girl and why has she gone? By contrast, âThe Girl on the Trainâ feels a little flat to me. There are lots of women on lots of trains. Thereâs nothing particularly evocative or intriguing in the image. I donât as it happens think that book was much good, but I donât think the title stood out either. (I think the book sold well because of some pale resemblances between the excellent Gone Girl and its lacklustre sister. The trade, desperate for a follow-up hit to Gone Girl, pounced on whatever it had.)
The third element in a successful title â the âpromise of the premiseâ one â is really hard to do. Iâve not often managed it, and Iâve probably had a slightly less successful career as a result.
So what works? Well, here are some examples of titles that do absolutely nail it:
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
Brilliant! That title didnât translate the rather dour and serious Swedish original (Man Som Hatar Kvinnor / Men Who Hate Women). Rather it took the brilliance of the central character and captured her in six words. She was a girl (vulnerable), and she had a tattoo (tough and subversive), and the tattoo was of a dragon (exotic and dangerous). That mixture of terms put the promise of the bookâs premise right onto the front cover and propelled the bookâs explosive success.
Incidentally, youâll notice that the title also completely excludes mention of Mikael Blomkvist, who is as central to that first book as Salander is. But no one bought the book for Blomkvist and no one remembers the book for Blomkvist either. So the title cut him out, and did the right thing in doing so.
The Da Vinci Code
Brilliant. Dan Brown is fairly limited as a writer, but it was a stroke of genius to glue together the idea of ancient cultural artefacts with some kind of secret code. Stir those two things up with a bit of Holy Grail myth-making and the result (for his audience) was commercial dynamite.
And â boom! â that dynamite was right there in the title too. The Da Vinci part namechecks the worldâs most famous artist. The Code part promises that there are secret codes to be unravelled.
Four words delivering the promise of the premise in full.
I let You Go
This was Clare Mackintoshâs breakout hit, about a mother whose young son was killed in a hit-and-run car accident. The promise of the premise is right there in four very short words ⊠and given a first person twist, which just adds a extra bite to the hook in question. A brilliant bit of title-making.
___
So thatâs what a title wants to do. A few last comments to finish off.
One, I think itâs fair to say that itâs quite rare a title alone does much to propel sale success.
Because there are a lot of books out there, and because everyoneâs trying to do the same thing, thereâs not much chance to be genuinely distinctive. My fifth Fiona Griffiths novel was called The Dead House, but there are at least three other books on Amazon with that title, or something very like it. That didnât make my title bad, in fact â it did the promise of the premise thing just fine â but I certainly couldnât say my title was so distinctive it did anything much for sales.
Two, if youâre going for trad publishing, itâs worth remembering that absolutely any title you have in mind at the moment is effectively provisional. If your publishers donât like it, theyâll ask you to change it. And if they donât like your title #2, theyâll ask you to come up with some others. In short, if, like me, youâre bad at titles, you just donât need to worry too much (if youâre going the trad publishing route, that is.) Thereâs be plenty of opportunity to hone your choice well prior to publication.
Three, you donât want to think about title in isolation. There should, ideally, be a kind of reverberation between your title and the cover. That reverberation should be oblique rather than direct. Clare Mackintoshâs I Let You Go had for its cover image a butterfly trapped against a window â a metaphorical reference to the anguish of the bookâs premise. If instead it had shown a mother obviously distraught as a car struck her son, the cover â and title â would have seemed painfully clunky and ridiculous.
If you get a great cover image that doesnât work with your chosen title, then change the title. If you have a superb title and your cover designerâs image is too directly an illustration of it, then change the image. That title/cover pairing is crucial to your sales success, so you can afford no half-measures in getting it right.
Thatâs all from me.
My kids are making elderflower cordial and singing as they do so. They are also wearing helmets for no reason that I can possibly understand.
Till soon
Harry
PS: Want to know what I think of your title? Then Iâll tell you. Just pop your title (plus short description of your book) in the comments below. Iâll tell you what I think.
Usually, on Thursday afternoon or so, I start pondering what Iâm going to write about on Friday.
This week: no pondering. Thereâs only one thing I could possibly write about.
The biggest book-related newsflash this week â or this year â is that Barnes and Noble is changing ownership. The ins and outs are a little complex (and everything is not quite settled), but if all goes according to plan:
- An investment firm, Elliott Advisers, is to buy Barnes and Noble, in a deal which values that business (including its debts) at about $700 million.
- That sounds like a lot of money, but given that B&Nâs sales are $3.6 billion, the pricing actually feels pretty cheap â reflecting the dismal state of B&N.
- Elliott is also the 100% owner of Waterstones, the British equivalent of B&N. Both those chains are proper bookshops, appealing to proper book lovers. In that sense, the chains are distinct from the supermarkets, who just sell a lot of books but donât care about them, or the British High Street & travel operator, WH Smith, which is as much a stationer and a newsagent as an actual book store.
- Waterstones was rescued from impending financial disaster by CEO James Daunt. It was Daunt who negotiated the sale of the firm to Elliott.
- Daunt will now act as CEO to both firms â B&N and Waterstones â and will divide his time between London and New York.
As it happens, Daunt also owns and runs his own mini-chain of high-end London bookstores. It was his experience at those stores which won him the position at Waterstones.
So, assuming that all goes according to plan, James Daunt will be the book worldâs second most powerful human, after Jeff Bezos.
So what does that mean â for readers? For writers? For publishers? For anyone?
Well.
Itâs a big and important move. James Daunt has a huge reputation in the UK and itâs probably deserved. His secret sauce for success? Quite simply this:
There is no secret sauce.
In the UK, Daunt simply took everything back to basics.
He turned bookselling into a proper career. (Albeit, inevitably, a badly paid one.) He retained staff who cared passionately about books and waved good-bye to the rest, perhaps a third of them. He cut costs. He made his stores prettier.
And, in a move so radical that it shook British publishing to its core, he let each store manager select their own inventory. So, yes of course, every store was expected to stock major bestsellers of the moment. But beyond that, what stores sold was guided by local passion and local knowledge. From a readerâs point of view, stores got better. There was more energy, more passion, more commitment.
But publishers, for a while, didnât know what to do. In the past, publishing worked like this:
- Publishers paid Waterstones a big chunk of cash to get into a 3-for-2 front-of-store promotion. So Waterstones was actually retailing its shelf-space. It wasnât really curating its own retail offering.
- Some of those 3-for-2s did really well, and became huge bestsellers.
- Others didnât, and the volume of returns was enormous (often 20% of total stock.)
- Publishers pulped those returns, ditched those authors and just made money from their mega-successes
That was check-book publishing and check-book retail.
Daunt killed that, and terrified publishers. How could they market books if the key step wasnât just throwing bundles of money at retailers? [and if you want a reminder of the different publishing options, you can get that here.]
Well, they solved that problem ⊠kinda. But all they really did was turn their attentions (even more than before) to the supermarkets and other mass retailers. Waterstonesâ local stores are great and feel like real bookshops ⊠but they canât build a bestseller as they did in the old days, because each store chooses its stock according to its own tastes.
Dauntâs path in the US is likely to follow the exact same route.
Heâs commented that one of the issues he feels on entering a typical B&N store is quite simply âtoo many books.â Too much stock. Too little curation and guidance. Not enough knowledge from the booksellers. An atmosphere so flat, you could swap it for cigarette paper.
Heâll cut stock. Reduce staff, but retain the best and most passionate members. Eliminate central promotions. Get better terms from publishers. Sharply reduce stock returns.
Do the basics, but do them right.
The impacts, positive and negative?
The positive:
Elliottâs cash plus Dauntâs knowhow should save specialist physical book retail in the US. Thatâs massive. Itâs the difference between a US publishing industry that operates much as it does now and one that would be almost wholly slave to Amazon. That also means that trad publishing is likely to survive in roughly its current shape and size, rather than being sidelined by the growth of digital-first publishers (notably self-pubbers and Amazon itself.)
The negative:
US publishers will have to learn the lessons already absorbed by the Brits. If B&N no longer operates national promotion systems as in the past, publishers canât make a bestseller just by buying space. Yes, theyâll go on seeing what they can do on social media and all that stuff. But, as in the UK, theyâll be even more dependent on supermarkets. The make-or-break of a book will be not âIs this wonderful writing?â but âdid we get enough retail space in enough supermarkets at a sufficiently attractive price?â
I know any number of authors where Book A did incredibly well, Book B did poorly ⊠and Book B was better than Book A. The difference, in every case, was that the supermarkets backed A and not B, and thereâs damn all a trad publisher can do once the supermarkets have said no.
Oh yes, and supermarkets donât really give a damn about the quality of writing. They donât know about the quality of the writing. They just buy on the basis of past sales (if youâre John Grisham) or a pretty cover (if youâre a debut.)
Of course, theyâd say their selection is a damn sight more careful than that, and it probably is. But thatâs still âcareful by the standards of people who mostly sell tinned beans and dog food for a living.â Thatâs not the same thing as actually being careful.
That sounds like a fairly downbeat conclusion, but the Elliott-saves-B&N news is still a real big plus for anyone who loves traditional stores, print books and traditional publishing. Itâs the single biggest win I can remember over the past few years.
What that win wonât do, however, is weaken the hold of supermarkets and Amazon over book retail. Those two forces are still huge. Theyâre still central.
And of course, talking about print books has its slightly quaint side. Me, I prefer print. I hardly ever read ebooks. I just spend enough time on screens as it is.
But print books constitute less than 30% of all adult fiction sales, and online print sales accounts for a big chunk of that 30%.
In other words, all those B&N stores up and down the US are still only attacking 23% or so of the total adult fiction market. However well Daunt does, that 23% figure isnât about to change radically. (Or not in the direction he wants, anyway.)
But, just for now, to hell with realism. Letâs remember the magic of a beautiful bookstore.
Daunt does. Here are some comments of his from 2017:
â[there is a sense that] a book bought from a bookshop is a better book.... When a book comes through a letter box or when a book is bought in a supermarket, it's not vested with the authority and the excitement that comes from buying it in a bookshop. âŠPrice is irrelevant if the customer likes the shop. The book is never an expensive item, [particularly for the many customers who] we know are quite happy to go into a cafĂ© and spend dramatically more on a cup of coffee."
Quite right, buddy. Now go sell some books. The readers need you.
Till soon
Harry
Iâve been reading a terrific guest post on our blog by our Craig Taylor. (And actually, âguest postâ doesnât feel like quite the right term, if Iâm honest. Craigâs a buddy, not a guest.)
The post is on how to write a scene and, in it, Craig asks:
âIf the theme of your work, say, is unrequited love, does your scene angle in to that theme? Does it demonstrate a circumstance or a feeling which is associated with unrequited love? Or does it demonstrate a circumstance or a feeling about requited love, so as to throw into relief the experience that one of your characters will have about unrequited love?â
And those are interesting questions, arenât they?
I, for one, donât write a book thinking that every scene I write has to âangle inâ to my major theme. But what if thatâs wrong? What if, in a well-constructed book, pretty much everything angles in to the one same issue? (Or, rather, cluster of issues, because a book that is rich thematically can never be too neatly categorised.)
And hereâs another thought:
What if you donât especially think about these things as you build your story? What if you do concentrate on good writing (nice prose, strong characters, a well-knitted plot), but donât overthink the thematic stuff?
What happens then? Is the result strong? Or will it never reach the kind of thematic depth and congruence that Craig is hinting at?
Hey, ho. Interesting questions. So I thought Iâd take a look at my own work and see whatâs actually happened there.
So my last book, The Deepest Grave, has a cluster of themes that include:
- Ancient history, specifically post-Roman Britain and the shade of Arthur
- Treasure and fakery
- Death (because this is a murder mystery, but it is also a book about Fiona Griffiths, whose attitudes to life and death are deep and complicated.)
But then, I only have to write those themes down on the page here â something Iâve never done before; I donât plan my thematic stuff â and I realise this: that those themes absolutely and necessarily contain their opposites. So a book that is about fakery and death is also, essentially, a book about:
- Authenticity
- Life â or, more specifically in Fionaâs case, the whole knotty business of how to be a human; how to establish and maintain an identity in the face of her overawareness of death.
OK. So those, broadly, are my themes. Letâs now look at whether my various scenes tend to hammer away at those things, or not. Are themes something that appear via a few strong, bold story strokes? Or are they there, fractal-like, in every detail too?
And, just to repeat, those arenât questions I consciously think about much as I write. Yes, a bit, sometimes, but I certainly donât go through the disciplined thought process that Craig mentions in his post.
And blow me down, but what I find is that, yes, those themes infest the book. The book never long pulls away from them at all.
So, aside from a place and date stamp at the top of chapter 1, the first words in the book are these:
âJon Breakell has just completed his chef dâoeuvre, his masterpiece. The Mona Lisa of office art. The masterpiece in question is a dinosaur made of bulldog clips, twisted biro innards and a line of erasers that Jon has carved into spikes.â
Thatâs a nod towards ancient history. Itâs a nod towards authenticity (the Mona Lisa) and fakery (a dinosaur that is definitely not a real dinosaur.) Itâs also, perhaps, a little nod towards death, because in a way the most famous thing about dinosaurs is that theyâre extinct.
It goes on. The mini-scene that opens the book concludes with Fiona demolishing her friendâs dinosaur and the two of them bending down to clear up the mess. Fiona says, âthatâs how we areâme, Jon, the bones of the fallenâwhen Dennis Jackson comes in.â
That phrase, the bones of the fallen, puts death explicitly on the page and in a way which alludes forward to the whole Arthurian battle theme that will emerge later.
Thatâs one example and â I swear, vow & promise â I didnât plan those links out in my head prior to writing. I just wrote what felt natural for the book that was to come.
But the themes keep on coming. To use Craigâs word, all of the most glittering scenes and moments and images in the book keep on angling in to my little collection of themes.
Thereâs a big mid-book art heist and hostage drama. Is there a whiff of something ancient there? Something faked and something real? Of course. The heist is fake and real, both at the same time.
The crime that sits at the heart of the book has fakery at its core. But then Fiona start doubling up on the fakery â sheâs faking a fake, in effect â but in the process, it turns out, she has created something authentic. And the authenticity of that thing plays a key role in the bookâs final denouement.
Another example. Fionaâs father plays an important role in this book. Heâs not a complicated or introspective man. He doesnât battle, the way his daughter does, for a sense of identity.
But what happens in the book? This big, modern, uncomplicated man morphs, somehow, into something like a modern Arthur. That identity shift again plays a critical role in the final, decisive dramas. But it echoes around the book too. Hereâs one example:
âDad drives a silver Range Rover, the car Arthur would have chosen.
It hums as it drives, transfiguring the tarmac beneath its wheels into something finer, silvered, noble.
A wash of rain. Sunlight on a hill. Our slow paced Welsh roads.â
Thatâs playful, of course, and I had originally intended just to quote that first line, about the Range Rover. But when I opened up the text, I found the sentences that followed. That one about âtransfiguring the tarmacâ is about that process of transformation from something ordinary to something more like treasure, something noble.
And then even the bits that follow that â the wash of rain, the sunlight on the hill â donât those things somehow attach to the âfiner, silvered, nobleâ phrase weâve just left? Itâs as though the authenticity of the man driving the Range Rover transforms these ordinary things into something treasured. Something with the whisper of anciency and value.
I could go on, obviously, but this email would turn into a very, very long one if I did.
And look:
Yet again, Iâve got to the end of a long piece on writing without a real âhow toâ lesson to close it off.
Craigâs blog post says, among many other good things, that you should ask whether or not your scene angles in to your themes. But I donât do that. Not consciously, not consistently. And â damn my eyes and boil my boots â I discover that the themes get in there anyway. Yoo-hoo, here we are.
Uninvited, but always welcome.
So the moral of all this is - ?
Well, I donât know. I think that, yes, if youâre stuck with a scene, or if itâs just feeling a little awkward or wrong, then working through Craigâs list of scene-checks will sort you out 99% of the time. A conscious, almost mechanical, attention to those things will eliminate problems.
But if youâre not the conscious mechanic sort, then having a floaty awareness of the issues touched on in this email will probably work as well. If you maintain that rather unfocused awareness of your themes, youâll find yourself naturally gravitating towards phrases and scenes and metaphors and moments that reliably support the structure youâre building.
And that works, I think. The final construction will have both coherence and a kind of unforced naturalness.
And for me, itâs one of the biggest pleasures of being an author. That looking back at a text and finding stuff in it that you never consciously put there.
Damn my eyes and boil my boots.
Till soon
Harry
I had plans for today, plans that involved some interesting and actually useful work.
But â
Our boiler sprang a leak. Even with the mains water turned off, it went on leaking through the night. Finding an engineer who could come out today (for a non-insane price) took the first half hour this morning. The engineer is coming at 3.30, and thatâll eat the last part of the day.
And â
I have a vast number of kids: four, in theory, but most days it seems like a lot more than that. And one of them, Lulu, spent most of the last couple of nights with, uh, a stomach upset. Of the intermittent but highly projectile variety.
So â
Not masses of sleep. And todayâs interesting work plans have been kicked into next week.
Which bring us to â
You. Life. Books. Writing.
The fact is that even if youâre a pro author, life gets in the way of writing all the time. Because writing isnât an office-based job, almost no writer I know keeps completely clean boundaries between work stuff and life stuff. Life intrudes all the time. Indeed, I know one author â a multiple Sunday Times top ten bestseller â whose somewhat less successful but office-based partner always just assumes that sheâll be the one to fix boilers, attend to puking children, etc, etc, just because sheâs at home and not under any immediate (today, next day) deadline pressure.
And thatâs a top ten bestseller weâre talking about. Most of you arenât in that position. Youâre still looking for that first book deal. The first cheque that says, âHey, this is a job, not just a hobby.â
So Life vs Work?
Life is going to win, most of the time. And itâll win hands down.
The broken boiler / puking kid version of life intrusion is only one form of the syndrome though. Thereâs one more specific to writers.
Hereâs the not-yet-pro-author version of the syndrome, in one of its many variants: You have one book out on submission with agents. You keep picking at it editorially and checking your emails 100 times a day. But you also have 20,000 words of book #2 on your computer and though, in theory, you have time to write, youâre accomplishing nothing. Youâre just stuck.
That feels like only aspiring authors should suffer that kind of thing, right? But noooooooo! Pro authors get the same thing in a million different flavours, courtesy of their publishers. Your editor quits. Your new editor, âreally wants to take a fresh look at your work, so as soon as sheâs back from holiday and got a couple of big projects off her desk âŠâ. Or your agent is just starting new contract negotiations with your editor, and you are hearing alarmingly little for some reason. Or you know that your rom-com career is on its last legs, so youâre looking to migrate to domestic noir, but you donât know if your agent / editor / anyone is that keen on the stuff you now write. Or âŠ
Well, there are a million ors, and it feels like in my career Iâve experienced most of them. The simple fact is that creative work is done best with a lack of significant distractions and no emotional angst embedded in the work itself. Yet the publishing merry-go-round seems intent on jamming as much angst in there as it can manage, compounded, very often, by sloppy, slow or just plain untruthful communications.
So the solution is �
Um.
Uh.
I donât know. Sorry.
The fact is, these things are just hard and unavoidable. Priorities do get shifted. You canât avoid it. The emotional strains of being-a-writer â that is, having a competitive and insecure job in an industry which, weirdly, doesnât value you very highly â are going to be present whether you like them or not.
There have been entire months, sometimes, when I should have been writing, but accomplished nothing useful because of some publishing drama, which just needed resolution. No one else cared much about that drama, or at least nothing close to the amount I did, with the result that those things often donât resolve fast.
Your comfort and shelter against those storms? Well, like I say, I donât have any magical answers but, here, for what itâs worth, are some things which may help:
- Gin. Or cheap wine. Or whatever works. I favour beers from this fine brewery or really cheap Australian plonk. The kind you can thin paints with.
- Changing your priorities for a bit. So if you really needed to clear out the garage or redecorate the nursery, then do those things in the time you had thought youâd be writing. Youâre not losing time; youâre just switching things around.
- Addressing any emotional/practical issues as fast and practically as you can. So letâs say you have book #1 out on submission, you can help yourself by getting the best version of that book out (getting our excellent editorial advice upfront if you need to.) You can make sure you go to a minimum of 10 agents, and probably more like 12-15. You can make sure those agents are intelligently chosen, and that your query letter / synopsis are all in great shape. (see the PSes for a bit more on this.) You can write yourself a day planner, that gives some structure to the waiting process: âX agents queried on 1 May. Eight weeks later is 26 June. At that point, I (a) have an agent, (b) send more queries, (c) get an editor to look at my text, or (d) switch full-steam to the new manuscript.â If you plan things like that upfront, you donât have to waste a bazillion hours crawling over the same questions in your head.
- Accepting the reality. Itâs just nicer accepting when things are blocked or too busy or too fraught. The reality is the same, but the lived experience is nicer. So be kind to yourself.
- Find community. Yes, your partner is beautiful and adorable and the joy of your life. But he/she isnât a writer. So he/she doesnât understand you. Join a community (like ours). Make friends. Share a moan with people who know exactly what you mean. That matters. It makes a difference.
- Enjoy writing. This is the big one, in fact. The writers who most struggle with their vocation are the ones who like having written something, but donât actually enjoy writing it. And I have to say, Iâve never understood that. My happiest work times have nearly always been when Iâm throwing words down on a page, or editing words Iâve already put there. And that pleasure means you keep on coming back to your manuscript whenever you can. And that means it gets written. And edited. And out to agents or uploaded to KDP and sold.
Of those six, then cultivating that happiness is the single biggest gift you can give yourselves.
And the gin, obviously.
Harry
Here's the place to talk about today's email - "The days that say no" - in which I talk about that feeling of reluctance to grapple with your current draft. We've all been there. What's your solution? What's worked, what hasn't, what's your advice?
And here's a picture of apple blossom to make us feel happy.