This is the fourth in a series following my
memoir as it moves from manuscript to published book. You can find
the other installments here.
At a conference, I gave a short presentation, "I'll Take Titles
for a Thousand, Alex," about creative titles for individual
essays, short memoir pieces mostly, or chapters/essays in a book of creative
nonfiction. I enjoy writing titles, though I'm aware many writers would
willingly shred and rewrite dozens of pages rather than deal with titles. (We
each are odd in our own ways!) I purposely limited my talk to short works,
because except for making suggestions for the titles of a few clients' books,
that's where my expertise lay.
But now I have one notch in the book title bedpost.
My memoir—to be published in May 2018 by University of Nevada Press—has a title:
Starting with Goodbye: A Daughter's Memoir of Love after Loss
Phew. That only took three months, a hivemind of writer friends,
the pros at the publisher, my agent, and hours of my time, buckets of
anxiety-induced sweat, and way too many lists scrawled on a dozen or so yellow
legal sheets.
Here's how we got to the
very best title for this book.
First, following my own advice, I always have a working title for
anything I’m writing. So I had one, right from the beginning. Sort of. But it's
hard to say, because when did the
book begin? With the first pages I wrote about what happened to me after my
father's death? That essay was titled "Two Weeks in Vegas,” and told the
story of the time I spent in Las Vegas with my mother, beginning the morning
after Dad died. But I didn't know then that piece would lead to a book. So that
wasn't the first working title for the manuscript.
Six years later, with a dozen or so additional essays in hand, I
began to think it might be a book of linked essays, and I typed this working
title on page one: Father Figure. I soon
realized this wasn't right, perhaps implying he wasn't a real father, or that
it was about someone else.
Meanwhile, woven into the evolution of the title is the larger
evolution of the book itself. As a memoir-in-linked-essays, I got great
feedback on the writing, but a handful
of publishers, a book coach, and trusted beta readers (writer friends) all said:
transform the essays into a more traditional narrative memoir. I grumbled,
procrastinated, and then finally I did it. (More on this process in a future Memoir
Book Report post.)
As I rewrote and began
to see the narrative arc emerging, I tossed out the working title. And another. When the new manuscript was ready, I began brainstorming title ideas, and landed
on yet another working title, The Father
and Daughter Reunion.
Right away, I knew I needed a subtitle—common in memoir not only
to lure readers, but to give readers, booksellers, librarians, and others in
the book world important hints about the story.
Back to the lists, where three word groups jumped out: "a
love story," "a ghost story," and "a loss story." Because
my father and I have "conversations" after his death, and because I
came to know and love him better then too, I wanted to incorporate these ideas.
And so I came up with the subtitle Every
Loss Story is a Love Story.
Many people liked this subtitle (and even suggested it as a title) because it was lyrical,
slightly mysterious, with nice rhythm. It sounded familiar but also new and surprising.
But there were two problems: First, it too closely echoed the title of D. T.
Max's biography of David Foster Wallace: "Every Ghost Story is a Love
Story,” a book I’d read with great interest. Though it’s a phrase Wallace used, it didn't
originate with him (which Max detailed in a New
Yorker article), many readers would link
it to Wallace.
The other problem was that, taken
literally, that subtitle wouldn’t resonate for readers who have had different experiences
with the connection between loss and love. I knew I’d be changing it,
eventually.
Yet, coupled with The Father
and Daughter Reunion, that was the subtitle when the University of Nevada
Press acquired the book in March of this year. Early editorial feedback
mirrored my own gut feeling: we needed a new title. I was ready. Sort of.
First, I went looking for inspiration
inside the manuscript, searching phrases, themes, objects, chapter titles, dialogue.
Next, I looked at poems about grief. I wrote and wrote titles and subtitles,
filling pages. Then I culled the lists, spent time on Amazon checking for books
with too-similar titles, and on Google, checking for...well you never know
what, do you?
I reached out to trusted writer
friends, some who’ve published memoirs, some who hadn’t; all whip-smart and able to consider both marketing issues and literary concerns. I added friends
who buy books by the boatload. And my family.
I gave them—as well as my agent—14 possible
titles, and 11 potential subtitles—disconnected from one another, in random order.
I wanted to see what titles they thought matched which subtitles. I also asked
for original ideas, and had lots of fun—and pulled out a bunch of hair—sorting
through the responses.
At the same time, the publishers’
editorial and marketing teams were shuffling possibilities too. While I was
fretting and spinning, my agent—who can instantly clarify for me things I’m
naturally inclined to make overly complicated—helped me see the value in
considering not only the lyrical, literary, dreamy, poetic titles I tend to
gravitate to, but also more straightforward options. This was good advice. The lists grew. And narrowed.
Finally, a deadline loomed, and I sent
off my suggestions to the publisher—ten possible titles and seven subtitle
candidates. Then I waited. And kept replaying the list in my head, questioning
everything I had and had not considered, admonishing myself for not including
more of the titles still on those yellow sheets. A few days later my email
pinged with my final title. And I relaxed.
Right away, Starting with Goodbye: A Daughter’s Memoir of Love after Loss, felt
right. It struck me, my agent, my family and friends, as intuitively on-target.
Right away, I started coaxing
my fingers around the new keyboard combination, wanting to immediately get
quicker at typing it, wanting to feel it flow from my fingertips, as if I’d
been typing it forever.
Find the rest of the Memoir Book Reports here. If you're interested in seeing the slides that accompanied my presentation about titles for short works (at the HippoCamp conference), go here.
