I’m off to London next week. For lunch. And dinner. The former with my editor and agent, the latter with just the latter, who has promised we won’t end up lost in a transvestite bar in Soho this time. Don’t ask. Or, actually, do if you like; he’ll be appearing here soon for an interview.
Mostly, though, we’re going to discuss titles. You know, those things charged with the small task of capturing a book’s essence. Of resonating loudly and beautifully. Of making a bold and irresistible statement that will flourish, emblazoning itself indelibly into readers’ hearts and minds. No pressure, then. I have one or two favourites, ones that, like yapping dogs tugging at my trousers, are sensing the time for a verdict is near.
- Me me me. Pick me.
- Sorry. It’s been a tough call. I love you all but…
The rest will be taken away and shot. Better get it right.