It is far better to send a report from a fugitive than to be the fugitive
reported upon. You send a report out
on them, warning the world, rather than enduring their manufacturing a report
about you first. They framed you.
That’s why you are on the run. And that’s why you must
send your report ahead of their lies. This doesn’t mean you are telling the
truth in spreading your personal propaganda, but that’s another story.
It is far better to send a report from a fugitive than to be the fugitive
reported upon.
This is not the answer I gave to a recent
question.
“Why is REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE the name of your blog/YouTube channel?”
I am eyebrow-deep in the
naming of things, and this came up.
Titles are tricky beasts, as we know from
the book titles that never-quite-were. Joseph Heller’s Catch-18 fell foul of another book’s publication. Too many books
with 18 in the title. No good.
You’ll
confuse the great book-buying public with, y’know, wildly different book covers
and different authors listed on those covers and, y’know, 18 in the title of both books. Or something.
And so we have Catch-22. A phrase, now. Part of the linguistic landscape. Catch-22 is a little catchier than is Catch-18. That extra syllable makes a
great difference to the catchiness of the title. All those extra t-sounds.
For minor works, unpublished works, works
lying dead by the side of the road, I’ve had titles foisted upon me by a small
army of well-meaning meddlers. Just once, if a title felt better than the title
I’d come up with, I’d be inclined to think this a good thing. Hasn’t happened
yet. Not saying it’s a bad thing…it’s just a thing.
I have the
perfect title for your next book.
Are you saying that I Have the Perfect Title for your Next Book is the perfect title
for my next book? You aren’t? Then surely I’ve just come up with that idea
myself. Titles for books. Raises a question.
Which came first: the chicken, or the
dinosaur egg?
In writing a story, does the story reach you
first? Or is the title ahead of the tale? Say the story comes to you on a turn
of phrase that transforms itself into the first line of the work. There’s your
catchy opening. Now go and hunt down the raw plot, and deliver on the promising
first line by cooking it.
First line. Same goes for the last line: occasionally
it pops up at the start of the creative process, and you work backwards – until
you reach the fateful beginning, when you slap the farm-fresh title on like a
production sticker as you boot the story out of the factory and into the tale-starved
world.
These are samples of the multitudinous options
on special offer. Let’s embrace the collision of ideas. The whole thing comes
to you in a jumble as you sleep or shower. Avoid showering while sleeping. This
leads to the hospital.
You read an article. Two contrasting facts
hit the news at the same time in different parts of the world, and you throw
them together with a title and a first line and an idea of how it all ends…
The rest is typing.
So how do I tackle this nonsensical business
of naming a story? I’ll have the idea for that story and call it by name. No
delay. The idea for the story includes the ending for that story. Always know
how it ends. Then you are free to write in any damned way you please.
Not to tread this worn-out path again, but…
Write the last scene first. Or write
chapters 1-4, skip to 8, go back to 5, 6, and 7, and then carry on with 9 and
10. Make a chapter twice as large as the rest and split it into two
near-chapters that need a bit of stitching to stop the bleeding. Write the rest
of the chapters in a conventional order with a sigh of relief.
You
know how it ends, after all.
And yes, I’ve written that way. I find,
though, that it is easier to write in sequential order. Non-sequential order
calls for more coffee. This is not a bad thing, but the human frame has its
limits.
Even
I, Coffee Fiend that I am, know that a coffee delayed is NOT a coffee denied –
it is, jovially, a coffee for next time: anticipated coffee. There will be
coffee. And stories. More coffee and more stories. And coffee.
My knowledge of the end allows me to detour
if my mind takes an unusual journey into the shrubbery to investigate this
curious item or that instant sub-plot. However it is written, the tale has a
title sticking out of it. That’s pretty much my title.
A survey of published works shows that my
titles are my titles, with one exception. A title rolled up in front of me,
created by another hand (or leg) and I seized it out of the air for myself.
Titles, whether wholly or partially mine, are almost always fixed.
No, I don’t care to have the title changed
on me. This has never really had major consequences, so I’ll let it slide.
Titles foisted upon me by a small army of well-meaning meddlers in a minor
article here or an unstarted story there…I can and do live with.
The title and the story go together in the
same breath. I don’t write three befuddled chapters of the tale with no name. Yes, the title is a production label. You
might add your label right at the end, seconds before you heave a tale onto the
lorry waiting outside the factory. But I like to know about the product I am
making. Title goes in there first or almost-first, for me.
This has a technical aspect to it, given that
computer files need to be named SOMETHING.
Even when I wrote on typewriter, I’d story-title every page in case of mix-ups.
When writing by hand, I definitely wanted to avoid those mix-ups in pages even
more.
Filling a blank page is a skill that needs a
polite boot up the arse to jump-start the process, and there’s no finer boot
available than the boot that stamps its title on your empty piece of paper.
If I
had to change a title for legal reasons…then I’d change a title. But I am not
in the habit of changing titles. A technical glitch leads to a title-change.
Okay, been there and done that. Minor stuff.
The objectionable Ernő Goldfinger objected
to the objectionable title of Ian Fleming’s book. Fleming offered to change the
villain’s name to Goldprick
throughout. (We have the hidden hand of Cyril Connolly to thank for that one.) Goldprick
and Pussy Galore. Well. Damn.
Let me pause for reflection while I listen
to Shirley Bassey. Overlaying the alternative title as she sings…it’s just not
the same. Perhaps that’s for the best. As a title, Goldfinger benefits from that extra syllable.
Expectation rears its monstrous visage on a
snaky body. It’s possible to name a story after something that never appears in
the story. Though is that advisable? Of course not. You may gain from the
comedy effect, if there is a comedy
effect – and that’s for the audience to decide. You have little say in the
matter.
Wild
West Shootout on Main Street better contain gun-toting action that’s
outside the saloon, or there’ll be hell to pay. The Arrival of Godot would, presumably, depict an appearance by the
character.
If I
buy shoelaces that turn out to be newts, I’ll wonder what went wrong. When
writing of newts, feature newts in the title and not shoelaces. Shoelaces for Newts is, naturally, one notable
exception.
The longer the title, the worse you fare as
you struggle to navigate the vastness of the ocean on which the title floats. Or
sinks. I favour shorter titles over longer ones. Daniel Defoe wrote in a style
we’ll charitably refer to as pre-paragraph.
It stands to unreason, then, that his story of one-page paragraphs would be
heralded, advertised, and proclaimed using a paragraph-long title.
And so, we have…
Turning to my shelves, I
encounter Moll Flanders.
As brevity
is the soul of lingerie, we’ll just refer to Moll by her name. By the time you
pass the title’s fifteenth word, and each of those a tombstone to brevity, you
might just have the aching suspicion that this book is written by the
overly-wordy Daniel Defoe.
An encounter with a long book title should
be like an encounter with your dentist. Once every six months is quite enough.
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