The Horrifying (and Utter) Stupidity of Attention-Grabbing Titles that Can't Be Advertised
I can't fucking believe this.
I take a lot of pride in my work, and my writing is no exception. If you're reading this blog, it should be no surprise that I also take pride in my titles. For example, in my otherwise mediocre-titled novella "Videorama", the chapters themselves sing out with titles like "The Day After The Day That Was Yesterday ... and Other Tragedies", "It's the Bat, Man", and "She-Hulk vs The Indomitable Trouser Snake". Likewise, the sister (musical) novella is about a pair of 20-somethings trying to figure out what to do with their lives in Orlando, and following much internal anguish, I ended up titling the story after the name of the coffee shop central to the narrative: "Religiously Roasted Every Goddamn Day".
Personal pride aside, a compelling title is essential. Whether we're talking traditional publishing, self-publishing, a YouTube video, or a simple blog post, our goal is to craft a title that demands to be inspected, prompting the audience to peel back the cover, peek behind the thumbnail, and dig into the story underneath.
Great stories deserve great titles.
When it came to my latest book, the title would not only have to be great, but grab the reader, slap them around a bit, and implore them to click "purchase". Here's how I found the title and, subsequently, the unfortunate circumstance I quickly found myself stuck in.
The main character is Abraham Owens. He's a former construction worker and, to put it bluntly, looks like one of the evil villain's henchmen who gets killed in the first act. He's a brute. A thug. A mono-syllabic, muscle-bound man of few words and who prefers a well-placed grunt to any actual discourse. And since the book is written in first-person, his vocabulary is equally limited.
And while it is his quasi-partner -- the young, irascible, on-again-off-again PI, Valdes -- who has the real sailor's mouth, Abe's favorite word is still, most assuredly, "fuck".
When I started writing, I knew the story (at least, the broad strokes) and definitely knew the character, but I had a hell of a time coming up with a title for this book.
Abraham Owens's debut novel is about white supremacists and how Nazis are always the bad guys, no matter if you call them white nationalists, supremacists, "Sons of the Golden Future", or even Republicans. A Nazi is a Nazi is a Nazi.
Next, Abe Owens is a brawler who solves problems with his fists. That's how he makes his living -- doing jobs whenever his financial and alcoholic reserves run dry and happily isolating himself in his lakeside trailer when he's flush. The booze is critical because of Abe's super empathy -- without enough alcohol (an amount that would hospitalize or even kill an average person), Abe is overwhelmed and totally debilitated by other people's emotions.
When I settled on the "Punched Drunk" colloquialism, I began to chew over how to spin it into something unique for my story. Incidentally, I initially expected this to be a single one-off for the character -- I have a full hopper of other stories begging to be written, and I wasn't concerned with turning Abe Owens into a serial experience.
A slight but informative tangent: my mother has (very) prudish ears. I have no idea why and while I do my best to respect it while in conversation with her, at the end of the day, I can't help but be infuriated by the self-censorship. Words are the basis of communication. Foul language is the most expressive, versatile, and beautiful of those words, and to prohibit their usage because they offend a random puritanical sensibility is flat-out fucking absurd.
No, it's not just absurd. It's not just flat-out absurd.
It's flat-out FUCKING absurd.
It's an underscore rich with biting, explosive color.
So when the title to the Abraham Owens novel finally came into focus, it became clear it was simultaneously the perfect expression of the character (my mono-syllabic anti-hero), a perfect expression of the story (punching those goddamn fucking Nazi fucks), and a personal, cathartic planting of my flag:
Abraham Owens doesn't give a fuck, and frankly, Scarlett, neither do I.
The title works on multiple levels. It even earned the book its first review (its first five-star review, at that). Surprise: the reader came for the title, stayed for the story, and left a series of comments praising the writing.
It made my day, week, and probably my fucking year.
"Abraham Owens is Punched, Drunk, and All Out of F*cks!" is a title that works. It sings. And it set a brilliant tone for the next story in the series. ("Abraham Owens is Red, Dead, and Guilty as F*ck!" -- so much for the one-off! This 55-page outline is currently awaiting the first-draft treatment.)
Here's where things go sideways.
Despite my original premise of writing, self-publishing, and trying desperately hard not to care what happens with my material after its been released into the world ... I decided to dip my toes into the world of Amazon advertising, happy to toss a few hundred bucks a month to push what I essentially view as my headline, marquee novel.
And while I suspected I would have a hard time with Punched Drunk due to advertising content guidelines, it was still an unfortunate kick in the nuts when I finally read what those guidelines were.
Amazon (and probably any other advertising platform) refuses to promote anything with profanity in the title. Even if the profanity is intentionally censored. They don't have any problem hosting, publishing, and selling the material -- but advertising it? Fuck right the hell off, thank you very much.
So to recap: to successfully self-publish, you need a desperately compelling title. I came up with one -- that arguably works on multiple, satisfying levels -- but the very nature of the title prohibits this book (my heretofore landmark novel) impossible to advertise through traditional means.
I'm not surprised, and I'm only slightly disappointed. Again, my original plan was to launch the book and promptly move on to the next project, hopefully not giving a second thought as to how the book landed.
It's a fuckaroo of my own design. A blightful contradiction of idiotic markets and a tilting-at-windmills desire to succeed. I wanted to not care. But then I found myself in a situation where I had no choice but to dig in deep and care the shit out of the whole fucking thing.
I really can't fucking believe this.
###
