Whimsical Wednesday: What’s in a Title?

Book titles have always intrigued me. I can’t help but wonder about the inspirations, the meanings, the thought processes behind each one. While I can appreciate simple ones like The Shining and Little Women, I’m especially drawn to those with double meanings, such as Carol Goodman’s The Lake of Dead Languages.

Nowadays, a good title can mean even more than it once did. In the 18th and 19th centuries, for instance, it was perfectly acceptable for novels to be named after the protagonist, such as The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders (1722) and Jane Eyre (1847). Although this practice is still witnessed today – consider the much-lauded The Story of Edgar Sawtelle (2008) – it seems that most publishers are choosing much more compelling titles, especially one-word entities like the oft-mentioned Twilight (2006) – titles that entice readers to pick up a particular book and hopefully purchase it.

Now, you might be wondering why I’m even thinking about this today. After all, I’m not even finished the final revision of my novel yet. Well, I suppose I’ve just realized that it’s never too early to choose a title. The problem is... I thought that I had. For years now, I’ve been laboring under the assumption that Hollow Souls was the perfect title for my book – it’s even got a double meaning! But, as I expressed on my Ruby Hollow blog today, I’m seriously beginning to question it. It was my beta readers’ concerns about the title that initially got me thinking about other possibilities... and Donna Hole’s recent post that made me decide to do something about it.

So, as I asked on my other blog, I’m wondering what others think about this matter. Should I even be focusing on this right now? How critical is a title at this stage anyway? Won’t an agent or editor want to change it no matter what I call it now? Or could it help differentiate me (or my work) in the query slush pile? Does it matter that the title refers to my protagonist’s hollowness as well as the residents of Ruby Hollow? Is it worse that Hollow Souls might send the wrong message about my novel, which is what some beta readers have suggested? Would Ruby Hollow be better – or should I keep looking? Oh, what’s a befuddled wannabe novelist to do?

Weekend Mishmash: Five Fabulous Words

Apparently, there’s a new trend drifting through the blogosphere – that of creating a post around five unique words, offered by a fellow blogger. Well, yesterday, my good pal Deb L. Strange gave me five intriguing words: treasure, peace, meatball, surf, and memory. According to Deb, “you just work the five words into a post, any way you want. Some people do paragraphs for each, or a short story, a poem – whatever you like!”

Since I’m not much of a poet, I thought I’d share an edited part of my WIP, Hollow Souls. Ironically, the five above words all appear in the epilogue that has since been cut from my revision. After reading it, I’m sure you’ll understand why.

Just for fun – since it’s never going to see the light of day – I’ve decided to rewrite it in first person, from the perspective of Olivia Harper, my protagonist’s daughter:

MEMORY is seductive. It can creep in with the night, masked by dreams or, if dinner’s been eaten too late, by nightmares instead. It can find me asleep in the daytime, when my head has emptied its cares and left me open to influence. Triggered by the smallest of things: a subtle wink, a whirring helicopter, the fragrant sweet olive branch. A series of related notions, growing ever more complex, ever more remote from the initial thought, a sort of free-association train.

Memories often hide within the deep recesses of my mind, sometimes staying buried for years. They can catch me off guard and envelop my mind. Most of the time, though, memories flit in and out, only pausing to ignite their most poignant emotions.

The aroma of brewing coffee recalls the old percolator in my beloved piano teacher’s kitchen. Spying a father fishing with his child makes me long for Dad’s old boat. The electric atmosphere after a thunderstorm reminds me of my tenth spring, when I followed Beverly onto the dewy levee, to shoot off the firecrackers we’d found in her attic. Waves crash against the shore, and my cheeks burn with the memory of that last summer in New Orleans, when Nicholas told me how hard long-distance was, how it wasn’t me who’d changed, but him.

Almost always, memories are untrue, with at least a trace of misinterpretation. The years between can manipulate such events, making them seem more gleeful, more tragic, more crucial than they truly were. Hindsight often seems like foresight remembered, instead of what it really is: wisdom learned after years of inner struggle. Often, my mind leads me along hazy passages, offering mere glimpses of the past and letting my imagination fill in the rest.

So it’s always been with the tale of Ruby Hollow, a bedtime story unveiled in the sanctity of my first bedroom, recalled many times afterward, kept bottled inside for three decades. I wonder if I still see the dim tunnels clearly or if they’ve attained a mythical nature over the years. Though my present life on the island utterly completes me, I often find myself reflecting on that strange underworld, and I have to reread Jesse’s old letters or my mother’s infrequent notes to see if the memory belongs to me or someone else.

As I stand on the beachside deck, collecting the limp seaweed and other debris that Hurricane Miranda has left in her wake, I gaze across the disheveled shore and into the clear blue sky, wiped as clean as my conscience now that I’ve shared the secret of the Hollow with someone else. Michael is out front, trying to repair a broken railing. The children are downstairs, tidying up the rec room where most of our overnight guests weathered the three-day storm.

It seems so quiet now that the house is no longer filled with a herd of people and animals. Although the roof is missing a few tiles, the attic has suffered some leakage, and the debris will fill innumerable trash bags, the house withstood the tempest, just as Michael promised. Even without phone and electricity, we all survived.

We had a gas range and plenty of candles, linens, flashlights, water jugs, and canned goods – not to mention one another. Despite our uncertainty, we all did our best to keep the laughter flowing. Daryl and Samantha told corny jokes. Joe regaled us with embellished TREASURE-hunting yarns. Alec and Jess, who hoped their RV would still be standing after the storm, even shared a few of their highway misadventures. We played board games, read books, sang songs, tossed ratty tennis balls to the dogs, and tried to forget how isolated we were.

Like a makeshift community, we pulled together during the storm, pitching in wherever we could. We rotated the duties of feeding the animals and taking the dogs outside, beneath the shelter of the second-floor deck, for their reluctant but necessary potty breaks. We even took turns in the kitchen to satisfy the hungry herd down below. I made a large pot of MEATBALLS and spaghetti that lasted through the first night.

I remember chopping two potent onions for the meal. Alec’s cat kept me company in the kitchen, crouching on a cushioned chair, not making a sound. As my eyes began to water from the minced, vaporous onions, I noticed, in the glow of a few lanterns, that the slender calico cat also had red, watery eyes. She looked so sweet and vulnerable sitting beneath the tabletop, clueless as to the cause of her suffering and too scared to abandon her post. I set down the knife and gently picked up the furry feline, carting her downstairs, past a heated Monopoly game, to an empty bedroom. It was moments like these that made the house feel like a remote, tight-knit commune, protected from the elements and the influence of the world – like a smaller version of Ruby Hollow itself.

Spying Buddy on the beach below, chasing a butterfly, I’m reminded of Charlie, the dog of my youth, and the last time I saw my mother, during a secret rendezvous five years ago. Ignoring my task on the messy deck, I descend the sloping boardwalk to the beach. I sit on the soggy sand and hug my knees. As I gaze across the gently foaming SURF, I think about my mother, about her one-way trip to Kentucky over two decades ago, and the legacy of happiness she passed to me...

“Mommy!”

I awaken on the beach. I’m lying on my side, my face peppered with sand. Buddy circles me, whimpering. My recollections must have put me to sleep.

“Mommy?” Samantha appears, barefoot and worried.

I sit up, wiping the sand from my cheek. I’m not surprised by my inadvertent nap. I haven’t rested much in the past few days. “What is it, baby?”

“I think we have fleas. And Macy ate most of the Bible.”

“What are you talking about?”

Daryl appears on the dune. “The rec room’s a mess. We found a few chewed-up books under the sofa. The Bible, a couple books about famous artists, a rare one from the 1800s, and something by the Dalai Lama. They all had dog slobber on them. And it wasn’t Buddy’s.”

I look at Buddy and chuckle. Joe once told me about Macy’s pesky hobby. The willful golden retriever tends to chew books for fun, especially biographies and anything religious. “That’ll teach us to read the Bible. Now, what about fleas?”

Apparently, Joe’s dogs, who are often allowed to run on the beach and are rarely treated for fleas, have left a few critters behind. We’ll have to fumigate the house and dip poor Buddy in a flea bath, but it’s not the worst thing that could’ve happened.

I stand. “Don’t worry about it, guys. We’ll figure it all out. In the meantime, try to squish any bugs you find and keep up the cleaning.”

“But, first,” Daryl says, “we have to get something to drink. We’re both super thirsty.”

I grin. “Oh, by all means, take a break. Get some lemonade. It’s in the fridge.”

“Okay, Mom.” He heads for the boardwalk.

I kiss Samantha on the forehead, then she too bolts toward the boardwalk, with Buddy following closely on her sandy heels. I linger on the beach for a moment, watching the tide and thinking about my family. Every morning, I feel blessed to have my husband, my two children, my life on the island. Michael and I haven’t yet discussed the possibility of moving back to the mainland, but I know that surviving the much-anticipated hurricane has probably changed his perspective. It’s certainly changed mine.

If we stay here, we’ll face another fearsome tempest someday – perhaps worse than Miranda, perhaps before this year’s season is over for good. And, once again, we may have no choice but to wait it out while risking loss of life and property. As it stands, the causeway has yet to be repaired; we’re still virtually trapped on the island, and the same thing might happen again next time.

Sure, our house has survived, but Joe’s rickety old bookstore suffered a great deal of damage. Peter, the hare-brained tenant in Joe’s backyard, endured a pummel of branches on his motorhome. Alec and Jess’s trailer toppled over, and we knew at least one couple that drowned when the barge collided with the bridge.

But this is home, and every home can be fraught with dangers. Californians endure unexpected earthquakes. Oklahomans must seek shelter from sudden tornadoes. New Englanders are occasionally buried beneath a ton of snow. And nature isn’t the only unpredictable force in the world. New Yorkers certainly weren’t expecting the towers of the World Trade Center to come crashing down a week ago.

The only place that’s ever seemed safe from most of the hardships that mankind or Mother Nature has to offer is the underground world of Ruby Hollow, and even it has its disadvantages, including manmade floods and the daily threat of discovery.

South Padre Island is home for us, just as the Hollow is home for my mother and Jesse and the rest of their secret society. The island has everything we need – the Blue Marlin supermarket, Naturally’s health food store, the Island Clinic, gas stations, even an equestrian center – not to mention our dearest friends, and my very own art gallery and bead shop. We’ve made so many unforgettable memories here on the island – getting battered by the waves during our first attempt at boogie-boarding, watching romantic sunsets on Amberjack’s patio, helping the kids with an Easter egg hunt along the shore, racing dune buggies on the lonely stretches north of town. And, of course, there’s always the possibility of accompanying our pal Joe as he unearths a Spanish galleon in the sands offshore, especially in the wake of a hurricane.

“Olivia! You alright?”

Turning, I spy Michael on the deck. He’s sitting at an outdoor table with the kids, each sipping from tall glasses of ice-cold lemonade. He holds up a fourth glass, clearly meant for me, and grins that inviting half-smirk of his. I smile, dust off my linen pants, and stroll up the boardwalk.

Ultimately, my mother’s legacy has little to do with the truth about Ruby Hollow. Although the original fairy tale saw me through some rough points in my childhood and helped Samantha endure the last few furious nights, the moral of the story is that everyone has a right to be happy, to find a Ruby Hollow of her own. For my mother, that place is an underground labyrinth filled with like-minded souls. For me, it’s the unguarded island at the tip of Texas that my husband and children call home. Perhaps when Samantha’s older, I’ll take her to Kentucky to meet her grandmother and see the Hollow for herself. But, for now, I’m simply grateful for the PEACE after the storm and the family that’s waiting for me.

----------

P.S. If you would like five words to experiment with on your own blog, let me know in the comments section. I'll be happy to oblige!

Friday Fantasies: Ruby Hollow Unearthed

Fridays are usually reserved for reviews of existing books, plays, movies, TV shows, and music. But, today I’ve decided to focus on my novel, Hollow Souls, which is unfortunately not published yet. But, hey, it’s my blog, and I can boast if I want to...

As I’ve already mentioned on one of my other blogs, something very exciting is happening today on Come In Character, a creative site launched in January by two wacky writers (Mira and Ann) to focus on characters... and their authors. Of all the writing-related blogs that I follow, CIC is the one that most inspires me to write (or at least get to know my characters better). Every Friday, one lucky character is featured in the “Character of the Week” post – which offers him, her, or it the chance to share with the other characters and, perhaps, teach his, her, or its “creator” a thing or two.

Well, today, one of my characters – Olivia Harper – is in the spotlight – thanks to Christine H., whose character Ginger was featured last week. So, thanks, Christine! I enjoyed exploring Olivia’s past, which included her childhood in New Orleans and her strange experiences in the secret, underground village of Ruby Hollow. I just hope no one gets upset with her for revealing so many secrets. The Hollow does have Internet access, after all.

Regardless, I’m excited to see how the day unfolds for Olivia, who’ll be checking in frequently from her home on South Padre Island. And, of course, I wouldn’t be surprised if a few other key characters stopped by to say “hello” (or something worse), too. So, if you’re curious about Olivia and my other characters – or just intrigued by the concept of Come in Character – please pay us a visit as soon as you can.

Whimsical Wednesday: Jigsaw Puzzles

Ever since I was a child, growing up in New Orleans, I’ve been cuckoo for jigsaw puzzles. As with many of my longtime interests, I have Mom to thank for my puzzle obsession. Over the years, we worked on a variety of puzzles together – from a silly 1000-piece map of the United States, with crazy little characters that kept us giggling all week, to a 550-piece snapshot of chocolate slabs that made us both ravenous every time we assembled it.

No matter where we were living at the time – the house in New Orleans East, the place north of Lake Pontchartrain, the last one in Lakeview – there was always a stack of puzzles in my mother’s closet. When I visited her in the fall of 2004, I rescued my favorite one from the stack – a vibrant drawing of a unicorn in a meadow. Thank Serendipity that I did, for less than a year later, Hurricane Katrina broke the levee between Metairie and Lakeview, and submerged nearly all of my mother’s belongings, including our beloved puzzles. When I finally saw the house again – several months after Katrina had uprooted my mother and forced her to relocate to Baton Rouge – all that was left of our puzzles were a few scattered pieces in the moldy carpet.

But I’ve never forgotten the joy that I felt working on puzzles with Mom – and the sense of accomplishment whenever we finished one. I’ll never forget, too, our ritual – we would work steadily until the very last piece, which we would insert into the puzzle together.

Today, I still work on puzzles – occasionally with my nieces, but more often by myself. I find them at once relaxing and challenging – so much so that I decided to mention them in my first novel, Hollow Souls. Of course, the novel is soon to undergo a major revision, so it’s possible that the puzzle scene will have to go. Whether it stays or not, though, I’d like to share it with you:

After a leisurely dinner with her friends, Caroline followed the Littletons up to the third level. Most Hollowites were so active during the week that they had to reserve specific nights for uninterrupted family time. For the Littletons, three hours every Sunday were theirs to spend however they wanted – no homework, chores, guard shifts, or other appointments – just board games, jigsaw puzzles, art projects, storytelling sessions, moonlit strolls, anything that allowed them to have fun together. Caroline was flattered to be included in such a precious family ritual.

By half-past seven, a dozen individuals sat on the floor of the Littletons’ cozy parlor, trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle that had only been completed once before – when it was first crafted. Earlier in the year, Mariah Singleton, a skilled portrait painter, had invited Anna and Agnes to pose for a joint picture. Two months later, in celebration of her lifelong friends’ thirty-seventh wedding anniversary, she’d created a life-sized depiction of them, portrayed from head to waist. Instead of handing over the painting, however, she’d sliced the thin wooden canvas into a thousand smaller pieces and stored them in a hand-carved box. Though grateful for the gift, the couple had yet to see the actual portrait, so tonight they’d convinced the family to help them complete the puzzle, which they planned to glue, frame, and hang on their bedroom wall.

For four hours, the family discussed everything from schoolwork to Christmas presents, while diligently laboring on different sections of the picture. Margaret, Julia, and Agnes toiled over the rose-colored background while the children struggled with the women’s faces. Although the subjects of the painting were in their very midst, all of them, including Anna and Agnes, found it challenging to complete the puzzle without a comparison image. Eventually, they were compelled to raid their closets for the outfits worn during their studio sitting. With the clothes draped across the sofa, the image emerged more quickly, though it still proved a difficult project for the men, whose patience wore thin after the first hour.

Nevertheless, the family persevered. Caroline proved especially dexterous; she’d assembled many puzzles in her room back in Lexington. Ignoring the children’s normal bedtime, the family managed to achieve their goal, and Caroline was given the honor of securing the last piece – a smidgen of Anna’s brown eye.

When the image was again whole, the family surveyed Mariah’s handiwork. Against the rosy drapery that the artist had hung in the background, Anna and Agnes posed in a comfortable, smiling embrace. Wearing a maize-hued corduroy dress, with her thick black hair pulled into a single braid, Anna stood behind Agnes, her arms encircling her companion’s waist, her brown-skinned fingers interlaced with her partner’s pale, slender hands. Agnes’ curly, grayish-blonde hair was cropped in a customary bob, and her cotton blouse was the shade of sea green. Well into middle age, the women seemed younger in Mariah’s rendition, perhaps because, after nearly four decades, theirs was an embrace of two women still in love.

“I like it,” Jesse said. “You both look really happy. Younger, too.”

“Yeah,” Caroline agreed. “And the colors are all so pretty.”

“You should definitely get it framed,” Joshua added. “Me and Dad could do it for you.”

Anna squeezed her partner’s hand. “I think the kids are right.”

Agnes smiled. “Think it does us justice?”

Margaret laughed. “Ladies, if an artist manages to capture your unique styles, illustrate your love for each other, and make you look younger, the painting’s definitely a keeper.”

“Thanks, everyone, for helping us put it together,” Anna said as she lifted the board.

Agnes picked up the other end, and together they walked toward their bedroom door, balancing the puzzle between them. “Yeah, if we’d had to do it on our own, we wouldn’t have finished ‘til our fortieth anniversary. And we see these faces every day.”