Naming the Books I Haven’t
Written
I knew what I would name my rat
terrier before I got her—Toni Soprano.
My neighbor Steve guffawed when I told him. “I want a tough little dog
and I’m gonna teach her ‘siccum,’” I said. In fact, she’s a sweet little dog who doesn’t know ‘”siccum”
and, to my knowledge, has never killed a rat.
However, I love brainstorming about names. Whenever a friend is trying to think of
a good name, I am compelled to mull over the possibilities. Mostly recently, the name search has
been for an opinion column in the Progressive
Rancher (“Irons in the Fire” with a picture of branding irons over a
campfire) and the mysterious, androgynous character in a friend’s short story
(Merle, masculine like Merle Haggard but could be a woman’s name). I don’t care if my choice is
selected. I just like thinking of
names.
This morning I read a blog that
recommends you secure the domain names for your unwritten novels. Yes, that does sound like naming unborn
children. Or, in my case, thinking
up names for the unborn children of my unmarried adult children.
I have mixed feelings about doing
this, although the blogger gives sound reasons. On one hand, I believe in the power of naming. After all, God named the world into
existence and if you don’t believe me, re-read Genesis: “In the beginning was the Word.”
Then there’s the fact that I am
always thinking of names of the books I have yet to write, especially slim
volumes of poetry. Two recent
favorites are Time Change and Proud Flesh. The latter refers to scars. When I was in graduate school, I named my selection of poems
submitted for a portfolio project, Rough
Side Out. I think I’m pretty
good at naming a book. Not so good
at sitting down and writing it.
Maybe God created a world by naming it, but it doesn’t work that way
with us mortals, does it?
