Naming the Books I Haven't Written

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?