What’s In a Title?

rachelspangler • January 4, 2019

Happy New Year!  I hope you all are acclimating well to 2019 so far.  I know we’re just getting started with a new year, but I am eager to start it off right, and in my world, that means we start it off with a new book!

My next release was born out of the time my family and I spent living in England in 2017/2018.  I am going to do some blogs on those details later, but for now, let’s just say it was a magical, golden time filled with adventure and romance, and I felt inspired every day.  I wrote a classically sweet and romantic novel while nestled in out little village looking out over the North Sea.  I couldn’t wait to share it with you all when I got home; however, I couldn’t even begin the publishing process because I didn’t have a title.

Titles are the worst for me.  Okay, actually they are the second worst after blurbs, but still I am terrible at them.  I haven’t titled even half of my books, instead waiting for friends to do the job for me.  So, I headed off to Indiana to visit friends Sarah and Andy, who have helped with this process in the past.  We did like we always do. We put the kids to bed, got out some wine, and I told them about the story:  Recently divorced American writer moves to her ancestral home in the hopes of hiding out and healing her wounds, but the whole village wants to be friendly and tries to fix her up with the only other lesbian they know, the town’s loveably understated British/Irish bartender.  Then I turned to my friends and said, “Go.”

What followed was an hour of the worst British puns and romantic cliches you can imagine. We ran through themes of hiding, of running away, of travel and homelands. And things only devolved from there.  At one point were were listening to ’80’s pop songs and scanning blurbs of Hallmark movies.  All we got was tipsy and this list of the least horrible ideas, most of which actually were pretty horrible for this book.

Heart’s Hideaway
British Beginnings
Hearts in Hiding
Longing for Home
Getaway Romance
British Begin Again
Worlds Apart
Crossing Borders
Escape to the Country
Borderline
Across the Pond
Run for the Border
Seaside Lover Holiday Village
Waiting for Love in All the Wrong Places

Weeks, even months later, we were back in in England, still tossing around the ideas and feeling the pressure of a deadline, when we decided to play the same game some of our British friends.  They came up with a similarly tragic list of randomly British things that had virtually nothing to do with the books, usually followed by requests to make them fit through some sort of rewrite.

Castle and Queen (there is a castle in the book)
Garden Party (nope, she does have an important garden, but hosts no parties there)
Tea Time
High Tea (they could get high and drink tea?)
Pub Quiz
London Calling (doesn’t fit and already taken)
The Royal Guard (just no)
Tea and Scones (there actually are assloads of scones in this book, but no)
Borderlands
Bonfires

The list went on and on, and I feared we’d never find a single, catchy, English thing in any way related to the actual book I’d written.  Then came breakfast,  a full English breakfast.

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And no, I have no scenes in the book where my characters flirt over massive plates loaded down with all the good things that pass as acceptable breakfast foods in England.  I did, however, have some very interesting connections forming in my mind.  My main American character’s heritage is English. My other main character is half English, half Irish. They are in effect, both part-English, which is a fun play on the concepts of parts and a whole.  The village and region where they meet and fall in love (That’s not a spoiler. It’s a romance) is also quintessentially English.  The village sets about giving them a full English experience.  And finally, as Emma puts down roots of her own to mingle with those of her family tree, she becomes increasing at home and increasingly English.  The whole story takes a lot of parts, but the sum total works out to be a full English romance.

From there, I wrote a blurb, and Ann McMan designed the deliciously romantic cover. Then Bywater Books started the long process of getting Full English out to you!

 

After a publicly humiliating divorce, best-selling author Emma Volant runs away to hide in the seaside English village of Amberwick, where she doesn’t know another living soul. She wants nothing more than to surrender to her broken heart in private. However, when the locals discover their newest resident is world famous, they gather at the local pub and hatch a plan to draw Emma out of her self-imposed isolation, hoping her celebrity status will elevate the village’s reputation to something more than a holiday hotspot.

It doesn’t take long for them to try to rope their favorite bartender, Brogan, into the act. Born and raised in Amberwick, Brogan McKay has built a comfortable life by never overreaching. Part-time jobs and short-term flings have always been good enough for her, but when she meets her beautiful and wounded new neighbor, Brogan realizes Emma has the potential to wreck the carefully controlled expectations she uses to protect her heart. Despite their obvious attraction and growing friendship, both Emma and Brogan are in firm agreement that neither of them is in a position to look for love, but how long can they fight their fears and desires as the events and people around them all conspire to create a full English love story?

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Facebook memories reminded me that we are approaching the 1 year anniversary of my stem cell donation. On June 1st of 2021, after five days of injections, I underwent a medical procedure to donate stem cells via a line in my chest. Those cells were then transferred into a cancer patient somewhere in Ohio. In addition to feeling like a high tech medical miracle, it was also a huge, awe inspiring experience for me personally, and I’ve spent the time since then feeling so proud and honored to have been in a position to so something so powerful. Then about two weeks ago I received a phone call that my recipient had passed away. I’m gutted. The news has ripped at me in ways I could not have anticipated. This is, in effect, the death of a stranger, a young woman in a different place, whose name I have never known. And now I will never know it. In some ways I don’t feel entitled to this level of grief. In so many ways she’d only ever existed for me as an idea. But we were not nothing to each other. I have prayed for her every day for almost a year, and now I pray for her family. I have wondered and worried over her. I have woken up in the middle of long nights and on Christmas morning thinking about her. Every time I notice the little scar on my chest where the line went into my body, I have felt her with me. Still, I did not know her. And I never will. When the transplant coordinator called, she broke the news quickly, then she said that she needed one more thing from me. She wondered if I might release my remaining stem cells to researchers. I was still a bit rocked back from the start of the conversation, and this request confused me. She explained that there were some cells left over after the transfusion, and they still belonged to me. Legally and ethically, those cells, even after they left my body, are a part of me, and no one can do anything to those extensions of my body without my releasing them. I thought about asking her if anyone had mentioned that to the Supreme Court, but I was too sad in the moment. The anger would come later, but as I’ve pondered that fact, it has helped me at least contextualize the level of grief I am feeling: A woman died with a part of me inside of her. I have tried to temper the dramatic impulse to surrender to the idea that if she died with a part of me inside her, a part of me has died as well, but I’ll admit I have gone there a time or two. What I have leaned on more frequently, though, is that despite not knowing anything other than her rough age and gender, we shared something more fundamental than names or letters. We shared stem cells, the very building blocks of what makes us who we are on a cellular level. With those cells I sent my hopes, my best impulses, my health, my love, the pieces of my blood and bones that allow me to live such a wonderful life in the hopes I could sustain her with those things. Turns out I could not. It has been two weeks of wondering if I could have done more. Fearing that my body, which I have always had a problematic relationship with, has failed me again, and this time betrayed someone else in the process. Worrying someone else paid the price of my insufficiency. Remembering loved ones I have lost to cancer, feeling that pain anew. Imagining the anguish of those who loved her as deeply as I loved the people I lost, and almost crippling empathy for the pain they are living in right now, pain I couldn’t save them from even though I tried. It’s been dark in my brain. My emotions have overwhelmed me often. Sadness ruled the first week. I burst into tears several times at inopportune moments, and cried until my face hurt. This past week anger took over. I will admit, other than a general sense of the injustice of it all, I didn’t understand where the anger came from. Then in session this week, my therapist explained that anger is a common outlet for a sense of helplessness. Helplessness is tied to our fight or flight instincts, and I am a fighter. I suppose a part of me is still trying to fight a battle that has already been lost. I am also still fighting against this slew of emotions I had no way to anticipate. I told her I was afraid of the strength of them. Since she knows me, she told me I needed to take hold of this narrative and find the through lines of what will sustain me as this story’s conclusion becomes a part of the larger story of my life. Even for a writer it was hard task. I know so very little for sure. I will think of this woman for the rest of my life, and I will never have any more closure than I have today. Despite my best effort and intentions, I will only know that she is gone, and she took a part of me with her. What is to be made of all the emotions that come with that? My therapist then asked if regret factored into the mix. I quickly said it did not, and I was surprised she even asked that. She smiled like she knew that, then gently pushed. “If one year ago someone had told you, there’s a woman in need and you will never know her. She needs the very base of your body’s building blocks, it will be a grueling process over several days that will take more out of you physically and emotionally than you had imagined, and all it will give her is 11 more months. 11 months to say what she needs to say, to hug loved ones, to try to make peace. One more Christmas, one more birthday, one more fall, and winter, and spring, but that’s all. She will be gone, and you will live on with the questions, and a connection most people will never comprehend. Would you sign up for that? The answer was yes. It is yes. If I got the same call tomorrow, the answer would be yes that day and every day after. It will always be yes. I suppose that is the through line. That’s the story. It’s part of my story, and it will be, for as long I have cells in my body…or out of it. · If your answer would be “yes” too, and you are eligible to donate, please consider registering with Be The Match , and if you aren't eligible yourself please share this information with the people in your life who might be!
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