Elle Hill

I recently discovered I possess a heretofore unacknowledged talent: devising truly awful book titles. I don’t want to brag or anything, but I came up two, maybe three dozen atrocious titles for the book I submitted to a publishing house. Naming novels is super hard. I haven’t had any children, but I’m pretty sure naming books is way harder than naming something as uncomplicated as a human. I mean, you already have their last name, parents. How challenging could the rest be?* But I digress.     To name my novel, I first freewrote a brief description of its essence. Unfortunately, I waxed a bit too poetic and ended up with an unfortunate dearth of keywords. Behold: This story is about walls. It’s about how the walls in which we seek shelter can also become our prisons. It’s about choices. If someone offered you the chance to face your past traumas and finally heal, would you take it? It’s about animals and how we humans have forgotten that we are apes with...

Okay, but for reals, I suck at writing back cover blurbs. And titles. And synopses. How is it I can pen a 75K-word novel no problem, but come time to write the back cover blurb, my verbal capacity transforms into that of a 16-year-old boy faced with his prom date's glaring father?  It's, like, you know, when, uh...  Okay, imagine mean people with, like, scary yellow eyes! Romance and funnies and, like, tons of animals! And, you know, there's a car. And then the cat pees on someone's leg! Me no sex, sir! READ THIS NOVEL!