I will be the first to admit that I was a spoiled little girl, having parents who worked in the fashion industry. They bought my outfits from exclusive shops selling only the finest imported Italian clothing and shoes. This would be every girl's dream, but not mine. You see, I was a Tomboy. I would rather play in mud than play dress-up. I would change into my runners when I arrived to school. And thank goodness for track and field training days when I could wear my "track pants".
By high school my parents had given up. To their relief, and mine, I had to wear a uniform: no coordinating necessary.
When I started working in fitness, my indifference to fashion increased. If I could not exercise in it, then it did not deserve any prime closet real estate. I did not understand the pleasure others would find when shopping for clothes and accessories. I mean, how many shoes does a woman really need? You wonder where I would get my non-fitness clothing? I own clothes over 15 years old. Most new pieces I acquire through hand-me-downs and I am not ashamed to admit it. After all, recycling clothes is a wonderful way to conserve and save the environment.
My lackadaisical fashion life did not alarm me until I hired a publicist who has plans on booking me for readings and media interviews. Did that mean I had to go shopping? Would my current wardrobe suffice? I would worry about that when the time came. Until then, I was going to enjoy the weekend in Montreal with my boyfriend (Mike Galic, who is the poet for Tillsonbugger Adventures).
Mike thought he would take advantage and get a new pair of boots while in the fashion capital of Canada. Ironically, I do not mind shopping for others. All was going well, until the attention was put on me. When we entered Féline in Old Montreal, the stylist's x-ray vision must have noticed my lack of style under my winter coat.
Narine was her name. She asked me in her beautiful Quebecois accent, "Would you like to see something?"
Mike immediately walked over. Not to protect me, but to push me into trying on new clothes. I started to get anxiety, "Oh, no, thank you! I don't need anything. We're just here for men's shoes."
Her expression suggested otherwise, but she was too polite to say, "Girl! You need help!" Instead, she said, "Just give me ten minutes and I will give you three different looks. You don't have to buy anything. I just want to show you your potential."
Mike, the traitor, agreed with Narine. Next thing I knew, I was in the changeroom bombarded with skinny jeans, skirts, sweaters, blouses...Narine tied belts around my waist and slipped caps on my head. One minute I was in my winter coat and the next I was in the sexiest street wear I had ever seen or worn. And she was true to her word; ten minutes was all she needed to prove her point.
I could not foresee my lack of shopping genes metamorphosing into that of a shopaholic, but the Tomboy in me had grown up in that instance. At the very least, I could compromise and buy new clothes for the appropriate occasion, whether it be for book signings or speaking engagements. I mean, it cannot hurt to visit Narine again in Old Montreal and experience another Pretty Woman moment.
I am going to divulge the moral of this story before I even begin this tale of titles: You can't please everyone. There you have it. Now it is your prerogative to continue reading; or go on with your day, taking heed of my little lesson.
As a hybrid author, I use a traditional publisher for certain elements, like getting the ISBN codes; laying out the book design; posting my books on various distribution channels; collecting my royalty payments; but ultimately, I sign off on everything before it goes to print. And here is where the problem, or opportunity, exists.
While working on my first manuscript for “The Swarm that Swarmed”, I decided that I would like to write more stories featuring the three main characters, Tia, Vivian, and Fil; therefore, I had to create a catchy series title. Thus, Tillsonbugger Adventures was created, based on the following:
While “The Swarm that Swarmed” was selling online and in some bookstores, I thought I would find ways to market it (marketing is the responsibility of a self-published author). I contacted a few bloggers, one of which was located in the UK.
This wonderful, honest blogger sort of said, “I’d be happy to review the book, but just so you’re aware, ‘bugger’ means something entirely different in the UK.” She suggested I look up the word in the Oxford Dictionary. After I read the definition, I turned ghostly white and had a panic-attack. Now what? I named my series after THAT! It is in print!
How did I not think to consult the dictionary? And how did no one else notice this? The publisher, even though I had ultimate say, did not mention the double meaning of "bugger". Maybe they appreciated my take on the Tillsonbugger Adventures title, tying all elements of the series? What about the editor? Surely, she noticed something but was too embarrassed to mention anything? I doubt that, though. She would have made a note, at the very least.
I envisioned teachers and parents protesting in front of bookstores, demanding they stop carrying Tillsonbugger Adventures. The profanity!
I left a frenzied message for my publisher to call me back. I was to change the title to something...more politically-correct…more of something else. It would cost me at least $400 to make the changes. Arrrrgggh!
While I was scrounging for pennies – well, dimes, as pennies no longer exist in Canada -- my publishing representative returned my call, and put everything into perspective. She calmly pointed out that even though "bugger" has other meanings, I did not use THAT particular one for my series title. And if readers want to imagine the worst, then it is their own dirty minds to blame.
So, yes, I have learned that you can’t please everyone in the world of books. But I also learned that the joy of being a writer is that I can be true to my stories and maybe even create a positive change through them.