My big name

Last week I asked my editor to send me an updated cover for LOVE STORY, which will be published on July 19, because I am buying an ad for the book. I’ve had the cover for several weeks, but sometimes the publisher adds things to help sell the book, like teaser lines or quotations from other authors.

To my astonishment, my editor told me that the publisher is redesigning the cover to make my name bigger.

Now, I blogged last year about the size of authors’ names on their covers. To make a long story short, my critique partner’s name takes up a huge portion of her book covers

whereas my name has always been petite, almost as if the publisher were trying to hide it. 

Peek-a-boo! I was thinking last year that perhaps my name would grow between the cover of GOING TOO FAR and the cover of FORGET YOU, but you see how that turned out.

And now, finally, my name is growing. This means one of two things. Either I am a huge author and enough people know about me that they will buy my books because of my name alone, without needing to be convinced by a catchy title or a beautiful cover--OR, the publisher wants to give the IMPRESSION that I am a huge author.

Bookbuyer 1: “Who is this Jennifer Echols person?”

Bookbuyer 2: “I don’t know. I have never heard of her. But her name on this cover is GINORMOUS! Therefore she must be a best-selling author and her book must be spectacular! Let’s each buy three copies!”

So, am I a big author, or am I just pretending to be one in the hopes that I actually will be? I do not know, and I did not ask my editor. I do not make a habit of calling people up and requesting that they rain on my parade.

But I am certain of two things. First, I am very happy that my name is growing. And second, this all sounds like a cross between a Nikolai Gogol story and a cautionary tale for children.

Once upon a time there was a chick named Jennifer who lived in a pink office. Jennifer spent her days staring at a computer screen, writing novels for teenagers, and copyediting medical journal articles about nasal polyps. "If only my name were bigger on my novels," she said to herself, "I would not have to read about nasal polyps anymore."

Suddenly a genie bottle appeared. Out popped Christina Aguilera. "Wish granted!" she sang in several keys at once. And magically, Jennifer’s name began to grow.

It grew until it was bigger than the title of her book.

It grew until it wouldn’t fit on the book cover anymore.

Jennifer was delighted--until she went to a Romance Writers of America conference in New York City. Here she got the first hint that her name had grown TOO big. In the middle of the 500-author booksigning for literacy charities, her name got up on the table, danced the robot, ripped off its O, and flung it into the crowd.

Before Jennifer could grab her name, it dashed into the crowded Manhattan street.

Over the next few days, Jennifer kept hearing that her name was out doing terrible things--partying, granting ill-conceived interviews, shoplifting scarves. She felt helpless to stop her name because her name had gotten SO BIG. Her name would drag itself into their hotel room each night. Jennifer would try to scold her name, then plead with it, but her name would not listen. It would stumble to bed and fall asleep without even bothering to brush away the traces of laserjet toner it had obviously been sniffing. It broke Jennifer’s heart.

Jennifer’s name continued to grow. It had figured out how to tap into the power grid at the Simon & Schuster building. It grew and grew until Simon & Schuster decided to stop it by unleashing their secret weapon from the depths of the Hudson River. There was an epic battle, and Simon & Schuster won.

Because of her name’s antics, Jennifer had lost her job writing novels for teenagers. She was spending eight hours a day, five days a week, copyediting articles about nasal polyps. She was very angry with her name. She and her name lost touch.

But one day, Jennifer heard a knock on the door of her pink office. It was her name, shrunk to its original size of ¼ inch. It claimed that its “people” were working behind the scenes so it could compete on Dancing with the Stars and/or record a Christmas album.

Jennifer just shook her head. She forgave her name. She let it into her office. She put it in a little china teacup on the shelf beside her computer. There it lived out its days, watching reruns of The Hills, swilling Liquid Paper, and farting, until Jennifer’s cat ate it.

But at least Jennifer had learned her lesson. From then on, she was careful what she wished for. And she regretted ever wishing that her name would grow bigger.

The end.