I, Effing Feline, do NOT need help, no matter what the title of this post says. I am perfect as is, or as close to perfection as you humans will ever hear purr. But Ed . . .
Let me tell you, that man needs help. Seriously. He’s written a whole book but he doesn’t have a title! Whoever heard of a book titled Untitled? Even a cat knows that’s sick, man, sick.
But you can help the poor schlub. Read the opening, then help him with a title:
The woman currently calling herself Lou wanted to gawk, but she didn’t dare slow her footsteps. Dawdling in this crowd would draw attention. Attention meant peril.
Back home, space stations were cramped, dingy cargo-transfer depots, painted institutional grey and smelling of industrial-strength cleaners. Farflung Station, though, was a city dancing through the Black. This downtown business corridor was wide, graceful, and ornamented with murals and artwork. The high ceiling held sculptures incorporating everyday objects like circuit cubes, hyperspace coils, and airlock valves. Colored lights turned the sculptures into an overhead fairyland that sent ever-changing hues scurrying over her creamy white blouse in time to an upbeat dance tune.
These people had turned Farflung into a place of beauty she could fall in love with — except that they were her enemies. Minor details . . .
Effing Feline here again. Since most of you are writers rather than psychiatrists, the best way to help my poor dum-dum pet is to vote on one of his proposed titles. Or suggest a title of your own in a comment.
He’s looking for the most salable title, so don’t worry too much about knowing the book (although there is a blurb available).
Vote here. Pretty please with a purr on top?