I’d almost forgotten about the project I started the last time I was unemployed: my book. I’m about 35,000 (very rough) words into a collection of essays. A friend in the book industry told me I should have about 50,000 words before I start looking for an agent.

But it was more than just my job at The Seattle Times that took me away from my book. I realized that I couldn’t quite figure out what the book was about. Yes, it’s a collection of essays, loosely divided into three topics: Growing Up Granola, Raver Manifestos, and Left Coast Sex. Sadly, however, the only connection between all the things is, well, me. My father asked me last spring, “So, why do you need to write this book?” My answer was a pathetic, “Because it’s there?” In other words, I’m still looking for the tie that binds the content together; a tie other than “I wrote this!”

Upon opening up the three documents for each part of the book tonight, I discovered that I’d brainstormed some title ideas. None of these help me much with my goal of making the book have, well, a point, but some of which made me laugh:

  • Landscapes of The Young, Urban, and Easily Excitable (me in three descriptors)
  • Ecstatic Dance, Spiritual Raves, and My Other Many Misconceptions (too cynical!)
  • Little Fists in the Air: My Educational Ecstasies (”little fists in the air” was a nickname during my earnest raver days)
  • Manifestos of Decadence
  • Electrolicious: Adventures From A Left Coast Landscape (probably the best one)