WORKING TITLE: What We're Writing by Jenn McKinlay

 JENN McKINLAY: Ever since my first fantasy book was spawned out of a random department that I wrote into the Museum of Literature romcom novellas, the working title was BOOKS OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN -- named after that fictional department of oddball books. Well, as we get closer to the publication date (still a year out) in Oct of 2025, the title has been changed to WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN. 

What do you, dear Readers, think of the change? Oh, wait, you probably want to know the premise so you can be better informed:

Zoe Ziakas enjoys a quiet life, working as a librarian in her small village. When a mysterious black book with an unbreakable latch is delivered to her library, Zoe consults the Books of Dubious Origin department at the Museum of Literature and discovers that she is the last descendant of a family of witches who specialize in raising the dead and this little black book is their grimoire. 

Pragmatic Zoe rejects this ridiculous narrative, but when an undead friend of her grandmother's shows up at her house and asks Zoe to help her, Zoe realizes she will never get her quiet life back until she decodes the family grimoire and solves the mystery of what happened to her grandmother and her mother.

The book's potential power draws all things magical to it, and Zoe finds herself under the constant watch of a pesky raven, while being chased by undead Vikings, ghost pirates, and assorted ghouls. With help from the strange and intimidating staff of the Books of Dubious Origin department, Zoe confronts her past and the legacy of her family, but will she embrace her destiny or return to the quiet life she held so dear?

As you can imagine, I have polled A LOT of people about the title change. And this is how it rolled out by preference:

Mystery Writers: BOOKS OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN

Romance Writers: WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN

Fantasy Writers: WITCHES

Academic Librarians: BOOKS

Public Librarians: WITCHES

How do I feel about it? Undecided. I trust Sales and Marketing to know how to best represent the book, but I was partial to the original title, the manuscript of which I am revising right now. 

In fact, here's a snippet:

     I put down my novel and shoved my blanket aside. I glanced out the window beside the door. There was no one on the porch. I cautiously opened the door. I checked the walkway to the street. No one was there. I studied the wind chimes hanging on the corner of the porch. They weren’t moving, so it hadn’t been a breeze. I shifted my gaze to the two wicker chairs to the right. They were empty but perched on the back of one of them was the raven.

     “Ah!” I started. Had this uninvited guest been making all of that racket? He was the only one here so it had to have been him. I was equal parts relieved and annoyed. I walked toward the bird. He didn’t move. I raised my arms and waved my hands at him. “Shoo!”

     He turned his head to the side and stared at me with one pale blue beady eye as if assessing my threat level. It was going to be high if he pooped on my furniture. 

     “Party’s over!” I clapped my hands. The sound was loud in the evening quiet. He flapped his wings and flew from the chair to the porch railing. I clapped again. “You don’t have to go home, big guy, but you can’t stay here.”

     With a leap, he jumped off the railing and soared out into the darkness. I glanced at the houses on each side of mine. All was quiet. I turned and went back inside, assured that peace had been restored.

     I had just settled into my chair and started reading when there was a thumping sound on the porch. 

     “Oh, hell no,” I muttered. “We’re not doing this all night.”

     I tossed aside my blanket and crossed to the door. I unlocked it and yanked it open. “I said, ‘Shoo!’”

     But it wasn’t the raven. Instead, standing before me was a diminutive ash blonde, a pale woman of a certain age--I was guessing  mid to late fifties. She was wearing a beige wool coat and clutching a stylish handbag which matched her equally fashionable shoes.

     “Can I help you?” I asked.

     “I certainly hope so, dear,” she said. Her blue eyes crinkled in the corners when she smiled at me. “I’m Eloise Tate, a childhood friend of your grandmother’s.”

     “Excuse me?” I asked. The odds of Mamie coming up in conversation twice in one day had to be a million to one. Years of my life had passed without my grandmother being mentioned and now she’d been mentioned twice. My gut twisted. Something wasn’t right. 

     “Antoinette Donadieu, Toni, she was your grandmother, yes?” Eloise tipped her head to the side as she studied me. “Your resemblance to her is uncanny.”

     “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be rude, but Mamie would be in her eighties now. There’s no way you’re old enough to have been a childhood friend of hers.”

     “Oh, but I was,” Eloise said. “Sadly, I passed away when I was fifty-two.”

     “Passed away?” I choked out the words.

     “Yes, but dear Toni brought me back and I was her faithful companion right up until the day she died. Now I need you, Zoe, to send me on.”

     “Send you on?” I repeated. There was a buzzing in my ears, probably panic, that made it hard to hear her.

     “You have the grimoire from your mother, yes? Which means you have the spell to send me across the veil to the other side.” She beamed and I noticed a fleck of pink lipstick on her teeth.

     “You’re telling me you’re dead,” I said. My eyes ran over her. She was clearly not dead. So…what in hell was going on here?

     “Oh, I can assure you, I’m very much deceased.” She nodded. “Toni planned to return me before she passed away, but the grimoire was stolen and Toni was murdered before she had the chance.”

     “Murdered?” My chest felt tight. I couldn’t get enough air, everything went fuzzy and I started to see spots. I leaned heavily against the doorjamb. “Who exactly murdered Mamie? Do you know?”

     “Why it was your mother, dear.” 

Now my second question is: How much does a title weigh in on your decision to buy a book? And should I be concerned? LOL.