This Is Why I Love It: The Meaning of and Fight for My Book’s Original Title - Uncharted

This Is Why I Love It: The Meaning of and Fight for My Book’s Original Title

By Aaron H. Aceves

A few days ago, as I was in my office checking my email, I received a message from my Polish publisher that asked for the story behind the name of my debut young adult novel, This Is Why They Hate Us. To say this was the first time someone had voiced confusion about the connection between a humorous story about a boy trying to get over his best friend by getting under someone else and a title that reads like that of an “issue book” would be a bold-faced lie. As I reread the email, starting to piece together my response, I thought back to the day I came up with This Is Why They Hate Us and the long journey to keep it that ensued.

On September 5, 2017, I came home from my tutoring job, which I hated, and sat down at my sister’s dining room table. In the middle of bemoaning the stagnant, festeringstate of my professional life, a voice that only I could hear interrupted my little pity party. It was that of a seventeen-year-old boy I’d later learn was named Enrique “Quique” Luna, and he was talking to me about his life, about his parents, and his friends and his crushes. On boys. Not wanting to forget any of what he was saying, I took out my laptop and began to record his inner monologue. When Quique finally shut up, I was looking at the first chapter of something new and exciting, but reflecting on what I had just written, I couldn’t help but think, There are people in this world who already hate Quique because of who he crushes on. For a moment, I forgot about the world I knew, and disbelief welled in my chest as I asked myself, Is this reallywhy they hate us?

The rest of the novel came just as easily. For the next four weeks, I came home from work, sat down at that dining room table, and wrote a new chapter every day. When the first draft was finished, I did a quick edit and began to look for representation. At the end of my querying process, after receiving multiple offers of representation when I hadn’t received any for the previous three books I’d queried, I signed with the agent who seemed like the best fit. When we finished editing together, there was only one problem in her eyes: my title. Her main concern was that there was a disconnect between the tone of the title and the tone of the novel.That disconnect is homophobia, I explained. I’m pointing to all the things that Quique does, all the things straight teens get to do in YA books or movies like Superbad, and saying, “Bigots hate us for no reason.” She let the issue go, knowing, I’m sure, that the topic would come up again if we received an offer.

I have to admit I wasn’t ecstatic when we sold the book. The emotion that triumphed over the others was a sort of weary relief. I was too exhausted from the fight to get Quique on bookshelves to experience the exhilaration I’d always assumed I would feel. Still, I unearthed small moments of joy when I was able to dole the news out in small batches, first to my family and close friends, then to fellow authors who’d been answering my panicked DMs for months at that point. When it came time for the big announcement—in Publisher’s Marketplace, of course—my editor at the time allowed me to use This Is Why They Hate Us as a place holder, mentioning that titles often change from announcement to publication.

After our first round of edits, my editor pressed me to come up with alternative names. Not wanting to be labeled a “problem author,” I wrote out a list of 40+ titles. Some were bad (Summer of Boys was particularly egregious), some were okay (Life and Love in East LA, How to Get Over Someone You Never Dated), and one I actually liked (Two Kids in a Swimming Pool, which was a reference to a Frank Ocean song). But I didn’t truly love any of them the way I did This Is Why They Hate Us, which at that point had earned a seal of approval from many of my YA heroes (including Adam Silvera, who later blurbed the book). And so, when it came time to send the list of replacement titles, I included a long message, a treatise really, about why I wanted to keep my title (including its origin story) and hit send. A few hours later, my editor responded, saying she would look over the list, talk it over with the marketing department, and get back to me.

About a month later, we set up a phone call to decide once and for all what to call my book. For an hour or so, my editor and I pleaded our cases to each other. I rehashed my defense and heard her side (and marketing’s)—they thought one of my alt titles, Don’t Ask Me How I Feel, was a much better fit—and by the end of it, I was ready to acquiesce, waffling between okaying the change and doing my best to explain why I felt that was the wrong move.

Finally, my editor said, “I’m making the decision for you. We’re keeping it. I don’t want you to have a title you don’t love.”

I held in a shout of joy (opting instead to film my first ever #BookTok video once the call was over) and thanked her profusely. I didn’t know it at the time, but she would soon be leaving for another publisher. I like to think of the outcome as a parting gift from her, one I’ll never not be thankful for.

I didn’t detail every step of this journey in my email to my Polish publisher. Instead, I gave them the gist, as well as my blessing to use an alternate title. Not because I was tired of fighting but because sometimes things just don’t translate. And because maybe I want to pretend that there’s somewhere in the world where my title makes absolutely no sense.

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