As a writer whose actual living is made as a freelance graphic designer, the role of book design in independent publishing is a topic near and dear. I’ve given workshops on the key importance design considerations have for small presses and self-publishers, arguing that to be taken seriously in the marketplace it’s vital not only to have a story worth reading, but to put out a product that looks like it belongs on the same shelf as the Kings, Grishams, Robertses, and Graftons.
I believe the presentation of a work is an extension of the work itself, much like an album jacket augments the music contained inside. In that regard I’ve been very fortunate to have such an indulgent (and patient) partner in Seventh Star Press, as they graciously allow me the freedom to design my own book covers. Though it may be just as fair to say what holds true for a lawyer who represents themselves also goes for a writer who designs their cover art, it’s that extension of the writing—the visual lure that will hopefully grab attention and compel a closer inspection and a thumbing-through—that I like to believe as both author and cover artist I’m especially positioned to make. Of course, it may be even fairer to say that in the same way doctors make the worst patients, designing for a graphic designer can easily become an exercise in exasperation so it’s a lot less headache for my publisher just to let me do the thing myself.
My most recent book, a short story collection called The Gods Must Clearly Smile, features cover art that I also created and I think, if I may be forgiven the conceit, makes for a good example of that close relationship between packaging and content. The title of the collection comes from a quote by Aristotle, “If some animals are good at hunting and others are suitable for hunting, them the gods must clearly smile on hunting.” And it’s that theme of hunter and hunted that caught my attention and pricked my sense for the wry and my sideways way of seeing the world.
The front cover depicts a quaint little cottage floating on an island of tranquility surrounded by cheerful blue sky and happy little clouds worthy of Bob Ross. The typography, too, lends to the congeniality. In the upper and lower left corners, though, hints of darkness intrude—tiny indications that all might not be so carefree and untroubled. As one turns over to the back, the reality of the scene is revealed in the form of a jagged-toothed monster opening wide its maw in preparation to devour our friends in the cottage—a star-filled beast comprised of the universe itself.
The stories in The Gods Must Clearly Smile run the spectrum from the Old West to futuristic science fiction, and the thread that wends its way through each and stitches them together into a whole is the central theme that sometimes we are the hunter, sometimes we are the hunted, and no matter how serene a given moment may seem, the next moment has every bit the potential to reveal the monster that’s been stalking you the entire time. It’s a tongue-in-cheek metaphor—promise—meant to be amusing and ironic rather than pessimistic, but it’s a concept that I felt I could bring to fruition visually and convey a sense of what awaits the reader inside.
I’d welcome hearing whether I was successful.
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