Titles allude me.

I sat there staring at the seventy-fifth page of my 759-page adventure-filled Victorian novel I had spent three years over and let out a sigh longer than any sigh ever sighed.

For three years I had been inspired to create a complex story: I had created formulae, looked up the angle that a rainbow appears from the horizon, spent two days in five different shooting arenas to feel the impact on the shoulder of different guns and I couldn’t think of a title.

I had travelled to Rome and to Venice to find the perfect cafè for my lovers’ first glance, plucked entire mansions from my imagination and put them onto paper to configure a chase and yet I couldn’t think of a title.

I had scoured the library for the last words of Pancho Villa, paid £5,000 for a night at the Ritz to discover each corner of one of their higher class suites and still I could not think of a title.

I had ignored my family and friends for three years and still I could not think of a title.

Ten years and no title.