A Title of This and That
Walk into the fantasy section of any bookstore and you’ll swear you’ve entered the world’s longest Mad Lib. A Song of Ice and Fire. A Court of Thorns and Roses. A Taste of Gold and Iron. A House of Salt and Sorrows. At first, this naming style felt fresh and evocative, a lyrical rhythm that promised sweeping worlds, magical drama, and epic conflict. But somewhere along the way, every other book decided to wear the same outfit to the party. Now the shelves blur into a cascade of A [blank] of [blank] and [blank]: a glittering ball of crowns, courts, songs, thorns, blood, honey, glass, bones, shadows, sorrow, fire, and salt.
It’s not that these are bad titles; in fact, many of them are iconic. The trouble is, the formula has been used so often it risks turning every new release into a near-copy of the last. But authors and publishers keep reaching for it, relying on the same familiar rhythm to signal epic stakes and lush worldbuilding. It’s a formula that works but at this point, is starting to wear thin.
The Poetry of Contrast (a.k.a. Pick Two Random Opposites)
These titles thrive on juxtaposition. Pair something soft with something sharp, something beautiful with something deadly, and you instantly signal a world of tension and conflict. A Taste of Gold and Iron sets luxury against industry. House of Salt and Sorrows mixes the domestic with the tragic. Done well, the contrast pulls readers in before they’ve even cracked the spine.
But let’s be real: we’ve now seen the same dance of opposites so many times that the magic is fading. Salt and sorrow, blood and honey, glass and bone… the formula is less creativity and more slot machine: pull the lever, and out pops your moody pairing. After the fifteenth variation of “A Crown of [Fragile Thing] and [Dangerous Thing],” it stops feeling like genius and starts feeling like a randomized fantasy word generator. Honestly, at this point, you could draw nouns out of a hat and end up with a publishable title. (A Lament of Shadows and Spaghetti, anyone?)
The Rhythm of Familiarity (a.k.a. The Overplayed Song)
Part of the appeal is the rhythm. A ___ of ___ and ___ rolls off the tongue like a spell, a little incantation you can mutter under your breath. It’s lyrical, it’s memorable, it sounds important. Unfortunately, when every single fantasy book is chanting the exact same incantation, it stops feeling magical and starts sounding like the world’s most overplayed song.
Readers can’t even keep them straight anymore. Was it A Court of Coral and Shadows? A Crown of Salt and Roses? A Song of Thorns and Honey? At this point the titles are so interchangeable you could switch the words around and no one would notice. The once-enchanting cadence has become less “spellbinding” and more “Spotify ad jingle.”
The Illusion of Worldbuilding (a.k.a. Worldbloating)
Another reason this formula stuck around is because it sounds like worldbuilding. String three nouns together and suddenly your story feels sprawling, layered, epic. A single word like Ashes or Shadows might not mean much, but tack it onto A Song of… or A Court of… and presto: instant gravitas.
The problem is that the grandeur is often just smoke and mirrors. Not every “crown,” “court,” or “song” comes with Tolkien-level lore behind it. Sometimes it’s just window dressing, like spray-painting “epic” over a perfectly average YA fantasy. Readers catch on quick: the title promises kingdoms, conspiracies, and ancient magic, then delivers a love triangle and some vaguely menacing fog. It’s less “rich worldbuilding” and more “worldbloating.”
The Legacy Effect (a.k.a. Monkey See, Monkey Title)
Of course, the biggest reason this naming trend refuses to die is simple: it sells. Martin gave us A Song of Ice and Fire, Maas gave us A Court of Thorns and Roses, and publishers everywhere took notes. If those titles topped bestseller lists, clearly the secret wasn’t good writing, compelling characters, or meticulous plotting, it was the words “of” & “and.”
Now the fantasy aisle looks like a family reunion where every cousin showed up in the same outfit. Authors are pressured to play along, not because their stories demand it, but because marketing departments know that A [Blank] of [Blank] and [Blank] practically comes with a “Buy Me” sticker attached. It’s less about imagination and more about slotting your book neatly into the algorithmic sameness. Monkey see, monkey title.
The Last Chapter (a.k.a. A Crowd of Clichés and Cash Grabs)
In the end, the A [Blank] of [Blank] and [Blank] formula is less a spell than a crutch. Once it felt fresh, powerful, even iconic. Now it’s the literary equivalent of putting glitter on everything and calling it magic. Sure, it works, but only because readers have been trained to respond like Pavlov’s dragon every time they see “court,” “crown,” or “song” in a title.
The sad truth is that when every book wears the same sparkly gown, no one stands out on the dance floor. The titles blur, the originality fades, and the supposed grandeur starts to feel like self-parody. If fantasy is the genre of imagination, maybe it’s time the titles stopped being generated by what sounds suspiciously like a Word Pairing Algorithm.
Otherwise, don’t be surprised when next season’s hottest release is A Court of Songs and Sorrows, followed closely by A Crown of Fire and Salt, and then (why not) A Lament of Shadows and Spaghetti (At least that last one would be original).
And if you think I’m exaggerating about how many titles use this format, behold:
