Nothing gets an author more jazzed than seeing their book’s cover for the first time—except maybe sharing that cover with the rest of the world. The cover reveal has become an unavoidable staple of the publishing process, much as the gender reveal has established itself as an annoying parenting rite of passage. A few weeks ago, I gave into the cover reveal temptation when I took to Substack and Facebook to show off the design for my forthcoming novel, Helium. (I’ll refrain from subjecting you to a repeat performance here, even though the cover is pretty cool if I do say so myself.) Like most authors, I knew that the front cover would likely become my book’s most potent marketing tool.

But what about the back cover?

Not long after I approved Helium’s front cover design, I got my first look at what the entire cover will look like—front, spine, and back. On the back cover were three paragraphs of nonsensical words meant to serve as placeholders for the descriptive copy that will eventually be inserted in their place. “Lorem ipsum.” Dummy words familiar to anyone in publishing and graphic design. They take up space until someone comes up with a few real words to replace them.

The folks at Atmosphere Press (my publisher) have sent me some text that they think is appropriate for the back cover of my book. Now it’s my job to either accept or revise. Problem is, I’m not sure I have what it takes to decide what works and what doesn’t. I sent out dozens of queries to agents that included what I thought were pretty clever and concise descriptions of my book, and not one of them generated a positive response. Not one. Who am I to make final judgments about back cover copy that will almost certainly reappear in marketing material down the road? Isn’t it possible that I’ll screw this up too?

After some hemming and hawing, I’ve decided to revise the text that the Atmosphere folks provided. They know publishing and marketing, but I know my book. I’ve kept the parts that feel right to me, and replaced the ones that don’t. Additional changes may come, but this is how the back cover copy reads now:

Joan has a gravity problem—and she’s desperate to keep it hidden. Haunted by a loss too heavy to bear, she drifts to Palomar Gardens, a tiny Southern California commune where hope hovers and teases. Here she encounters George, a charismatic mystic whose lofty visions will soon captivate the world.

Drawn into George’s orbit, Joan finds her footing. But the line between wonder and deception is thin, and her hold on reality slips. Improbable machines appear in the sky, only to vanish without explanation. Beautiful lies masquerade as truth. Her secret unmoors with consequences she cannot foresee.

Helium is a story of faith, folly, and the fragile human longing to touch the stars—of searching for a place in the cosmos where the possible and the impossible carry equal weight.

Good? Bad? Middling? Who knows. It feels right, but then again, it’s quite possible I’ll change my mind by the time I wake up tomorrow morning. Maybe I should just trust my publisher’s judgment. Or maybe I actually do know what I’m doing. Ugh. My lack of marketing confidence is exhausting. Oh well. At least I can take some comfort in knowing that I’ve managed to improve on “Lorem ipsum.”