I know many novelists who switch around their characters' names at the drop of a hat, casually telling me, "Oh, remember Susan? She's now Ellen." While such practice is perfectly reasonable, especially in the days of Find and Replace, to me it's unfathomable. My characters give me their names pretty readily. I knew Isadora's name as I typed the very first sentence of the first draft of Discovering Ren. Max came next, as did Seth. I had to think a bit on Margaretta, but she's pouty so no wonder. Roger Mathews, bless him, walked onto my page fully formed like Athena from Zeus, although he didn't reveal his military title or his status as an ordained minister for some time. (He's touchy on those subjects.) In fact, I had the whole cast of characters well before I ever had an actual title for their story. It was just "the book."
When I finished the first draft in December 2009, I already had the sequel bursting its way out of my head, but it had to wait while I edited DR. I'm now at 91,000 words and counting, but until today I was beginning to despair of ever coming up with a title. (It's "the sequel." How original.) And then I walked into the shower, and once again I got smacked upside the head for my stupidity, but my toy surprise was the title.
Nope, I'm not telling. Not yet. But trust me, it's good. It's right. It's a name.