When you title your book Hold Fast, the cover really shouldn’t look like it’s about to let go entirely. Yet here we are, staring at a watercolor fever dream where history, anatomy, and graphic design all walked the plank.
Let’s start with our blond sailor, who has chosen to pose like he’s auditioning for Sexy Dockyard Calendar, 1812 Edition. He’s got one boot propped up, one hand on his hip, and the other waving around what might be a ship’s rope… or a broom handle from the art supply closet. His smirk says “flirt,” but his anatomy says “string bean that learned how to walk yesterday.”
Facing him is our redheaded gentleman in black, who looks less like a romantic interest and more like he just smelled something deeply unpleasant. His posture is stiff, his gaze is mournful, and his overall vibe screams, “I’d rather be anywhere else.” Together, the two of them generate all the romantic tension of a tax audit.
The background? A shipyard sketched in as if the artist suddenly remembered deadlines existed. Masts, boats, vague brown shapes — all drifting lazily in the background like unfinished homework. The entire scene feels half-hearted, like even the dockworkers refused to participate in this drama.
And then we have the typography. “HOLD FAST” is plunked across the top in shiny gold letters, desperately trying to convince us that this is a sweeping historical saga. Instead, it just clashes with the loose, sketchy illustration like someone duct-taped a medieval font onto a child’s painting. The author’s name sits wide-spaced at the bottom, as stiff and joyless as the poor redhead’s expression.
The color palette doesn’t save it either. Washed-out beige, muddy browns, and watery blues combine into the visual equivalent of cold tea left on the counter. It’s less nautical passion and more art-class extra credit project taped proudly to grandma’s fridge.
This isn’t a tale of swashbuckling sailors or historical romance. This is a tourism pamphlet for Unsexy Maritime Encounters: The Exhibit.
If this ship is supposed to sail, someone needs to repaint the sails — and the men — before it sinks straight into the Horrible Covers Hall of Shame.