Behold: the cover that asks “What if we just didn’t?”
Welcome to My Book, the self-aware shrug of the publishing world. This isn’t just a title — it’s a warning label. A quiet declaration from the designer (or perhaps just the author’s left thumb) that says: “Look, we got this far, let’s not ruin the streak by trying now.”
Let’s start with the composition, or rather, the two slices of design purgatory stacked one over the other.
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Top Half: A black-and-white photograph that looks like it was taken on a stolen security camera — at midnight. The author appears to be mid-squat on a staircase or fire escape, possibly at a prison, possibly backstage at an abandoned power plant. He’s either deep in thought or wondering if the timer on the phone actually worked. Either way, the lighting is… harsh. The contrast? Set to “Haunted.”
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Bottom Half: Yellow. Just… yellow. The kind of yellow that screams banana peel meets legal pad.
It’s not a background. It’s a cry for help.
Smack in the middle:
MY BOOK
in bold serif typeface, the kind normally reserved for default settings in 2003 word processors. Centered. Uninspired. And aggressively indifferent.
And then, as if to drive home the point that this cover was assembled with the same urgency as a last-minute homework assignment, we get:
by Albert Nyangaresi
In a different font. A different size. Possibly from another reality entirely.
No border. No drop shadow. No sense of hierarchy.
Just the most literal, bare minimum interpretation of “book cover” to have ever existed.
What genre is this?
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Self-help?
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Poetry?
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Urban memoir?
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Existentialist stand-up comedy?
Who knows? Certainly not this cover.
It refuses to give you context, meaning, or even a second font that matches the first.
This isn’t My Book.
This is My Beautiful Lack of Effort.
Final Score: One grayscale identity crisis + one yellow void = Certified Cover Catastrophe.
Honestly, the only thing missing is Comic Sans and a broken JPEG. But hey — there’s always the sequel.