Once upon a time, I searched for a pen name that still felt like me…
There was no question I’d been living a story that wanted (needed?) to be told, but it felt dangerous. How to tell it without invading privacy or bringing down the wrath of other people involved?
Two things were true:
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I needed to start writing right then while it was all still raw.
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I needed to address my feelings because they were still too raw.
Writing is my therapy. It’s how I come to understand my story and feel through my pain. It’s potent intimate stuff. Cathartic.
But writing for anyone else to read means shaping that story into something meaningful for them. Not just a cautionary tale or a gee-look-what-they-did-to-me exposé, but more of a how to make meaning from all this instead of falling back on everything happens for a reason.
Which brings us full circle to finding a pen name. I was still afraid. Was it possible to do what needed to be done anonymously?
It was astonishing how much the name of the narrator affected the telling!
In Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare wrote, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet” as part of Juliet’s argument with herself. Romeo’s name is just a label. Regardless of his name, he would still possess the exact same wonderful qualities. So it shouldn’t make any difference, right?
Changing the name of a thing does not change the thing itself.
A friend asked in a Facebook post, “If you could choose another name for yourself, one that felt more YOU, what would it be?”
Same question. Slightly different angle.
There were plenty of names I liked, but none were me. Each one I tried on felt like a different persona. Not more ME. More like a chameleon changing to match the environment or hide from the fear. Margaret would tell the story differently from Catherine. And Catherine wouldn’t sound a bit like Stephanie.
The pen name question dissipated of its own accord through the healative writing. Craving to simultaneously be seen and be invisible had been twin nemeses. The pen name question “forced” an answer.
And here it is:
I AM Anne with an E.
I’m named for my great grandmother Johnny Ann, a strong salt-of-the-earth woman. Ann with no E.
My mom thought with the E was prettier, more elegant, and distinguished it as my own. But granddad loved to tease Mom so he called me Annie – Anne with an E.
My surname was a different story. My birth name never felt like mine. Neither did the surname of my college boyfriend who became the father of my children.
When Steve proposed, even the surname that would become mine said yes.
The name Anne means “grace.” The name Wade likely derives from the occupation of safely guiding others across shallow waters.
I have long said “I am not writing this book, article, post, whatever. It is writing me.” Because the writing itself always wanted to gracefully guide readers – including me – across the water.
What’s in your name? Would you choose differently?