I’m thinking of using a pseudonym when I come out with my book. I don’t know. This brown-eyed lady’s afraid of how people will perceive the real me since the world’s so cruel.
I’m old enough to gain momentum in knocking those who mean ill will to me; but, I’m still human and no amount of cape-wearing and vibranium necklace slinging will protect me. My real name gives me security. If I rock a pseudonym, no one’s attacking me, but that person they believe exist within those vowels and consonants.
My first name is the name that my mother gave me. If I fail, does she fail. If I lift in glory, does she follow me. With my name, it’s my voice. It’s my experiences. It’s the tears I shed when I look in the mirror and neglect my reflection telling me to run and never look back.
My middle name is the middle child of a family, begging for attention away from the first and last child, but never receiving anything more than a hug and assurance that it matters too. That is, when I mention it. Who asks for my middle name? Not many. It’s also the third member of a pop group who’s debut will flop in the shadow of the pretty girl with long hair and the right complexion for the affection.
I’m not naming any names, though.
My last name belongs to my husband after freeing myself of the name that tied me to abuse, pain, and self-loathing that made me decide I wasn’t good enough when I didn’t even try, and when I did try, I told myself that I didn’t deserve the joy persistent in my world. Good riddance. The name was so plain anyway, which stuns me because my diplomas and degrees plaster it for the achievements I fought despite it all.
What a venerable word salad in the search of a pseudonym. Let me sign off with the blog name I use daily.
P.S. If you think I should use a pseudonym for my writing, feel free to share your thoughts. No judgment.