I love Spanish. Which I’m sure my ancestors would love considering that half of them are french. But every time, when it comes down to language and culture, I connect so much stronger to all things latin.
It could be one of many things, like how my mother was raised right on the southern U.S. border as an army brat and took a lot of it in, or how my dad who supplied my french ancestry was gone long before I got interested in my origins.
By the way, dad, happy birthday wherever you are in the world today!
Now, aside from the commentary on my choice of title for this rant, all of the above is inconsequential to that matter I am here to discuss. That being the very important topic of names, specifically referring to names when it comes to authors and whatever name they choose to emblazon on their grand novels upon completion. Be they true or false.
I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned this somewhere in some post that Andie Welsh is a pseudonym I employ. I would estimate that it is roughly the fiftieth pen name I have created for myself as an excuse to completely reinvent my author’s character. Certainly the most honest, true to me, and basically most believable of my pen names yet. It’s going up against such gems as Artemis Pennshaw from my greek period, and Chris Rainey from my less than subtle crush on Mort Rainey (don’t ask why…).
Andie is the nickname I wish had been given since it can actually come from my given name. Welsh is a nod to my mother’s ancestry (The Shorrey, Worrey, Torrey’s) and the legendary storytellers I imagine that I descend from. These were put together to create the perfect pen name that evokes authordom and actually has a solid connection to who I really am.
But let me just be honest with you all here, it isn’t.
Andie Welsh is just one more lovely little bead on a long string of my attempts to exist in a manner without truly existing as myself. Just another character to distract me from the reality of who I am and the fact that I am not happy with who and where I am at all. A maybe someday to hide behind, and a shadow to blame when convenient.
So subconsciously, as NaNoWriMo closes in five days, it isn’t me that really fails to write that 50,000 words but Andie, or Chris, or sad old Artie (the only one of us to actually have a rejection slip to show for her attempts). Then I can then putter along until the next NaNo event comes back so I can reinvent my author self once more.
Now those of you who read my blog regularly know that I pride myself on owning up to my own failings in all areas of my life. But this is one that I struggle with since it is so tied into how I define myself as a person. I have always been The Writer and that is it. Sure I can deviate and experiment and have fun in other creative ways. But at the core, my brain says Writer Writer Writer.
I love writing absolutely, entirely, and in utter totality. It doesn’t matter what I write or if it’s even intelligible. The act alone of a pen in my hand against paper or the tiny stretches of my fingers across the keys of my laptop is just as comforting as holding my blankie and sucking my thumb. Yet something tells me that my dear friends Andie, Chris, and even prolific eternally young Artemis do not share that same devotion I do.
Which leaves me to conclude that perhaps my lack of writing chops in my adult years stems more from a lack of me than a lack of anything else in my life. No busy non-coddling mothers nor absentee fathers are responsible for where I am in all other aspects of my life. Likewise, they are not to blame for where I am in my writing.
I’ll leave the long detailed version of who I am to those who buy the biography should I ever get interesting enough to be published. Even the autobiography, should I ever let myself write it. Instead, I will say that I plan to reveal my true name in an epic online only fashion. Which truly won’t be that epic as anyone who follows me on Twitter has figured it out by now.
Much more to come…