Pen Names and Privilege

One of my friends sent around a blog post on Facebook this week that used a biking analogy to provide one possible explanation of what we mean when we speak of "white privilege."  It's an excellent (if imperfect) blog post, but it reminded me that quite often we don't recognize privilege as its recipients: it's only when we suffer under a particular type of privilege that it becomes apparent.

As writers, we are granted a certain amount of anonymity that sometimes protects us from some of the inequalities of privilege.  Yet the more I consider it, I realize we are just as much victims/perpetrators of racial/financial/heteronormative privilege as anyone else.  Nowhere does our acceptance and perpetuation of this privilege become more apparent than in the historical adoption of the "nom de plume."

By haphephilia

For instance, the adoption of masculine pen names has historically been a socially accepted way for female authors/poets to overcome the patriarchal prejudices of readers (and publishers).  The Brontë sisters all published under masculine names, in part to keep a bit of anonymity, and partially to avoid the prejudice of femininity.  George Sand was born Amantine-Lucile-Aurore Dupin.

The phenomenon, however, is not merely historical.  J.K. Rowling and K.A. Applegate both chose (or were pressured) to write under their initials to preserve a bit of ambiguity about their gender.  Neither have been secretive about the fact that they are women, but we might argue their readerships under those names were helped (or at least not hindered) by the blurring of their gender presentation.

Carrie Cuinn wrote an excellent short piece on the problem with publishing under pen names.  She made a conscious decision not to use a pen name because she wanted "to be read and judged and known for who I really am."  And I agree wholeheartedly, even as I publish this post under a name that differs from my own legal name. 

When I selected my own pen name, I chose something dissimilar enough from my legal name that I could safely write academic pieces under my legal name while publishing fiction and poetry under another.  However, the two names are similar enough in ethnicity/gender that, since the very first time I tried it on, my pen name felt like me.  In the online community I am very comfortable being referred to as "Amalie."  She is me, with my history, my prejudices, and my (perhaps imagined) talent.  "Cantor" is even more personal; it is a tribute to a long-standing discussion between my partner and myself on how we should combine our last names when we are finally granted the legal right to marry. 

I am fortunate, however.  I write fiction that features primarily lesbian characters.  Were I to publish under a masculine name, I would run the risk of alienating my primary audience (other lesbian readers).  My partner confessed to me a few days ago that when she seeks out lesbian fiction, she intentionally avoids authors with male-sounding names.  She says she can't trust them to adequately get to the heart of her concerns as a feminine lesbian woman.

So what does that say about me?  Though I am hesitant to admit it, I like to think I'm operating under oppression, that I'm fighting the good fight by intentionally being as true to myself and to my potential audience as I possibly can be.  But it turns out that, because of the audience I'm seeking, my name may in fact imbue me with a level of privilege I didn't realize existed.  It's not a moral issue, not really.  It just is what it is.

And it demonstrates exactly what our bike-riding blogger was talking about.  I'm driving an automobile in a niche market that's been built to allow me free access, when others might still be riding their bikes to work.  What if I wanted to write about the adventures of a male wizard (as an homage to Ms. Rowling)?  Would I need to shorten or completely change my chosen pen name just to get an honest reading from my intended audience?  It's a question that deserves continuing discussion. 

Our pen names can grant us a level of privilege we may not feel we can earn under our legal names.  Whether we intentionally play into that privilege or not, it's our duty to consider how the system that created that privilege might be hurting our fellow authors.

Mental Illness and the Creative Mind

Monday afternoon, as I was preparing for a quick nap before dinner, I read that Robin Williams, one of the greatest comedians and actors of our time, has passed away. I didn't want to post anything until official confirmation of the cause of death had been reported, but news outlets have now confirmed that he died by his own hand.  He had apparently been suffering from severe depression for some time.  In one unfortunate decision taken by a desperate man, the world lost a brilliant, creative mind.

Although Williams was adored by many, the conversation has already begun shifting away from fawning memorials to questions about his life, his intentions, the dark things from his past.  I heard evidence of it on the radio on the way to work both yesterday and this morning.  My coworkers are all discussing how their Facebook feeds have essentially exploded with both memorials and criticisms of the man.  His struggles with addiction, his three marriages, his somewhat criticized relationships with his kids--all these things and more are slowly but predictably coming under the microscope.  Already in many of the more popular (even if I don't understand why) blogs, he has been criticized for being selfish, or for being cowardly, or for being responsible for his own choice.  I will not give them traffic by linking them here, but all you have to do is perform a google search and you'll find them, I promise you.

Mental illness is a deadly disease, for which suicide often seduces a sufferer with promise of an ultimate cure.  Williams is only the latest in a long dark history, paved with the lives of countless artists, writers, musicians, and comedians, some of the most creatively gifted of their times. Kurt Cobain. Ernest Hemingway. Sylvia Plath. Vincent van Gogh.  Virginia Woolf.  At least anecdotally, the rate of mental illness amongst those in the creative professions seems higher than among the general population.  Some more recent studies have confirmed there is a correlation between those in creative professions and mental illness.

In one 2013 study, researchers noted that writers specifically were at greater risk for any number of mental illnesses, including schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, substance abuse, and yes, even suicide. The brilliance and tragedy of the creative mind is its gift for seeing things in new ways, not all of which are bright and sunny and joyous.  Sometimes the darkness draws us in without our knowledge.  Sometimes we dive into it willingly, choosing to hide within the shadows of human consciousness.  Unfortunately, danger lurks in those shadows.  We swim through the darkest of humanity, and we are not left unscarred.

I once thought that suicide was a "permanent solution to a temporary problem."  The very good intentions of the statement--intended to inspire sufferers to look for hope in a better tomorrow--ignore the fact that sometimes mental illness is not temporary.  For many people, these diseases are manageable but chronic.  To suggest otherwise, that somehow a miracle cure is the only desirable outcome of such a battle, is ill-advised at best and horribly callous at worst.

I myself struggle with persistent depressive disorder and have since I was very young.  I have fought off the urge to take drastic self-harming measures more times than I care to admit.  Is it true that the condition sometimes goes into remission?  Absolutely.  Is it true that some people have eventually found themselves free of the disease?  Of course it is.  But to tell me that my only goal should be to overcome it entirely detracts from all of the efforts I have taken to live with it, each and every day of my life, no matter how hard a task that seems.

Suicide is permanent.  It isn't selfish, it isn't cowardly, and it isn't its victims' fault.  But it is permanent.  The very beauty of life is that, from moment to moment, it contains infinite potentialities for change.  To be fair, not all of those possibilities are positive.   In five minutes, I might get a phone call announcing that everyone I love is dead and gone.  Tomorrow morning, I could discover I'm suffering from an incurable cancer. A week from now, I might be evicted from my apartment.  These are all very real worries, some more realistic than others, but real.  To imply that everyone's tomorrow will be bright and beautiful is not only shallow--it's demonstrably wrong. 

But then, there are other possibilities.   Some are perhaps pipe dreams.  My novel in-production might sell 7,000,000 copies and make me rich, eliminating all my financial worries.  My mother might call me to tell me she won a million dollars and is giving me a cut of it.  I might wake up with no health issues at all, with my knees and joints in better shape than they have been since high school.

But then there are other perfectly possible scenarios.  I might get offered a promotion at work.  My partner and sister-in-law might have a delicious fajita dinner ready for me when I get home.  I might get a publication acceptance letter.  I might get to spend an excellent day out by the pool.  Just because my life tomorrow might actually get worse doesn't negate its ability to get better.

To me, it's the positive possibilities that make the negative ones, if I can't ignore them entirely, bearable.  Every day I fight to embrace those possibilities, to keep pushing forward in the hope that tomorrow, even if not perfect, will be better than today.

Robin Williams, at least in this life, has run out of possibilities for change.  It's tragic and heart-wrenching and I pray that he's found rest from the demons that were plaguing him.  It wasn't selfish.  It wasn't cowardly.  It wasn't his fault.  But he'll never sign another movie deal.  He'll never get another comedy special.  He'll never get to help a friend in a time of need.  Those possibilities are now over for him.

Don't ignore the infinite potential of your life, no matter what shape it may be in now.  It could be taken from you in a moment.  Don't let it go without a fight.

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/