Naming and Renaming: A Short Manifesto
Man Ray aka Emmanuel Radnitzky
When I was little I had a fixation with my mom’s old baby name book. I probably read it cover to cover several times, marking the names I wished were mine, the names I liked for someone else, the names that would belong to this or that type of person. I found it ungraspable that my name was only my name by a slim margin—when I found a list of names my parents considered for my brother and me, it seemed like they offered whole new possibilities. I could have had a whole different life.
Lots of subversive and extraordinary artists changed their names by way of forming new identities—some, like Marcel DuChamp took this beyond the name to create alter egos like Rrose Sélavy. Porn stars, romance novelists and revolutionaries also frequently use pseudonyms or nomes de guerre—adding to their mystery, legend, or lack thereof. In some cases, of course, this was tactical due to social constraints—the Bronte sisters publishing their first books under men’s names—or political tensions—many European artists and activists published journals and pamphlets in countries occupied by the Nazis. But name-changing and reinvention seems also to symbolize the barrier-breaking that certain avant-garde artists came to define by the movements in which they participated. Dada, which effectively declaimed all manners of art that came before it and became “anti-art,” was founded in part by Tristan Tzara—a Romanian living in Zurich and then in France. He was born Samy Rosenstock—hardly the name by which someone goes about writing playful, deconstructive poems and causing riots amongst civilized theatergoers.
I think the name has a lot to do with the person and, though I’ve never committed to it myself, casting off one’s name must give rise to a personal sort of freedom that few other actions can mirror. I wouldn’t be surprised if Charlotte Bronte started twirling an imaginary moustache as she finished off the last few chapters of Jane Eyre. I read somewhere that in certain ancient civilizations, knowing someone’s name meant that you held power over them. In that sense, for artists attempting to escape the stranglehold of 19th century conventions, name-changing feels like a natural way of redefining the self in relation to the world. Or the other way around.
I can’t proceed with a story if I don’t know the character’s name. If the name isn’t presenting itself inextricably with the character, it means I have to go on an all-consuming quest through pop-up-window-producing baby name websites, sorting through too-normal, too-obvious suggestions like Kelly or Rick. No. The character will never be called Kelly or Rick. The character needs to have a name that’s surprising for who she is, but not overly unfathomable. The character needs to have a name that feels good in your mouth when you read it out loud. The name should take into consideration the name-givers: most likely the parents. Where were they from? What kinds of things did they like? Where would they look for a name? Unless, of course, the character is of the self-naming variety and prefers to go by Snoopy no matter that her real name is Teresa-Annabelle St. John. Still: I know Snoopy’s real name, even if it doesn’t appear in the story.
The character needs to have a name that is odd enough to be remembered, but not too hard to pronounce. It can’t be unreadable, or unwieldy, or, of course, the name of every third reader’s daughter-in-law. And then, the character needs to own the name, to grow into it. The name should feel different and somehow more full by the time the story is over. Suddenly the character might develop a nickname. Through careful placement, use, and consideration, the name should take on new proportions by the end of the story. It should not be changeable by you, the writer—only by the circumstances of the story itself.
The names I look for are otherworldly; they can’t be limited by recognizable experience. They have to extend beyond era and definition.
I’m not sure what level of neurosis I might rise to on the possible occasion that I ever name a child. What I do know is that I’ll give him/her something very long and fancy so that there’s a lot of beautiful syllables to choose from and to recombine. Maybe or hopefully my possible-child will get rid of it all anyway in order to start a new movement—go by some evocative combination of flowery and dangerous words in order to prove that again and again, art and life will be remade.
Recently, my mom found that old baby name book. I’ve got it right here on my desk, next to a 1958 edition of Roget’s International Thesaurus. You can’t be too precise.
I find that I have favorite names that my characters have to prove themselves worthy of before I give them away. :-)
Many genre novelists write under different names if they switch from a lowerselling genre to a more popular one because that way they have no sell-history and will be considered “new discoveries” by bookstore buyers.
Sometimes it’s necessary to name change. Somehow I doubt David Robert Hayward-Jones’ Diamond Dogs would sound as good as David Bowie’s. Middlemarch by Mary Anne Evans may alliterate better, but it may not exist if it weren’t for George Eliot. I didn’t know the Brontes Pseudonymed their names. If I ever become famous, I’ll probably just add umlauts to my name to toughen things up a little.
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David Bowie is a classic, i like all his songs during the old days. -“