Pseudonym

I am starting to feel limited as a writer by my gender.  I figured I should probably start this [what is sure to be a long and rambling] essay with that blanket statement.  I honestly am not sure that I can achieve success in the type of writing that interests me with my name and gender proceeding me.

This is not a hypothetical situation, or an excuse to stop chasing success and succumb to the fear and self-doubt that exists within me.  Every time I’ve performed a show in the Fringe, I have at least one person say to me something like “it’s so nice to come see your shows and not another one-woman show,” or, conversely, ask why I don’t talk about “women’s stuff.”   I asked someone one time what they meant, because obviously what I do is a “one-woman show” simply because I perform by myself and I am, you know, a woman.  Their answer was “well, you know, body issues, bad relationships, or bad childhoods.  You talk about things everyone cares about.”

Their answer troubled me, mainly because I knew exactly what they were going to say.  If you look at my work, I have talked about body issues (my surgeries and my struggles with Graves Disease).  I talk about dating and my relationships, although mainly in passing or cloaked in metaphor because I am, after all, an introverted prude and feel that there are things that are very private.   I can’t talk about a bad childhood, because frankly I didn’t have one.  And, again, anything that could be construed as an issue from my past would once again be cloaked in theory or in metaphor.  Because there are things that are private.

It’s the same in music.  When I meet new people and conversation gets around to me telling stories about being on the road with a band for a few years, more often than not their reaction is, “oh, are you a singer?”

Good lord, no.

And when I tell them, “no, I’m a sax player,” the usual response is either “oh, it’s an all-girl band?” or “oh, really?”

The on the road experience was no different.  I can’t count the number of times audience members told me, “wow, you’re Lisa Simpson!” or “a female sax player.  Never seen that before,” or “you’re pretty good for a woman.”

Lately, my sexuality has also become an issue.  The review that stung the most with my latest show (and I asked to be removed from my show page because I felt it was a personal attack rather than an actual review since they were ragging on things that weren’t ever talked about in the show) was that it wasn’t “gay enough”, and that I was an affront to the gay community because I based my show around a retelling of a Greek myth which only exposed me as a supporter of the patriarchy and furthering the notion that the only acceptable literature comes from Dead White Males.  Thank God that reviewer didn’t pick up on the notion that the rest of the show was based on James Joyce’s “Ulysses”.  I looked over the show, trying to figure out where their critique was coming from.  And what I saw was a show performed by a very out gay woman (not something you see very often), with many sections centered around my home life with my partner and our dog, and included a political rant about the country’s inability to legalize gay marriage.

I’m not sure how much gayer I was supposed to be, without telling my coming out story (it was boring), or delving into the world of lesbian erotica (see paragraph three under “introverted prude; some things are private”).

When Sinead O’Connor was struggling to get more attention to her music, she shaved her head.  Most people thought she did it for attention, or to prove her punk status.  I read an interview with her a few years ago where she stated that she did it because she didn’t want to be a pretty face, and wanted people to take her music seriously.

Just a few days ago, James Chartrand of Men with Pens and Copyblogger “came out” as a woman.  And in the article ‘Why James Chartrand Wears Women’s Underpants”, Chartrand talks about how she was a single mother, incredibly close to going on welfare, trying to make ends meet with freelance writing.  As an experiment, she decided to start submitting bids for work and writing under a male pseudonym.  Guess which one was instantly successful?

There was no difference in the talent or professionalism, just in the name and perceived persona.

I don’t want to write about body issues, or relationships, or my childhood, or my coming out story, or lesbian erotica.

I want to study and write about the effects social media has on storytelling, reading, and radio / digital spoken media.  I’d like to apply for, and receive, grant money to travel the world to study the public education systems in the way that T.R. Reid did with the health care industry.  I’d like to write a book of essays critiquing different facets of society, using philosophy, social theory, and mathematics as a jumping off point.  I want to take my theory on the issue of hidden minorities and create a cross-cultural study interviewing and talking and researching the issue.

The problem is, I honestly don’t know if grant foundations or editors would take me seriously.   I can’t think of a female author that has found success (and, yes, commercial success counts in this) in any of those areas of writing.  I want to believe that my gender or my sexuality is not holding me back from success.  I’d like to just blame it on my own self-doubt.  Self doubt I can overcome.  The limitations and prejudices of a society I can not.

But the idea of taking on a pseudonym, especially for the type of writing that I do, also makes me nervous.  While I’d be more than happy never to use the pronoun “I” again in any work, or tell any of my personal stories, I hold strongly to the belief that one’s personal experience and history shapes their viewpoints and judgments.  So by denying my name, am I creating nothing but fiction?  How far down the rabbit hole can one go with a disguise before they become something other than themselves?  Will I be as conscientious as I am now with writing the truth, or will my pen and brain become okay with first smudges, then erasures, then embellishment, and then downright falsehoods because “it’s not me, it’s the pseudonym”?

There are days I wish I liked wearing pink dresses, had a slew of bad boyfriends who broke my heart, and struggled with my weight.

The fact is, I don’t.

But the days I think those thoughts are ever increasing.

There are days I wish I could be pigeonholed into a package of pre-bundled creativity and thought that an audience / readers knew what to do with, so I can stop feeling like I’m holding myself back from what I really want to say because it might not be marketable.

The only organ I want to be defined by is the lumpy grey one between my ears.  If I have to let my audience think that I’ve got an extra organ below the belt in order to be solely defined by the grey one between my ears, and in turn that meant I could provide for my family exploring the issues I want to explore, writing the words I want to write…it might be a trade-off I’m willing to accept.  Even though it would mean no public recognition (and I won’t lie—I like that stuff).  Even though it would mean I’d never be able to do an in person book tour in the hypothetical dreamworld that I was ever offered one, unless I hired someone to pretend to be me (currently accepting applications).  Even though it would mean that if the truth ever came out, my credibility would be gone.

So, if anyone besides me actually reads through to the end of this post, I’d love your thoughts.

Because feeling like anything I try won’t work out, and not because of my writing or my ideas or anything else I can actively make better, but because of my gender and who I sleep with, is really hard.  It freezes the pen and makes nothing happen.

If Joanna Rowling had to go by her initials so people would assume she was a man to have Harry – frickin – Potter published, well, even in our modern society, I think it might be the route to go.

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