Two women I know that are advanced in age have become increasingly concerned about leaving a legacy. And both, it seems, will do it through writing. I hope they succeed; I admire and respect them both. And I hope that when my time comes, if it comes, that I’ll be as strong and as brave they are. Even so, I can’t imagine myself leaving a mark under my given name which is in some a way a dead-name to me. And though letters make sense on their own, I find that their lines become foreign like childish babblings in crayon when those letters come to approximate my name — a name that is some key in how I navigate my existence in this world.
I remember the first time I got something published under a private publisher. And I remember seeing my name attached to my work and feeling so depressed. In some way, those things I was proud of were attached to something I am not proud of, my name, that is. Cementing my existence with works to my given name seemed so wrong. Those words I strung together were erroneously strung to my given name. And as I look back I realize I have cut those strings and severed those threads and am left wondering what else I have missed that should be cut before I move on.
I am me 