What’s in a nickname? Sometimes they say it all …
I love nicknames.
We all have memories of a Rocky, a Stinky, a Shorty, a Buck, a Liz, a Trish, a Dee-Dee, or some other term of endearment - or derision - from our childhoods.
I grew up with a kid called Sparky. It fit him because he was scrappy and feisty and full of spit, particularly when we played baseball and basketball. Sparky was a great moniker for him while young, but didn’t work as well when he became older.
“How many 50-year old guys do you know nicknamed Sparky?” he asked me a few years ago while we knocked down a couple of cold beers. We laughed about it then. I did not know his real first name was Edward until I saw it in his obituary.
But Sparky was one of many when I was young; I also had friends who were called Bud (real name Faye), Teddy (James), and Toad (William). They loved their nicknames and carried them proudly for years.
Nicknames, of course, are substitutes for proper names of a familiar person, place or thing. It can be a term of affection or ridicule. They are often colorful, interesting and humorous. Sometimes they tell everything you need to know about the individual.
Because nicknames are so colorful and personal, my novels are loaded with them. Readers instantly identify with nicknames because they conjure up fond recollections and memories. Making that kind of connection is as comforting as slipping on a big, old sweatshirt.
One of the main characters in both of my books is a female publisher nicknamed the Castrator.
As you might imagine, she was a no-nonsense boss who had no problem taking down men and women who worked for her. Men tagged her with the nickname but women used it to reference her as well.
And the Castrator herself did not officially object to the nickname when she heard it whispered because of the fear it created. My character wanted desperately to be feared, and more importantly, respected.
The Castrator has become a classic by my nickname standards.
My second novel, “A Grand Murder,” also features a female assassin named Charlene Marks. Professionally, the killer goes by Charlie, partly to camouflage the fact that she is a woman and partly to help conceal her true identity.
The new novel I’m working on puts a spotlight on a sheriff’s deputy who has a double nickname. His birth name was James Robert, so early on family and friends called him Jay-Bob. That worked fine until observant schoolmates decided, in their own cruel and unvarnished ways, that he really should be called Booger.
I don’t think I need to draw you a picture of why the kids at school called him Booger. I created this character by framing him along the lines of a high school coach who is known all across the county as Booger, or Boog if you’re really tight with him.
One day when I attended one of his team’s practice sessions, I heard several of his players call him, or refer to him, as Booger. After practice, I asked him about that: “I’m surprised to hear your players call you by your nickname. Obviously, it doesn’t bother you. You are OK with that?”
“You know, I’ve thought about that a lot,” the coach said, pausing to reflect. “But I’m OK with it as long as they say it and use it with respect.”
Hmmmm, all right. I don’t exactly know how the name Booger rolls off any tongue with respect or grace, but if the coach is good with it, so am I.
Another reason why nicknames are so great.
A Grand Murder
We all have memories of a Rocky, a Stinky, a Shorty, a Buck, a Liz, a Trish, a Dee-Dee, or some other term of endearment - or derision - from our childhoods.
I grew up with a kid called Sparky. It fit him because he was scrappy and feisty and full of spit, particularly when we played baseball and basketball. Sparky was a great moniker for him while young, but didn’t work as well when he became older.
“How many 50-year old guys do you know nicknamed Sparky?” he asked me a few years ago while we knocked down a couple of cold beers. We laughed about it then. I did not know his real first name was Edward until I saw it in his obituary.
But Sparky was one of many when I was young; I also had friends who were called Bud (real name Faye), Teddy (James), and Toad (William). They loved their nicknames and carried them proudly for years.
Nicknames, of course, are substitutes for proper names of a familiar person, place or thing. It can be a term of affection or ridicule. They are often colorful, interesting and humorous. Sometimes they tell everything you need to know about the individual.
Because nicknames are so colorful and personal, my novels are loaded with them. Readers instantly identify with nicknames because they conjure up fond recollections and memories. Making that kind of connection is as comforting as slipping on a big, old sweatshirt.
One of the main characters in both of my books is a female publisher nicknamed the Castrator.
As you might imagine, she was a no-nonsense boss who had no problem taking down men and women who worked for her. Men tagged her with the nickname but women used it to reference her as well.
And the Castrator herself did not officially object to the nickname when she heard it whispered because of the fear it created. My character wanted desperately to be feared, and more importantly, respected.
The Castrator has become a classic by my nickname standards.
My second novel, “A Grand Murder,” also features a female assassin named Charlene Marks. Professionally, the killer goes by Charlie, partly to camouflage the fact that she is a woman and partly to help conceal her true identity.
The new novel I’m working on puts a spotlight on a sheriff’s deputy who has a double nickname. His birth name was James Robert, so early on family and friends called him Jay-Bob. That worked fine until observant schoolmates decided, in their own cruel and unvarnished ways, that he really should be called Booger.
I don’t think I need to draw you a picture of why the kids at school called him Booger. I created this character by framing him along the lines of a high school coach who is known all across the county as Booger, or Boog if you’re really tight with him.
One day when I attended one of his team’s practice sessions, I heard several of his players call him, or refer to him, as Booger. After practice, I asked him about that: “I’m surprised to hear your players call you by your nickname. Obviously, it doesn’t bother you. You are OK with that?”
“You know, I’ve thought about that a lot,” the coach said, pausing to reflect. “But I’m OK with it as long as they say it and use it with respect.”
Hmmmm, all right. I don’t exactly know how the name Booger rolls off any tongue with respect or grace, but if the coach is good with it, so am I.
Another reason why nicknames are so great.
A Grand Murder
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