This is about names

Chances are, if you’re reading this, you don’t know much about me. Unless you frequent my corner of Cow-Town, you don’t know my name or my face. You may have read a story or two, if I pawned a book on you at a convention. Beyond that, I’m a blank slate, a name on a screen. Nobody. And that’s okay.

This is about starting over. This is about names.

I was born with a boring name. That’s okay, too. It’s the only name I’ve got. The only reason I ever published under it because I couldn’t think of anything clever enough to change it to. That was my mistake. Over the years, as I’ve moved forward, I’ve never felt comfortable going by my name. It’s plain. It’s silly. It gives total strangers the ability to look me up and find out where I live, if they were so inclined, and that bugs me. It makes me feel a little vulnerable, for a whole host of reasons not worth going into now, and that bugs me, too. So I’m going to change all that.

If you remember my old name, don’t worry. I’m not hiding from it. My old stories are still my stories, and I’m not ashamed of them. Moving forward, I’m going to do something different. I want to work on establishing myself as a novelist of weird books about scary things. I want to publish comics that will make you want to crawl out of your skin. I want to write the kinds of stories I want to read, about werewolves and gypsies and drug-addled minds, and feel comfortable enough to talk about all the other stuff I enjoy, too.

My name is Magen Cubed. That’s Magen to the third power, because, hey — I’ll do anything you want if you say my name three times.

What’s your name?