An Alienating Alias
Men are not women. And vice versa. I didn’t excel at school but I do remember learning that much with a little help from Vicky Taylor, as we snuck off behind the school bike racks. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. He grew up in the 70s and they had a bike rack at school, even then? But it’s all true, for the most part. Anyway, the important thing is that even at such a tender age I discovered that men are different to women. Physically. I dedicated my adolescent years to uncovering the differences in nature (pun alert!) and by my early 20s was something of an expert in the field. Despite a frustrating lack of physical research work in the field, I still considered myself something of a sage on the matter, and would walk around with a profound smugness plastered over my spotty face. I didn’t know then that there would be a time in my mid-40s when I would spend two weeks living as a woman but we’ll come to that later.
Fear not, I’m not about to waffle on about the fact that men are women are from different planets. That’s been done to death. No, what I wish to share in our collective moment together is far less profound. I want you to picture something, ready? A man, let’s call him David, for ease of reference, publishes a short story on a very well known publishing platform. David’s story is a romantic comedy with a little suspense. It’s Chick-Lit for want of a better explanation. There, I’m sure hypothetical David wouldn’t mind us saying that. Well hypo-Dave is nothing if not impulsive and shortly after publishing the story, he decides that the story would be better received if written by a female author. There’s no evidence to support his rationale, just a hunch. Impulsive is as impulsive does. The next morning he wakes up with a fuzzy head and a female name tattooed across his e-book cover.
Penny Drop. A joke name. Not so much of a joke when I, I mean he, realises what a tit he has just made of himself. Surely, what has been done can be undone though, I hear you cry. Well, the answer to that has to be yes and no. You see, hypo D wasn’t content with just dipping his toes in the murky waters of the opposite sex. No, none of this, ‘let’s see how this goes for a week or so.’ kind of common sense mindset. He, before becoming she, had been fortunate enough to find two decent souls to review Love Line. With the reviews imminent, Penny showed her true colours, and pushed herself into the limelight. She politely requested that the reviews use her name as author as David had ‘gone away’. The reviewers, for their part, showed little concern for his welfare, and rallied around Penny, like the prodigal sister returning home. As soon as the reviews were in, Penny started dismantling the foundations of hypo D’s existence. Wherever and whenever his name had once stood proud as author, she erased, defiled, and replaced. David was dead. Penny had seen to it.
Conviction. As fundamental as the ink pot (ok, word processor) to an author. It took only two weeks for cracks to show in Penny’s persona. For one, she struggled with the idea of not being able to display a profile picture of herself. Not a deal breaker, though. Penny Drop. Despite everything she had fought for and everything she envisioned, she fell short for the want of one thing. Conviction. He had written the story, not her. He was the author of chick-lit, not her. And he made a better woman than her. Penny Drop. A joke name. A name that lacked conviction. It was all his fault. For two weeks she had thrived, survived, and denied. And then it was over.
Hypo D came back stronger. His name now sits proudly on the cover of his book. Profiles show his picture. Reviews now bear his name. Yes, you may see Penny’s name here and there but she is nothing more than a shadow, a memory of a time without conviction. David Hall is a rather popular name, however. He will have to fight hard to stand shoulder to shoulder with his fellow Halls to shout, ‘I am a chick-lit knitter and proud.’ Conviction. It changes everything. Goodbye Penny.
