Depending on your language, culture, geography, gender identity, et cetera, a name that seems unusual to you might be common elsewhere.
A familiar name that feels "intuitive" to pronounce—for you—depends on language(s) you speak & which names you hear used in your communities.
In a world where the writers most likely to be published—historically & today—have been English-speaking Whīte men,
the names we see most often in books are those which reflect the norms in *that* community: names of English or Latin origin—common for Whīte (Ānglo-Sâxon) folks.
*Regarding the claim that most published books are in English, please see UNESCO's Index Translationum, a database of book translations: unesco.org/xtrans/bsstate…
Reading through the quote-tweeted thread, it's unsurprising to see which names people define as "common."
But run a search for the most common given names, and Muhammad (or variant spelling) tops most lists. Browse by geography or culture, and the publishing bias grows clear.
Our assumptions about which names are "unusual" are steeped in yt supr€mâcist culture norms.
[Censored to limit trølls.]
When we continue to define "unusual" names as anything too far from John, Mary, or Taylor, we perpetuate the idea that Normal=Whīte.
Normal=English or Latin.
And using language like "unusual" (an adjective whose synonyms include words like abnormal, odd, and deviant)
to describe names we haven't already seen over and over in books for hundreds of years
reinforces the idea that different is bad. Unfamiliar is bad. Other is bad.
My writing mentor and editor (whose guidance has been immensely useful in most cases) told me in one of our first meetings that I should use a different name. Lelindé Omallah Page is "too sci-fi."
This is the name that was on my birth certificate. Even if it's alien to others, it's the name I was given.
Will I be discounted by publishers and/or readers because my name is confusing or isn't "intuitive" for them to pronounce? Definitely. The data gives a resounding "Yes."
But I don't want to cater to a writing world that only publishes (or reads) that which is familiar.
I want to be in a world that embraces variety, elevates "unusual" stories, or spotlights a "common" story that shares a new perspective.
(I can't say I qualify, but I hope to.)
And I hope that more publishers and readers (and writers) will turn toward that world, too.
It's bound to be more interesting, more fertile, more potent than the same ol' stuff we've seen before.
"Writing a book there?" the café stranger asks, thumbing his novel.
"A journal," I say. I'd been assessing his shoes; dust coats his boots and cascades up Carhartt pant legs. Perhaps carpentry or construction—like my brother.
"There must be a lot happening in your life," he says,
gazing out the window. His tone is curious, friendly: "You're just writing away."
"I've always done it. Since I was 8."
"In the same book?"
"Different ones."
"Hm," he nods. "Maybe everything you've written will become a book. Your life story."
I smile. "I don't think my life's
that interesting."
He rubs his chin. "There's probably a purpose to it though, if it's something you've always done."
"I think about that. But I'm not sure what purpose there might be."
"We might not do things," he says, leaning back, "if we knew the future." He opens his novel.