The Power of a Name in My Stories

I keep writing about people who are afraid of being forgotten. I don’t always mean to, but there it is again. Someone loses a name. A place disappears from the records. A person acquires such a frightening reputation that nobody bothers to find out who they actually are.

As a Gen X, postmenopausal force of nature, I have a few thoughts about being overlooked. I’ve reached the age where I’m quite happy to tell people who I am, preferably without being interrupted. But being forgotten by someone you love is a different worry.

My father is 87, and he’s losing his short-term memory. He’s always been our rock, so watching him struggle is hard. Thankfully, he still remembers us and the past. I don’t want to confuse what’s happening now with what I’m afraid might happen. But it does leave me thinking about memory long after a conversation has ended.

Apparently, my characters get to think about it, too. Occupational hazard of knowing a writer.

In Forgotten Names, Rook and Évra live in a world where bells can erase facts. A whole place can disappear from what the world remembers. Knowing your own name starts to feel like fairly flimsy protection when you might be the only person left who recognizes it.

While writing The Thief Time Forgot and The Name He Lost, I’ve thought a lot about how much of our lives other people carry around for us. They remember where we came from, what makes us laugh, and why we left somewhere we once loved. Occasionally, they remember something embarrassing we’d be perfectly happy to lose. Memory is generous that way.

Imagine going home and finding that nobody knows you. You recognize the streets and the houses. You remember talking to the person in front of you, but they’re waiting for an introduction.

It sounds like an episode of The Twilight Zone. An excellent premise to watch from the sofa. Much less appealing if you’re the one trying to prove you belong there.

That’s what makes the loss personal for Rook and Évra. An old record might help them find an answer, but having someone who remembers an old promise or understands why a place matters means something else entirely. You don’t have to explain your whole life before they understand what’s wrong. Losing that would hurt.

I approach the same idea from another angle in The Hollow Stag. People hear that title and have their fear ready before they’ve met Aevric Morvaine. His reputation has made the introductions, and it hasn’t been kind.

Ilya must get to know the person in front of her. Calling him Aevric matters. She can still be cautious; a personal introduction hardly guarantees sensible behavior, particularly in one of my books. But she gives him a chance to be more than the stories say.

With voice and recognition already so important between them, his name carries a lot. Ilya is choosing to learn who Aevric is for herself. He deserves that much, whatever the Hollow Stag is supposed to be.

The Power of a Name in Folklore

Writers have been causing trouble with names for a very long time. I’m in good company.

If a stranger in a fairy tale asks for yours, I’d suggest asking a few questions before answering. Especially if they’ve appeared somewhere they shouldn’t be and seem suspiciously eager to help. That sort of enthusiasm usually comes with terms.

Names have different uses in these stories. Discovering one might get you out of a bargain. Giving yours away might help someone find you. Sometimes lying is the best idea anyone has all day.

Rumpelstiltskin is probably the first example that comes to mind. A miller’s daughter is expected to spin straw into gold, an unreasonable task. A mysterious helper does it for her, but his price eventually becomes her firstborn child. When he comes to collect, she can escape the agreement by discovering his name.

Up to that point, she hasn’t had much say in anything. At last, there’s something she can use.

England’s Tom Tit Tot and Scotland’s Whuppity Stoorie tell related stories. Folklorist D. L. Ashliman groups these and other versions under “The Name of the Helper.” The details vary, but identifying the helper defeats the claim.

I enjoyed that moment. He’s been so sure she has no way out, and then she finds the one thing he didn’t expect her to learn. Watching somebody discover they aren’t nearly as clever as they thought can be deeply satisfying. Particularly when they’ve been horrible about it.

Source: D. L. Ashliman, University of Pittsburgh

Odysseus understands the value of keeping his name to himself. For a while, anyway.

Trapped in the cave of the Cyclops Polyphemus, he says his name is “Nobody.” After Odysseus and his companions blind him, Polyphemus calls for help. Explaining that Nobody is attacking him doesn’t get him very far with the other Cyclopes.

It’s a good trick. It gives Odysseus a chance to escape.

Then he must spoil it.

As he sails away, Odysseus announces his real identity. Polyphemus now has a name to give his father, Poseidon, when he asks him to punish his attacker.

He could have sailed off quietly. But no. He wanted the credit.

I think most of us recognize that impulse, even if our own lapses in judgment haven’t involved Cyclops. You’ve got away with something, and then you can’t resist making sure the other person knows who outsmarted them. A few moments of satisfaction can create an awful lot of extra trouble.

Here, the false name confuses the people who might help Polyphemus. The real one gives him someone to name in his appeal to Poseidon. What Odysseus tells him changes what he can do next.

Source: Dickinson College Commentaries, Odyssey, Book 9

There’s no single rule behind all these stories. Knowing a name can help or hurt, depending on who has it and what they intend to do with it.

How they learn it matters, too. Overhearing something private isn’t the same as having someone choose to tell you. You may end up with the same information, but you’ve been given very different responsibilities.

That’s what interests me about true names. A character shares something they’ve kept hidden, and suddenly the listener has power they didn’t have before. Now we have come to find out whether trusting them was a good idea.

Sometimes I’d like to talk with my characters before they make that decision. They rarely consult me at the useful moment.

The Power of a Name in Real Life

We don’t need magic to know that the way someone says our name matters.

Hear yours across a crowded room, and you’ll probably turn. Whether you’re pleased depends on who’s calling. A familiar voice can make you relax before you’ve even spotted the person. Another can have you looking for the nearest exit.

Names save us a lot of explaining, too. Mention someone to a person who knows them, and they bring their own memories to the conversation. They know the laugh, the habits, and what usually happens when that person says, “I have an idea.”

You can begin halfway through a story because you both know exactly who you’re dealing with.

Of course, familiarity isn’t always comfortable. Someone keeps using a childhood nickname you’ve asked them to stop using. A family name comes with expectations nobody thought to discuss. People insist you’re still the person they remember, even though you’ve spent years becoming somebody else.

Being able to say what you want to be called matters. Having people listen matters just as much.

After you’ve corrected someone several times, it becomes difficult to shrug off. Have they forgotten, or do they simply not think it’s worth remembering? You may never know, but the encounter can leave you feeling small.

Being remembered can have the opposite effect. You go back somewhere after a long absence, prepared to introduce yourself, and someone greets you by name. There’s that lovely moment of relief. They know you. You don’t have to begin again.

Which is why it can hurt so much when somebody who has known you for years starts struggling to remember.

My father still knows us. I’m grateful for that. What’s happening with his short-term memory has made me think more about people further along that road, and the families trying to find their way beside them.

I can imagine sitting with someone you’ve shared a life with and hearing them struggle to find your name. You might supply it and keep talking because you don’t want them to feel embarrassed. In the moment, you may be focused on making things easier for them.

Later, when you’re alone, it might catch up with you.

You miss how easily they used to say it. Then perhaps you feel guilty for wanting that when they’re struggling with so much themselves.

I don’t think it’s an unreasonable thing to miss.

You can be sitting beside someone and still miss parts of the life you’ve had together. You mention something that used to make you both laugh, then realize they can’t reach that memory today. You start explaining, hoping it will come back, before wondering whether you’re making the moment harder.

A few minutes later, you might laugh. You could have a good conversation or enjoy being together. That doesn’t make the sadness ungrateful. People are allowed more than one feeling in an afternoon.

It does make me careful about what I mean when I write about wanting to be remembered. I understand the longing, but I don’t want recognition to become another task the person has to manage.

They still have feelings and preferences. They may be tired, interested in what you’re saying, or quite fed up with the conversation. They might enjoy your company without being able to explain who you are. They deserve to be met where they are, even when that’s painful for the person beside them.

I think about this alongside Rook and Évra’s story. Fiction lets me give forgetting a cause they can investigate. There are records to follow and answers to look for. I can send them off to try something, no matter how much trouble they encounter along the way.

Real life doesn’t always give us that option. Sometimes we have to work out how to be together today without knowing what tomorrow will bring.

The Power of a Story

That’s where I come back to storytelling.

A name brings someone to mind. A story gives us a chance to spend a little time with them. We can talk about something they did, what drove them mad, or why they found a particular joke funny when nobody else did.

We do it after people die. Somebody says their name, and another person remembers the dinner they burned or the time they arrived an hour early because they didn’t trust the directions. Before long, you’re talking about the person you knew, complete with their peculiar habits.

It can hurt. It can also be lovely to hear somebody remember a detail you thought only you had kept.

That’s part of what I want from the records in Rook and Évra’s world. A name gives them somewhere to begin. Finding out about the person makes them want to keep looking. An entry that might have been passed over starts to matter because they know a little of the life behind it.

For all the trouble I put into stories about names, I like their tenderness. Somebody notices you’re missing. Somebody remembers enough to start searching and cares enough to carry on.

But telling a story can be much quieter than that. You might just be sitting together, with no mystery to solve and nowhere you need to go.

If someone you love is struggling to remember, perhaps you could leave the questions alone for a while. There doesn’t have to be a “Do you remember?” waiting at the end of everything you say.

You could tell them about two people who love each other very much. How they met, something ridiculous one of them said, or an ordinary day you’ve never forgotten.

They wouldn’t need to supply the next part. They wouldn’t have to get a name right.

They could listen, and you could sit beside them.

For a little while, you could let it be a love story.