Showing posts with label Identity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Identity. Show all posts

Sunday, 10 March 2024

Celebrate Your Name! Even If You Change It by Sweet Romance Author Catherine Castle...


March 7-13 was Celebrate Your Name week. Established in 1997 by American onomatology hobbyist Jerry Hill, Celebrate Your Name Week (CYNW) is a week for embracing and celebrating your name.

Before you say, “Why would I want to celebrate my name?” think about this--your name identifies you. It is the one thing that will be in your life now and forever. It can define your ethnicity, your heritage, how you look at yourself, and sometimes how others look at you. If you hate your name you can change it, but the original moniker will still be on your birth certificate. Your name will be used throughout your life to identify you in a myriad of ways: on your driver’s license, bank accounts, health accounts, mortgage deeds, insurance policies, social media accounts, professionally, and friends and family will say your name hundreds of thousands, or even millions of times, over the course of your life.

Think about your name or names if you have a middle one. Do you know what they mean? Do you know how you got them? Do you know how long it took your parents to decide on what to name you? How important was your name to those who named you? Have you ever wanted to change your name, and if so why? How did that change work out for you?

I know the answers to a few of those questions. My birth names mean pure and peace. I was named after both of my grandmothers, whose names at the time of my birth were very old-fashioned. My aunt Ella, on my father’s side, always addressed me by my first and my middle names. I suppose she didn’t want me to forget my paternal grandmother, whom I never met. I can still recall my aunt’s voice addressing me. She was the only one who ever called me by both names and somehow it became extra special to me.

I don’t know how long it took my parents to decide on my name or whether they had chosen it before I was born or after. Back then you had to have male and female options, since the gender was a surprise until the baby arrived.

I do know that it was very important to my mother that people called me Catherine, not Cathy. While in high school I shortened my name to Cathy and introduced myself that way at school. Catherine was too long to write on homework papers and very old-fashioned at the time. I wanted to be hipper back then. At church, and in front of my mother, I was always Catherine.

That dichotomy caused me a lot of problems. Although I cautioned any boy to whom I gave my home phone number to ask for Catherine—not Cathy, they invariably forgot. When Mom got to the phone before I did, which was often since she had a phone beside her easy chair, I’d hear, “Sorry, there’s no one here by that name.” Then she’d hang up the phone and glare at me. I lost a lot of potential boyfriends and dates that way. One icy answer from my mother and they never called back. I think they thought I’d given them the run-around with a wrong number. As the years went by, I grew out of my Cathy phase and now I have to correct people when they shorten my name. I still answer to Cathy at my high school reunions. Mom’s not around anymore to glare at me in disapproval and it’s just easier for those few hours to answer to the nickname.

My grandmother was called Cat by her brothers. I used to think that was a horrible nickname and cringed whenever I heard her addressed that way. When my nieces and nephews came along, Cat was easier to say than Catherine, so I adopted Grandma’s nickname. It shocked the heck out of my family when I gave those babies the okay to call me Cat.  Now I’m Aunt Cat to all of them. I now eschew the high school nickname I gave myself and love the birth name I once hated. Ain’t life funny?

When I began my fiction-writing career, I changed my name again. I kept my first name, because I like it a lot now. I’ve grown into it. I also thought keeping my first name would be less confusing at writing conferences. If someone called me Nancy, I might think they were talking to another person and unintentionally ignore them. That would be bad.  I did, however, choose a different last name—one that would fit easier on a book cover and had a nice alliteration to my first name. My pen name is Catherine Castle. With that name change I became an author of sweet and inspiration romance.

 I still remember the first time a stranger in a bookstore asked, “Are you Catherine Castle?”

Startled, I looked at her and said, “Yes, I am.” No one had ever recognized my author persona before and I wondered how she knew me.

She must have seen the question in my gaze because she said, “I recognize you from your picture on your website.”

I left the bookstore with a big grin on my face that lasted for several hours. A complete stranger knew who Catherine Castle, the author, was! 

Shakespeare wrote, in Romeo and Juliet, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet…" This popular quote is often used to imply that it didn’t matter that Romeo’s name was associated with the house of Juliet’s family’s sworn enemy.

I suggest that your name does matter and that your name affects who you are. A boy named Sue will have a very different life than one named Chauncy. So if you love your name, or are just indifferent to it, embrace it. Take a few minutes this week to celebrate your name. Find out everything you can about your name. Dig into its history. You might be surprised as to why you are named what you are and how your name has made you who you are.

If you need to change your name for some reason, choose wisely. In the Bible, when a name change happened it often reflected some new aspect of one’s life, a thing that changed them and defined their new life paths. Your name can define you, too. So make your new name a good one.

Celebrate name week—Celebrate!

Catherine Castle is very picky about how she chooses the character names for her books. She once wrote an entire book inserting the name Mother 2 into the pages because she couldn’t think of the right name for that antagonist character. Her critique partners thought it was a real hoot, but when she finally came up with Mother 2’s name—Tiberia—they all agreed it fit her perfectly.

In her book A Groom for Mama, she named one of the characters in honor of a dear friend who battled cancer. Here’s a peek at the blurb. 

Beverly Walters is dying, and before she goes, she has one wish—to find a groom for her daughter. To get the deed done, Mama enlists the dating service of Jack Somerset, Allison’s former boyfriend.

The last thing corporate-climbing Allison wants is a husband. Furious with Mama’s meddling, and a bit more interested in Jack than she wants to admit, Allison agrees to the scheme as long as Mama promises to search for a cure for her terminal illness.

A cross-country trip from Nevada to Ohio ensues, with a string of disastrous dates along the way, as the trio hunts for treatment and A Groom For Mama.

AMAZON BUY LINK



Multi-award-winning author Catherine Castle loves writing. Before beginning her career as a romance writer, she worked part-time as a freelance writer. She has over 600 articles and photographs to her credit, under her real name, in the Christian and secular market. She also lays claim to over 300 internet articles written on a variety of subjects and several hundred poems. In addition to writing, she loves reading, traveling, singing, theatre, quilting and gardening. She’s a passionate gardener whose garden won a “Best Hillside Garden” award from the local gardening club. She writes sweet and inspirational romances. You can find her award-winning Soul Mate books The Nun and the Narc and A Groom for Mama, on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Follow her on Twitter, FB, or her blog.

Thursday, 23 October 2014

YA Book Blast: Boy Red by Shanta Everington

Blurb:

Boy Red is a story about identity, about where you come from and where you belong.
The day after his sixteenth birthday, Red discovers that the man he calls Dad is not his biological father. Will Red be able to track down the anonymous sperm donor who gave him life? What will he learn about himself along the way? And just what else are his parents hiding?

Excerpt:

It was Saturday night, and Mum was up on the makeshift stage doing a classy numberthat is to say Tina Turner complete with big h air and five-inch red heels. The booths were taken by the karaoke regulars clutching their song sheets and medallions. A throng of studded students drank cheap German beer at the bar, disappearing outside every few minutes for a smoke. Tourists dripping with backpacks chatted in a zillion different languages.
A few weeks ago, I told Mum I wanted low key, meaning a night out down the Lock with Sino wigs, microphones, or other parental contributions in sight. But she would have none of it.
Red, baby, you only turn sixteen once, shed said. Youve got to mark it in style. Youve got to have a party.
My names actually Jed, but everyone calls me Red. I share two things with Mick Hucknall: mad orange hair and a slightly odd face. Sadly, I dont have his musical talents. Not like Mum. She wins a lot of prizes. Its embarrassing to see her in her Cher wig and polka dot dress, but it could be worse. She could be something really boring like an accountant. Dads an academic. Hes a professor of science. They make for a strange combo, but Camden caters for all sorts. The posh and the rough rub shoulders every day. Not that Im saying Mums rough or anything, but her Madonna impersonations can make for scary viewing.
So there I was down at the local pub, staring at the purple swirly carpet, starting to feel nauseous. My sixteenth birthday party. It may as well have been musical chairs and pin the tail on the donkey. It was that bad. My six-year-old brother, Freddie, sat smirking in the corner while Mum warbled out her rendition of City Limits. Dave, the karaoke organiser, all burly biceps in a frilly pink shirt, tapped his right foot in time to the music. Dad smiled amiably at the bar as he downed an orange juice. That man lacked the capacity for embarrassment. He must have a gene missing or something.
Your mums reading the lines off a television. Wheres the harm in it? he reasoned. He could be so rational, it was maddening.
Si was chatting up a pair of Asian twins whod just finished their version of The Cheeky Girls Touch My Bum. He winked at me to join him, while Mum carried on gyrating in red polyester as she reached the climax.
Dad. Dad! Freddie tugged at Dads jeans.
Dad checked his watch, stood up, and cleared his throat. Uh-oh.
Oh, yes. Thank you, Freddie. Gaye!
Uh-oh. Uh-oh.
Mum smiled at Dave as she gripped the microphone. Thank you, everybody. I have a little announcement to make, she said. The shrieks and applause died down, leaving a low hum of conversation. The Cheeky Girls stopped drinking their Barcardi Breezers and looked expectantly at Mum. They wore white PVC hot pants and matching kneehigh boots. They were hot all right. Not the type of girls I wanted around to witness this kind of embarrassment. I looked on in horror and considered my options. This would have been a good time to escape to the bog, but Dad had already covered that one by asking Daves brother, Stu, to keep guard. Dads best mate, Phil, stood to my right, smiling inanely at me. There was nowhere to run. So I downed half of Stus pint instead. He didnt seem to mind. Just winked.
Okay, guys and girls, continued Mum, running her hands through her wig. I hope youll all join me in wishing our Red a very happy sixteenth birthday.
Id never get served alcohol in here after that. It was all right for girls, they always got served. The Cheeky Girls couldnt have been much older than I was, and they were knocking them back.
Stu waved manically over my head for the benefit of anyone who might not know who the lucky boy was. The Cheeky Girls whispered to each other and raised their collective eyebrows as I fixed a boomerang smile on my face.
Ha-a-a-a-ppy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you…” Mum had gone into Marilyn Monroe mode, all silly girly voice, while Dave brought out a blue football cake fit for a five year old, complete with sixteen flaming candles. It was excruciating.
When the humiliation was over, Mum came over and kissed me on the forehead and ruffled my already wild hair, just to add insult to injury.
I think that needs a cut, mister, she said.
I looked at Freddies smooth pudding basin cut performed by Mum the day before and shuddered. I didnt think so.
Id always been the odd one out with my orange mane. Jokes about the milkman were rife.
I blew out my candles and cut the cake as a million digital cameras flashed in my face. Another one for the family album.
It was all so normal. Well, normal as far as my family went anyway.
There were even napkins. 

Want to know more about S. D. Everingtion? You can find her at http://www.shantaeverington.co.uk/ or on Twitter @ShantaEverAfter.