Susan is me in regards to the funky name thing. All my net names are names, except for on LJ. I used "Angela Frandina" for a while and got two main responses. 1. Nice Italian girl. 2. You don't really do that, do you?

I think the "Letitia" suggestion was good.

How about: "Letitia T. Hornblower"

I'm actually thinking something unbelievably prosaic might work. Something so prosaic, it doesn't sound like an alias. "Elaine Goldberg" or something.

OK, maybe not.

Amanda Graves

Ruth Hargrove (an aunt's name)

Stella Halley

I wrote one romance in 2001 that I published under a pseudonym -- I used my parents' first names, Sara Howard. I liked that. For the young adult series that was A Big Fat Nightmare (and which I'm no longer writing) I used J.B. Stephens, which stood for the boys' first initials and Stephen's name. The only thing is, I hate that other people are writing the series and using it now. Feh.

Elaine Goldberg. Heh.

I like Amanda Graves for Deb. Or she could do the Lewis Carroll thing and reverse the initals for her names and come out with Grace Dawson, or Gloria Danzig, or something along those lines.

If Parick and I ever co-wrote something, the pen name would be Joan Furey, which is our middle names as well as family names. I also have a penname just for me picked out, Bieta Kendrick, which is a little fake-looking but authentically reflects my ancestry, so.

I'm not really a pseudonym gal, but I wish I were, sometimes...the latest piece that is going to be published involving something that very few people knew about me. But it's too late now.

I think I'd need to go look at wherever section the stores use for horror these days. My mind is so tuned into the mystery shelves that I think, hmmm, do I want to be next to all those E's, Evanovich, etc.

Must go see who writes horror these days. Of course, if I was using my own name, I'd be next to Laura Ann Gilman, who's a buddy of mine, so, alas...

Talisman

He first arrived in a box from Great-Aunt Gertrude, an erratic but inspired giver of gifts. Each Christmas since, he has been lovingly unpacked and batteries fumbled into his hollow legs. Then comes a moment of anticipation and the sound of a tiny bell.

Each year when I go home for Christmas, I head straight towards him, a bit fearful that this year the wires will have corroded, the circuits failed. Surely at 40, he is well over 200 in appliance years. I click the switch, the arm rings its bell, the eyes flash, and Santa is home for Christmas.

Oh, man. Ginger, that was bliss. A light-up Santa as a talisman i so. damned. cool.