The Male Pseudonym

I darted some furtive glances at my fellow woman writer. My heart perceived altercation from her, but she gradually settled in the mist of slavery. She had no way out. No women had. It was a tightly locked room, where the thick velvety curtains concealed the darkness, the darkness of creative slavery, where the candlesticks sitting on the sloppy writing table melted and the molten wax cried its sullen death, and where somber drapes waited for the dawn to illuminate their gloomy complexion.

An elderly man we called ‘Publisher’ gave my fellow woman writer a furious push and snatched the bunch of papers which she had clenched tightly in her hands. My fellow writer collapsed on the floor, palpitating highly, wailing intermittently, and her wail sounded like a dirge that resonated with the thunders on that rainy morning. Her countenance looked forlorn which she had hidden under her ink-stained hands. The publisher gathered the papers, threw some few coins on her face, and ambled out of the room.

“It’s my piece of work, my story. Don’t take my work away from me, please have mercy. I will burn in this hearth if you value my writings with these nickels and dimes,” she cried as she collected the thrown coins. For a few moments, she laid like a corpse on the floor and then dragged herself out of the room.

It was the publisher’s office where writers mobbed only with one hope, a hope to amuse the readers with their writings, and with one common desire to get recognized with their creation. I was sure every writer offered a silent prayer to the Almighty before entering the publisher’s office, but it seemed God answered the prayers offered only by men. ‘Maybe God was a man too’, I thought as I sat breathless on the wooden chair. I was one of the women writers whose prayers were never reciprocated. But I wouldn’t give up so easily as my fellow women writers did in my time. In the 1800’s, women writers were considered taboo. Women’s fingers were meant for needlework or baking cakes, it would be considered distasteful if they wiggled with the pen nib. But, in the milieu where defiance from women was strictly prohibited, I wanted to defy.

‘Emily, you are diabolic,’ my sister Maria said to me once. ‘Rebels are assumed to be diabolic,’ I thought. My disposition was paradoxical, I was timid but fierce, clever yet emotive. I agreed with Maria, I had an extensive collection of bizarre characters inside me, the one most exclusive being my determination to make my writings known in the male-dominated literary world. The door creaked when the publisher pushed it open, disturbing my pensive reverie. The elderly man known as the ‘Publisher’ sank into his comfortable chair and moved his hand, a gesture suggesting to hand over my manuscripts. He leaned on his high-backed swivel chair while his bumptious countenance showed his inflated ego as he studied my writings. Gradually, he got engrossed in my work as I silently settled on the opposite chair. The publisher sighed and his pair of blue eyes, stared at me, astonishingly.

“Miss Emily, you write like a man,” said the publisher.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Thanks!!!” He exclaimed. “Lady your novel is wicked, it ravages the delicacy of a woman, so better you sell it to us and we will publish it under a male name. Sir Thomas will be your male pseudonym,” the old publisher’s arrogant voice echoed inside my head.

“Sir, your temper is unjust. I want to publish my novel, I don’t wish to sell it, and a male pseudonym? Why should I need it? It’s beyond the imaginative power of a man to understand the romanticism with which my novel is written, then why should I use a male pen name?”

“Do you think we are going to publish such work under your name? A male name is perfect for such a dark novel, and anyhow women have no right to publish their work. It’s mandatory to use a male pseudonym. You know our society doesn’t allow women to think. Young lady, you can’t wish, you have to just carry our orders.”

“No, I don’t. This is total disrespect for women writers, I would like to have my manuscript back. I want to own my creation. Your monies are frugal for my literary work”, I said as I mentally ordered myself to calm down.

“Literary work!!” remarked the publisher sarcastically and dumped my manuscript in the garbage bin. His caustic audacity displayed his sexist behavior which I had to gulp demurely. I modestly collected my papers and stormed out of his room slamming the office door with a thunderous bang. My footsteps hurried towards the horse carriage as I desired to breathe the air of liberation, I wanted to run away from such chauvinism where my work was judged based on my gender.

I threw my hat on the coach seat, sat across the transverse seat, and closed my eyes. Why such disrespect? Why do we have to prove our worthiness? The questions rambling inside my head crashed with my relentless toiling months of writing.

‘The soreness of my ink-stained fingers, my arduous task just being valued with few coins?’, the feel of this thought itself made my heart beat wildly. Suddenly, I felt some pricking sensation in my throat which brought on fits of coughing. I held my handkerchief over my mouth, while my eyes glared at the moving sceneries as the horse carriage passed through the green pastures near the moors.

‘O! My moors are nearing,’ I whispered while my coughing continued. It was the same violent coughing fit that I contracted at my brother’s funeral. Subsequently, my lungs became diseased and they couldn’t resume their normal functioning. My lungs struggled to heal and to a great extent, I blamed it on the insane behaviors of society. The situation where women writers didn’t have the freedom to publish paralyzed my heart even more. The horses struggled to keep their footing as they galloped on the steep hills. I loved my moors; it gave my soul enormous relaxation. On moors, there was absolute freedom. My mind sailed on the wavy grassy land and my imagination roamed with the liberated gust of winds.

My sister Maria stood at the old gate of our moor house and as she saw my horse carriage approaching the house she hurried screaming, “Look Emily is back.”

“What did the publisher say?” questioned Maria as she panted for a few breaths.

“Well, they think my writing is not feminine, it’s unladylike,” I said as I dismounted the carriage.

“So?” asked Maria.

“So, the publisher wants me to sell my work to him. He will use a male name and publish the novel, and for which I will receive some money. My journey was a colossal waste of time,” I said and entered my home with a crimson face.

“Why didn’t you sell it then?” Maria asked.

 “Why Maria? I want to own my writings. That publisher is a Satan.”

“Well, at least your work would be published. Now your work will remain anonymous,” Maria said.

“No, it won’t. I will publish my work and not under a male pseudonym. I will publish under my name,” I said and collapsed on my bed. My breathing suddenly became difficult because of my inflamed lungs. Maybe, my disease added agony to my already inflamed emotions as day after day, my health deteriorated and I always strained a smile when Maria came to visit me. 

“You need a doctor, Emily. Your health is weak,” said Maria to which I curtly denied stating that the medicines would poison me even more. In a few days, I was barely able to speak and during my whispers, I often gasped for breath. I became sizably thinner. My fingers shivered as I wrote my daily chronicle and yesterday, I coughed blood. My pain struggled in my breast, but my soul denied releasing my body as my dreams were not yet fulfilled. I wanted to die only with the memories of my contented dreams. Probably Maria couldn’t bear my suffering and so one day, she came with the bundle of money and rattling the money bag a bit said, “Emily, I will publish your novel under your name. This is a tidy sum.” Maria’s soft eloquence married with the jingling of the coins but what appealed to my appalled countenance were the words ‘under your name’, the expression had a tumultuous quality which stirred me to inhale some deep breaths.

“I promise to make an open confirmation of your gender. Emily, please help yourself and leave this crippled body as I promise your novel will be published as it is; under your name. Only your name. Now, depart peacefully, Emily,” Maria said, and then she held my arms and wrapped my fragile body in her warm embrace. I could hear her moan as her chin trembled on my shoulders. Wiping her wet nose Maria ambled out of the room, her stooped posture denoted a hundred unsaid words and feelings.

“Thank you, Maria, and goodbye,” I said softly with a gratifying sigh. I felt unusual tiredness in my body which was fulfilling rather than exhausting. Writing was such an enjoyable journey; from the inception of my imaginary world, the artistical molds of words with which my pen nib filled the white paper, the intense satisfaction my soul experienced after the completion, and the moment when the calligraphy of my name would get inscribed on my creation. I would embrace my death with the nectar of such joyous sensations.

It’s a moonless night and the winds come in my room violently declaring the night to be the last night of my life as ‘Emily’ and though I wear a simple white clothing my countenance sparkles with grace. Morrow, I would leave this queer world as I would transcend in some unknown place, contented and embellished in my white attire.

Present time- 2021

International Women Writer’s Meet:

The I-shaped conference room contained upholstered chairs arranged comfortably and the contemporary podium suited the modern décor of the room, where Ayana was addressing her fellow women authors. It was the annual women author’s meet for which Ms. Ayana (the modern-day best-selling novelist) patiently waited every year.

Ayana stood on the podium with her chin up but tears swelled her eyes and steadily flowed involuntarily. She wiped them and continued her monologue,

‘Thank you, all my fellow women authors, for your attendance today. The above revelations are from the ‘Diaries of Emily’, which her sister Maria published along with her novel. Why I decided to read the above segment from the diary of Ms. Emily was to learn the history behind such a legendary woman. It’s because of such brave women that today women writers have the independence to write and publish their work. What Emily and her sister Maria did for us is ineffable and the most overwhelming part is Emily knew nothing of her success. She inspired generations of young women to voice their feelings with the power of words.

Emily proved that women have NAMES too.

But I wonder, whether her struggle was a triumph or was it futile? I feel this disparity still exists, as present-day women authors are compelled by their publishers to use a male pseudonym. Not so tyrannical as it was a few decades ago, yet a mild persuasion exists, maybe, to attract male readers, to make the novel sell better, for the novel to be prized better, to avoid critics commenting on some dark subject written by her. The male influence still lingers around us. A bold subject written by a woman author still slaps the false ego of a male reader, for unladylike writing is too sensational to be handled by a man. Will a male novelist write under a female pseudonym? I guess no. They don’t feel the need to use the pseudonym neither are they compelled to write under a woman’s pen name. Then why are women writers subject to such discrimination? Has society real changed or the changes are just superficial? Well, the prejudices are so deep-rooted in our minds that it’s a hard task to change. The dystopia lies inside us. This illusionary discrimination is etched in our mind right from birth and society inks the false perception even further. More than men, women’s mind becomes more prejudiced with the beliefs, and then it becomes difficult for her to come out of her shell. But once she liberates herself from the patriarchy, she never considers the question of being treated as a second gender. Her knowledge, her work will speak for her. Empowerment is beyond gender; it’s even beyond race, caste, and religion. Empowerment is when we can voice our feelings fearlessly without being judged on what or who we are.

Finally, our work should speak not our gender.’

Amidst the round of applause Ayana received for her emotional speech, she vaguely saw a white silhouette of a woman standing near the French window of the conference room. Her Victorian garment fluttered filling the whole space with purity. Ayana silently acknowledged her supernatural presence. That day, Ayana gained something inestimably precious with Emily’s enigmatic presence, but what Ayana gained was unfathomable.

~~

Though the story is a work of fiction, some famous female authors (who used a male pseudonym) inspired me to write the above story:

The Bronte sisters: Emily, Charlotte, and Anne published their literary works under male pseudonyms (Ellis, Currer, and Acton) as they thought authoress were liable to be looked on with prejudice.Louisa May Alcott (best known for ‘Little Women’) used the pseudonym A.M. Barnard to publish her sensational writings, especially in the genre of Gothic thrillers.Mary Ann Evans wrote under the male pseudonym George Elliot.J K Rowling (known for her Harry Potter series) used a male pseudonym Robert Galbraith for her mystery novel ‘The Cuckoo Calling’.But mainly,

My story is inspired from the life of Emily Bronte, famously known for her sole novel ‘Wuthering Heights’, widely regarded as a classic in English literature despite the critic’s remark.