What's in a Name?
Hello, World. My name is Gene Ayres: a nice, simple, two syllable name. If only. Sadly, I have learned in life that nothing, even a name, can ever be simple. For example, I used to be known as E. C. Ayres, in literary circles. Then I learned too late that if people happen to live in a Red State, or a former one like Florida, which I did, or, say, Chicago, home of William, they will have an irresistible need to correct my spelling to “Gene Ayers,” or, formerly, “E. C. Ayers.” Don’t ask why. I can’t explain it, it’s just one of the things. But it did cost me a lot of book sales. It’s bad enough to have been born an Ayres and to be forever mistaken for an “Ayers.” It’s even worse to be named “Eugene,” my full name (don’t even ask about my middle name: we won’t go there, at least not in this blog). Back when I was fighting for my seat on the school bus, Eugene was just not a name you could safely have. It’s small comfort decades later that it has been since assumed by lots of cool rap singers, college towns, sports stars and the like. Suffice to say back then it was not. And just try telling people (which I didn’t know at the time anyway) that they should be more respectful because Eugene was the name of seven straight Scottish kings, back around the time of Macbeth.
My parents’ excuse was that I was the fifth in my line, and had been proudly preceded by four prior very distinguished Eugenes (although none of them kings), not to mention a rich uncle, so I should have been grateful. Small comfort there for an impressionable young kid, believe me, especially since my own father had cleverly avoided this moniker his whole life long.Hence my shortened name, Gene. Which, while better, was hardly heroic. At least not in my neighborhood. At least not back then.
The worst blow to my childhood pride and dignity, in fact, was my mother’s unfortunate insistence on calling me “Genie.” And no, she wasn’t alluding to large magical Arabs in bottles. Nor did I ever manage to successfully appease myself by attempting to relate to such. It was just too much of a reach, even for an imaginative kid, which I had to be to survive. And whether somewhere deep down in her heart Mom had hoped I’d turn out a girl I know not, but the kids in my ‘hood took immense pleasure in chanting the Steven Foster song, “I dream of Jeannie.”
Amazingly, having survived all this, even now people ask me with stone-straight faces: “Are you related to Jane Eyre?” (Evidently people can’t spell her name either. Not that she even existed.)You’d think I’d have changed my name, somewhere along the line. I did, actually, for my ‘90s Tony Lowell Mystery series (now revived!) to “E. C.” as I said. And in my forthcoming thriller The Shakespeare Chronicles, for the European edition I am using the pen name John Underwood (actually my father’s mother’s father’s name). Also because it’s the name of one of Shakespeare’s ‘boon companions’ and sounded cool.
I really liked the names “Evan Hunter,” and “Hunter Thompson” because they sound like the kind of tough, cool hombre I used to yearn to be (although, for the record, I don’t hunt), but alas, those were taken. Anyway, none of them were really me. And having survived all those mishaps and misspellings, in the end I have chosen to hang onto my lifelong name, if for no other reason than it’s the only name I’m likely to answer to, at this late stage. Just please don’t spell it “Gene Ayers.” I hate that. Plus, then you won’t find me on Amazon or Google. You will, however, easily find me at www.geneayres.org . Just so you know.
My parents’ excuse was that I was the fifth in my line, and had been proudly preceded by four prior very distinguished Eugenes (although none of them kings), not to mention a rich uncle, so I should have been grateful. Small comfort there for an impressionable young kid, believe me, especially since my own father had cleverly avoided this moniker his whole life long.Hence my shortened name, Gene. Which, while better, was hardly heroic. At least not in my neighborhood. At least not back then.
The worst blow to my childhood pride and dignity, in fact, was my mother’s unfortunate insistence on calling me “Genie.” And no, she wasn’t alluding to large magical Arabs in bottles. Nor did I ever manage to successfully appease myself by attempting to relate to such. It was just too much of a reach, even for an imaginative kid, which I had to be to survive. And whether somewhere deep down in her heart Mom had hoped I’d turn out a girl I know not, but the kids in my ‘hood took immense pleasure in chanting the Steven Foster song, “I dream of Jeannie.”
Amazingly, having survived all this, even now people ask me with stone-straight faces: “Are you related to Jane Eyre?” (Evidently people can’t spell her name either. Not that she even existed.)You’d think I’d have changed my name, somewhere along the line. I did, actually, for my ‘90s Tony Lowell Mystery series (now revived!) to “E. C.” as I said. And in my forthcoming thriller The Shakespeare Chronicles, for the European edition I am using the pen name John Underwood (actually my father’s mother’s father’s name). Also because it’s the name of one of Shakespeare’s ‘boon companions’ and sounded cool.
I really liked the names “Evan Hunter,” and “Hunter Thompson” because they sound like the kind of tough, cool hombre I used to yearn to be (although, for the record, I don’t hunt), but alas, those were taken. Anyway, none of them were really me. And having survived all those mishaps and misspellings, in the end I have chosen to hang onto my lifelong name, if for no other reason than it’s the only name I’m likely to answer to, at this late stage. Just please don’t spell it “Gene Ayers.” I hate that. Plus, then you won’t find me on Amazon or Google. You will, however, easily find me at www.geneayres.org . Just so you know.
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