Writers take names rather seriously. We look them up, research their origins, debate the syllables. We even test how they sound whispered in dramatic confrontations. We cross out perfectly fine names because they're not "right."
And then there's the names your mother gives you.
I was "Bug Juice."
Yep, that's a bug.
No idea where it came from. Even Mom didn't have an answer. No folklore, no family legend, no dramatic insect related incident in early childhood. I was just "Bug Juice."
I wasn't particularly buggy and I don't recall being particularly juicy.
And yet, there was that name.
There's something deeply humbling about realizing no matter how many elegant names you go by, no matter how carefully you construct your literary persona, somewhere in the universe, you are still Bug Juice.
Apparently, I have always been named after questionable substances.
And honestly? That feels on brand.
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