BY ANY OTHER NAME

BY NOAH ROSS

You don’t know me, but you or someone you love may have read one of my books. For the past ten years, I have been publishing love stories under the pseudonym Noa Callaway.

A pseudonymous writer never meets their readers. I’ve never had a book signing, nor bantered with a fan on social media. My publisher has managed all publicity on my books’ behalf. Every six months they send me a sack of letters from Noa Callaway fans. I never read them. They’re not for me. They were written to Noa Callaway, and I am only Noa Callaway when I’m writing, never anytime else.

This distance from the readers of my books has bought me an ignorance, one that I was wrong never to challenge. I thought my stories ended with their final pages; I thought it didn’t matter who I was.

That changed this year when I met someone who saw through me. Who forced me to see through myself. And when I looked close at what I was doing, I couldn’t sleep at night.

I am a cis white straight affluent male. My email address is [email protected]. If you are reading this and you are outraged, I don’t blame you. Feel free to let me know.

This op-ed and its aftermath may be the end of my career, but I can’t hide behind a name any longer. I want to be honest with my readers, with whom I am finding I have more in common than I ever knew.

The other day, I sat down and read some of Noa Callaway’s fan mail. I’m sorry for the slow responses, but it’s only now that I know what to say:

To June: Like you, I also enjoy reading in the tub on rainy days. Thanks for your book recommendations; I’ll check them out. The best thing I’ve read recently is a tie between Julie Otsuka’s Buddha in the Attic and Heather Christle’s The Crying Book.

To Jennifer: It’s hard to pin down what inspired Ninety-Nine Things. I wrote my first novel out of hope, back before I ever expected to publish, or ever dreamed I’d use a pseudonym. I had never experienced the love I wrote for that character, but I wanted it to be true. I suppose I’ve been trying to write it into existence ever since.

To MacKenzie: Fifteen publishers rejected my first novel before I found my home at Peony Press. Keep writing. Finish your stories. It only takes one person to say yes.

To Sharon: I’m so sorry about your husband. My mother suffers from the same disease. It’s heartbreak in slow motion. You’ll be in my thoughts.

And to Lanie: Your letter to me is a decade old. I’m sorry this took me so long. Wherever you are when you read this, I want you to know that I agree: I think we could become great friends, too.