Posts on names

Last week, I posted about character names that, by themselves, evoke personality. And I promised I’d follow up with a post about unusual character names.

Unless you want your characters to fade into the woodwork, you don’t name them Bob and Nancy Smith. A distinctive name evokes personality, culture and heritage, parents’ personality, time period. And it has a greater chance of getting wedged in your brain.

Some of my favorite distinctive, but fairly realistic, character names: Ramona Quimby, Minerva Clark, Hugo Cabret, Clementine, Arthur Dent, Kiki Strike.

Some of my least favorite distinctive character names: Holling Hoodhood, Comfort Snowberger, Lionel Esrog. Why don’t I like them? Maybe because they’re just a bit too unfamiliar. I’ve never known a person named Comfort (besides Alex Comfort). I’ve never known a person named Hoodhood. In fact, on a Yahoo! people search, only nine Hoodhoods come up in the entire USA. Nine. (And, interestingly, they’re all from Grand Rapids, Michigan, and Udall, Kansas—not Long Island, where Gary D. Schmidt’s The Wednesday Wars is set!) There are even fewer Essrogs.

This is not necessarily a criticism. The names were effective; among thousands upon thousands of other character names, they stuck in my head, right? But it does beg the question, how distinctive is too distinctive? When does unusual become just plain weird?

Twenty or so years ago, many odd character names in realistic fiction were blamed on hippie parents (e.g., Bunny, Starship, and Shadbush in Betty Miles’ B, My Name Is Bunny). I’m not sure what the rationale is these days. The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney and The Spell Book of Listen Taylor both involve the supernatural, so I suppose eccentric parents are to blame for those unusual monikers. There are an awful lot of eccentric parents out there in Fiction Land.

Books that take place in another world are, of course, excused. The Jetsons aside, you just don’t expect to meet George and Judy in a wildly fantastical or futuristic setting. Creative names are expected, if not mandatory. The main danger is names that are so unusual they’re impossible to pronounce. The difficult names, I confess, were one of my major turn-offs when I attempted to read Eragon. And let’s not talk about Tolkien.

I’m still working my way through Philip Reeve’s Hungry City Chronicles. Along with writing rollicking (and bloody) yarns, Reeve is a master of character naming to rival Charles Dickens. And he’s so brazen about it. He never shies for the ridiculous; he strives for it. And, more importantly, he pulls it off.

Reeves gives his primary characters distinctive, but believable names: Tom Natsworthy, Hester Shaw. Anna Fang and Nimrod Pennyroyal raise your eyebrows, but still slip through. Then he really lets loose. Oenone Zero. Nabisco Shkin. Minty Bapsnack. I mean, Minty Bapsnack! I ask you.

And if his human characters weren’t enough, there’s dozens of ships that need names. They range from the striking but ordinary Jenny Haniver to the head-scratching 13th Floor Elevator. But just wait until you get to a battle scene with the Bad Hair Day, Visible Panty Line, or—my favorite—Damn You, Gravity!

Ultimately, though, a memorable story is far more crucial to making its home in a reader’s memory than a memorable name alone. Take Dorothy Gale, Anne Shirley, Harry Potter. The names are as ordinary as bread and butter, but we remember them as if they belonged to our dearest friends. And, because of their stories, they are.

ETA: Interestingly, Carmela Martino's second column on character names, posted today, addresses Schmidt's naming of Holling Hoodhood. As I said, I'm not criticizing the choice of name; I know a lot of people think it's great! And it didn't stop me from very much enjoying the story. But it gave me pause. And that's something you have to consider when you're naming characters: will it give your readers pause in a good way, or a bad way? Like everything else in your book, there may be no way of knowing.

In the most recent issue of The Prairie Wind, the Illinois SCBWI’s newsletter, Carmela Martino had an interesting article about putting thought into naming characters. What can you glean from a character based on name alone, she asks? How is a Hubert different from a Kyle?

But one thing I’d like to know that Martino didn’t address is how do names alone suggest characterization?

Is it something about the way they sound when you say them? Is a Leilani beautiful and graceful, the way the name dances from your lips? In which case, does that make a Gretchen abrasive?

Or is it because of other words the name evokes? You might expect a Kurt to be, well, curt. Or a Bruce to be bear-like, because of the word Bruin. Rose to be beautiful but hiding a few thorns.

And there’s nicknames. A boy who insists on being called James instead of Jim is reserved and particular. Every nickname for a girl named Alexandra – Alex, Lexi, Sandy, Xandra, you name it – says something different about her.

A William has hundreds of regal predecessors. An Adolf immediately calls to mind Hitler.

Certain patterns in literature, however, I can’t understand. For example, I’ve wondered why so many Percys turn out to be wankers or downright evil: Percy Weasley from Harry Potter, Peerless Percy from The Man Without a Face, Percy Wetmore from The Green Mile, and I know I’ve encountered others. Is it because “Percy” sounds like “prissy” or “persnickety”? Is it because it evokes pursing your lips when you taste something sour? In which case, why not pursing your lips for a kiss?

(With some thought I can think of some positive Percys. Percy Jackson from The Lightning Thief immediately comes to mind, of course. With a little more digging, I’ve also come up with Percy Engine – Thomas’s best friend – and Sir Percy of Scandia, a/k/a Black Knight, from Marvel comics. Maybe the tide is turning?)

More thoughts on character names – specifically, unusual ones – in literature are on the way…