a rose by any other name is just plain silly

please bear with me here
this is a little silly and I hope you don’t mind
it’s about a name
specifically, mine
I’m preparing to self-publish an illustrated book of verse
(or implode which ever comes first)
contemplating the horrors that are marketing and social media
I know there will be no shoving of any kind
no please, please, please like me
or buying readers lollipops (well, I might give lollipops)
while mulling over cover designs
then considering over-stimulated memories, over-saturated book shelves and over-saturated markets
I started pondering the length of my name much like Ebenezer Scrooge had to ponder the length of his chains
I began wishing my name wasn’t so name-ish
lyrical names: Virginia Woolf, J.K.Rowling, Mary Shelley, Maya Angelou, Sylvia Plath
these spectacular writers have glorious memorable names in equal measure
my name
just way too long (and a little funny;))
AnnMarie Roselli-Kissack
when I attempted a wee bit of creative retooling ‘odd’ things ensued
a rosekiss
well, I looked that up in the urban dictionary
anus kissing–this is not good on any day
(unless we’re speaking figuratively and I might have to at some point;))
a.r.k.
wet between the ears and a migraine from stampeding animals
and my personal favorite
Ann R.K.
say this fast
and your present state turns immediately into disorder
the next attempt was a whimsical nom de plume
the best I could do was Ann Merlot
(this suggested by 2 women both over 80 years of age)
unsure, I queried a dear, intrepid writing friend
who suggested Ann Merlot might go well in a nightclub
(a very dark nightclub with shiny poles)
she smartly and wisely put me back on the path to name normalcy
so if and when this book of mine surfaces
as the leaves begin falling off the trees
and you once again dream of sugar plums and lollipops;)
there just might be a book somewhere out there
by a silly gal who goes by the name–
AnnMarie Roselli
set in bold, sans serif, 18 point type

oh yea, thanks DS

Pencil Cap

Sweet Memory Found in a Dirty Cabbage Patch

Dear friends,

As a child, I never cared for dolls. My inner-tomboy wouldn’t allow it. There was however this one special baby doll, that my father brought home on a dark night long ago. Oh, she was beautiful. Her silky brown hair was fashioned into pixie and she had dark, malted milk-ball eyes. She wore a simple blue dress decorated with one little yellow daisy. She was the first doll I’d ever seen with eyes and hair like mine. It was love at first sight.

But my younger sister wanted the new doll too. She needed to add the brown-eyed beauty to her massive doll collection. My sister feared her sibling’s unusual desire for the plastic newcomer. She realized claiming her divine doll right in this situation, might be ineffective. My younger sister employed a more sinister tactic – she cried. Her blue eyes were quite convincing.

My inner-tomboy nearly relented that evening. Except as luck would have it, my inner-tomboy fell out of her upper bunk bed onto her head, ironically while showing off how far she could lean down without falling. She cried too – which she didn’t do often. My father who was within earshot came running in. In that tear-ridden moment, I asked for the brown-eyed, baby doll. Gazing at my pathetic face, my father told my sister she had more than enough dolls. And for the price of one head bump, the only baby doll I ever coveted was mine.

Sadly, I can’t remember what happened to my precious doll. Many years later, while at a younger brother’s high school graduation, I spied a beautiful, brown-eyed girl gripping a dirty, bald-headed Cabbage Patch Doll. She cupped the dolly tenderly to her shoulder. The afternoon sun was lighting her flawless face like an angel. I took a photo.

girlI came home that evening, took out my pastels and drew a cherished childhood memory –