What’s in a Name? Apparently, a Minor Existential Crisis

So here’s the thing: I don’t have a nickname.

I know, gasp. No childhood shortening, no affectionate “Lil’ Something,” not even a “Pumpkin” courtesy of a rogue grandparent. But what I do have is a pen name: Roxanne Rene. Fancy, right? Like someone who writes steamy thrillers on a velvet fainting couch and eats croissants for breakfast without shame. (For the record: only one of those things is true. I’ll let you guess.)

I chose Roxanne because it means “dawn” or “bright”—which feels poetic in the “rising from the ashes of a blank page” kind of way. And Rene? It means “reborn.” Not in the dramatic telenovela sense (although I do have a flair for the dramatic), but in the quiet, sacred way writing makes me feel more like me… or, ironically, like someone entirely new.

When I write, I’m not just the person who forgot to fold her laundry three days in a row. I’m clearer. Braver. Bolder. I say things with confidence I’d never voice aloud at a brunch table. Words pour out that I didn’t even know I was carrying, and suddenly—boom—I’m someone else. Someone luminous. Someone reborn. Someone… Roxanne Rene.

Does this mean I’m lying? Being someone I’m not? Please. If that’s lying, then every person who’s ever worn a Halloween costume is a felon. Writing under a pen name isn’t deception—it’s reincarnation. Literary shapeshifting. Emotional cosplay.

So no, I don’t have a nickname. I have something better: a name I chose, a name that reflects who I become when the real world hushes and the words take over.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s the truest version of me there is.