It’s taken me several
years to bite the bullet and seriously consider putting my writing
back in to the public arena. When I was younger I didn’t have that
problem. I happily sent my work out to publishers. I was of course
disappointed when I got rejected, but enough said yes to make up for
this. Even when I had a run of rejections I brushed them off and sent
out the next batch of letters. I defined myself by my writing.
Had you asked what I was, I would have answered “I’m a poet.”
It was that simple: Zoe Brooks was a poet. She was other things of
course – a daughter, a student, an Oxford graduate, an arts
manager, but above all she was a poet.
That stopped as my
other roles took over – mother, wife, heritage professional and
then, for the last twenty years, inner city regeneration
professional. The only person who still introduced me as Zoe Brooks
the poet was my friend Hannah Kodicek. I thought it quaint of her and
even a little perverse. I felt sometimes she wasn’t valuing me
properly. Then about three years ago I started writing once more.
“Will
you publish it?” Hannah asked.
“I
don’t know. I was thinking maybe I’d use a pseudonym.”
“Mmm,”
she said. “Are you sure?”
“Oh
yes, I don’t think I could do it any other way. I thought maybe
Elizabeth Rivers – Elizabeth is my second name and as for Rivers –
Brooks/Rivers.”
She laughed. “That
sounds like a cop out, it’s not a real pen-name.”
I’ve thought about it
a lot since that conversation. She was right, she usually was. What
was I ashamed of? Why was I trying to hide? I decided I would not be
ready to publish until I was prepared to use my real name. It’s
taken me months to start this blog, but I’ve done it. In a few days
I plan to publish my first novel as Zoe Brooks
