A true confession

Brace yourself. I am going to unburden myself of a murky secret. Since I was a young girl, I have dreamed of being someone famous; someone named…(Excuse me while I bite my lip and draw blood)…Rhoda Peters.


I was about 10 years old when I dreamed up Rhoda Peters; the lyrical pen name for the books I was someday going to write. My fondest hope was to make Rhoda Peters famous throughout America and freedom-loving countries around the world.


I was born with the last name Flake, which is perfectly acceptable if you live in Snowflake, but when you leave northern Arizona, all bets are off. For example, while applying for jobs (trying to exude trustworthiness from every pore) the name “Flake” taken literally, can blow the whole interview. Peters, on the other hand is conventional and not emblazoned on cereal boxes.

My first name, Laraine, had the semi-Francais vibe going for it, but had been worn to a nubbin by overuse, due to my large population of siblings. I needed a name fresh and lively.And Rhoda! Isn’t it just gorgeous? The name Rhoda on a book jacket immediately conjures up someone small and saucy with coordination and grace; someone with long curly black hair, mysterious dark eyes and full red lips. In other words, the polar opposite of my ten –year-old gawky self. (See pic on right)


Rhoda Peters has inhabited a special place inside me for quite some time now. She is still sophisticated and never trips; falling, skinning her knees and showing her underwear. She is still waiting to publish her first book, but since it would probably be a romance novel, I have decided not to write it for her. If I did, chances are she wouldn’t acknowledge me on book tours and would end up suing me for plagiarism. I’m better off leaving her locked up inside me, untried, but still full of potential.