I'm having one of those times when my name sounds really weird to me, Maggie. My name is Maggie. I borrow these line from my favorite movie Kicking and Screaming (Noah Baumbach, 1995) the bar scene with Jane and Grover. But those are names. Maggie— What is that? It's barely a word. It looks like a sound a bird would make, or something a cat's tail does. It's even stranger when I see someone else with my name, as I did just now. It reminds me that it is somewhat rare as names go, which makes it seem more interesting, but somehow inauthentic. Who am I to have this strange name? I would be a swell Emily (one of my favorites) or Julia. Classy, sweet. Not that I'm always classy, but I am often sweet enough. Maggie is a child's name. But when I was a child I was convinced it was a boy's name. Of course then I would have chosen something awful for myself, like Crystal, or Rose Petal. My dad wanted to name me Alice. I was about to be a Kate until my aunt gave that name to her daughter, 6 months my senior. While Kate is another of my very favorites, it is quite common. So I suppose it all worked out. I like my name very much. I wouldn't change it. I'm also quite proud that I'm not a Margaret. Just Maggie. But it's only getting stranger.
This all arose when I spotted a review of "My Animal Life" an autobiographical work by novelist Maggie Gee, a writer I do not know. I look at the picture of this woman on the cover of her book and think, "Maggie Gee? Is that you? Did you go through your whole life with that name? How is it going?" I'd honestly like to know.
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