Dalton Reed now = D. Dalton

My name isn’t Dalton Reed, it’s Deborah Dalton.

I hid behind that fake name for a couple of bad reasons. One, the main character’s name is so close to my own. Two, it’s the internet and I didn’t want to spill my identity all over it. Okay, maybe those are actually justifiable, but I didn’t come up with them until after I’d already chosen a pen name.

The real reason was that I was afraid. Of what? Everything? Nothing? My own shadow? Criticism could bounce off a fake name. No one would know it was me. No one could recognize me (and who recognizes authors anyway?).

As mentioned above, one the reasons I stuck with my sobriquet was that I choose a name so close to my own for the hero. That’s technically bad form. Originally, she bore the appellation Dylan. However, I was still strolling through the ‘D’ section of a baby name’s website (which earned me some awkward questions from friends) and came across Derora. Angels sang, the heavens parted and I’m pretty sure that pond in my parents’ back yard split to allow some squirrels passage to escape from the neighbor’s dog. “That’s it!”

Mental brakes screeched. I couldn’t use a name so close to my own. So, I ignored it. And I kept ignoring it. I kept ignoring it so much that it was all I could think about. I emailed some friends asking which was better, Dylan or Derora? I bet you can guess how they replied.

The other main reason for adopting a pen name is that I didn’t want people to know it was me. I didn’t want to be me. Not just in writing, either. I gave up on soccer, fencing, Tae Kwon Do and running. I let myself get addicted to sugar. I’m at a dead end job far below my college degree. Why? It was the easiest path. I like the people here; but I’ve always voluntarily passed up for a higher grade position. The thought of it makes my brain feel green. You know it’s an ominous indication when you’re thinking in colors.

That’s what I’ve been doing. Following the easiest path. Water follows the easiest path, and water always winds up on a downhill slope.

I’ve learned from my characters. They’re not stupid like me. Der is honest to herself. She knows what she wants to do, and doesn’t let the odds deter her. She knows there are catastrophes in the life she’s chosen, but she doesn’t hesitate anyway.

I was eight years old when I realized that all I wanted to do was write. I haven’t found any other career that I’ve really liked. Or maybe it’s because I’m too interested in everything, and wanted to try a myriad of careers. Nothing stuck.

I wrote the story that eventually morphed into Crown of the Realm when I was eight. In its most basic form, it was the same story, although with a completely different cast of characters and obstacles. The sword has always remained the same though.

I grew up telling myself that I couldn’t make a living as an author. Few people can. Well, now, I’m tired of working at a job I loathe and I’m too exhausted to hate myself anymore. I’m riding my bicycle to work, going to the gym over lunch and eating grapes instead of cookies at home.

I actually have my dog, Saxon, to thank for that. He ate all my cookies. He shouldn’t have been able to get them. Reality rarely deters this animal. Somehow, he managed to sneak them out from behind the countertop appliances, unwrap them and then immediately dispose of the evidence to his crime.

Whenever I imagine this, Grieg's In the Hall of the Mountain King plays in my head.

That night, he showed me that I could make it through one full day without any sugary trash. So, the next day, I told myself one day. Today, I’m telling myself one day. It gets easier every day, so maybe downhill isn’t always bad after all.

I can learn from the dog too. Not in the binge eating way, of course, but in the fact that he knows what he is. He’s a dog and he loves to run. To him, it’s not a chore. Running is an expression of freedom; or maybe he thinks he really can knock that bird down from the sky. Running didn’t used to be a chore for me either. I can rediscover that. Sometimes, I think that writing is a chore too, when really, it’s my expression of freedom.

These days, I want to be me. That means being a writer and using my real name.

Please note that there will be a long transition between switching names because I can’t afford to print new editions of the novels with my real name at the moment. I’d also like to correct any grammatical errors, accidental misspellings, etc that myself and Mr. Szott have missed. Feel free to point these out to me. I can’t afford line editors, so I need all the help available. I really have to thank you – for reading this post, and just reading my works in general. That means the world to me.

Honestly,
Deborah Dalton

Feral Dachshund

True story.

Sadly, because I have to do that whole work for a living thing, this is one that I did not get to see in person. However, it makes me laugh every time I think about, so that indicates that it's a story worth telling.

My family deer hunts. Since we live in Kansas, this means white-tailed deer. My dad, a damned good shot, bagged himself a decent sized doe. Sweet. Only problem was that it was already dusk. He'd got it down in a creek where he couldn't get the Jeep in (at least, not if he wanted to get the Jeep back out). And, he didn't want to take the time to build a travois, because you know, that takes all of TEN MINUTES. At least, if you don't intend to use it more than once.

So, he hung it up in a tree, off the ground, and he'd come back the next morning when it was light.

This is a common mistake made by many hunters. If you see a hunter standing at a tree scratching his head this is because he left the deer out overnight and the ghosts of the forest claimed their own.

Or, it could be coyotes.

Or a feral dachshund, that most dangerous of beasts. Sure, most of them that you see look cute, furry and totally inefficient for killing anything larger than a mouse.

Oh, and he had his rottweiler buddies, who are not toying with the dachshund as food.

The next morning, upon my father's return, he witnesses that the lower half the deer was completely gone. And the perpetrators were still there, caught red-muzzled. The dachshund
leapt for one last bite. And then, the pack was gone, loping gently on long, muscular legs as if swimming over the amber waves of wheat. Yes, this is an accurate description, because you can't see the dachshund running - you just see the grass moving over its head. It doesn't spoil beauty.

LESSON:
How to spot a feral dachshund on the prairie. Well, it's kind of like finding those pesky rattlesnakes. You have to listen. But, instead of a rattle, you're listening for brush . Also, if you see the grass moving as if something short is meandering through it: WATCH OUT! It may not be a squirrel! The feral dachshund have taken many a wanderer by surprise ankle attack.

You have been warned. Cave Canem.

This is about as funny as the time that the buddies of my dad's buddy up in Wyoming - who had never deer hunted before - literally SHOT the carcass eight times after it was already dead. Simply because they didn't have a knife to let the blood drain out. And yes, apparently, they were sober.

Partner in Crime

Dakota has a new baby brother (adopted, obviously). I must say that this is not the greatest picture. He squirms a little too much to get a good photo. We're going to name him Saxon.