What kind of a name is that? Publishing prejudices leave 'Jimbo' in limbo

Juliet Capulet said, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

Wise words indeed. Or are they?

A young Greek boy waves his national flag. Credit: Getty Images

When you think about it, the naming of things is arbitrary. Under different circumstances, a rose might have been called a sardine and no one alive today would question it. The rose would still smell like a rose, even though its called Rosa Clupeidae. It would not emit the aroma of a malodorous seaborne creature.

But does that work with the naming of a human being?

Dmetri Kakmi is incensed that publishers still want him to write under a pseudonym.

For instance, my name is Dmetri Kakmi. I have been known as such since birth. It is who I am. The two words form identity. I like my name. I'm as attached to it as I'm sure you are to Verity Millicent Spandex. Even though for a time, when my family first came to Australia, I was known as Jim.

The new name, I hasten to add, was not of my choosing. It was given to me by the principal of the primary school I attended. "In Australia," he said, "people can't pronounce Dmetri. From now on your name is Jim."

His word was law. The unfortunate transmogrification was an obvious necessity. Australians in the 1970s couldn't say their own names in full, let alone pronounce a mouthful like mine. Dmetri didn't stand a chance in a world of Bazzas, Shazzas, Gibbos and Chookas. So I became Jim. Sometimes known as Jimbo.

I had no idea who Jim was. I didn't recognise myself in what I came to regard as a nom de guerre. Jim lived in my body for 12 years; and for all that time we were at war. I was in suspended animation, waiting to purge him out of my system. It was a kind of possession. I reclaimed my real name at 22, and almost immediately found my feet again.

You can imagine how confused I was when I began to write in earnest and people started to ever so kindly suggest I change my name to something less "ethnic sounding".

In the late 1980s, for instance, a newspaper editor told me to submit work under "an Anglo name" and he'd publish. I told him to get intimately acquainted with his news print and never heard from him again.

A similar thing happened recently. In the enlightened age of 2016.

A short time ago, I received the sort of email writers would happily kill to receive. A publisher wrote to tell me that he enjoyed my manuscript and wanted to publish. Can we talk? I rang the very next day. After heaping praise on the novel the publisher got down to business.

He would like me to publish under a pseudonym. Why? Because he believes genre readers will not fork out hard-earned pennies dreadful for a supernatural adventure written by "an ethnic writer". They will see the name and think it's about "ethnicity" and possibly stay away. Whereas they will – he was certain – buy if the novel were written by Bradley Bulge, let's say.

As it happens the entire novel is tainted by dreaded ethnicity. The main character is Aboriginal. Several characters are Muslim – good ones, not bombers! The story contains elements of Christianity, Islam and indigenous lore, all set in an Australia that is clamorously multicultural. The Anglo character is not someone you want to bring home to meet your parents.

That was not a problem, but my name on the cover was.

Interestingly, I had a similar response from a literary agent last year for the same manuscript. Love it, but your name could be a hard sell in the genre. The same happened when I edited the children's anthology When We Were Young, and the publisher's sales and marketing department wanted to expunge my name from the cover.

As an editor who has been in publishing for 30 years, I know where these views come from. Expediency. I understand. It's about survival in a tough business. Books must sell to recoup their investment. I get it.

As a writer, I am incensed.

People with funny names are allowed to publish memoirs and cook books. But novels are the preserve of an elite that can only describe a shared familiarity, the known. "Pumpkin soup," as author Cecile Yazbek wrote, "is acceptable but if you add coriander, ginger and chilli, it becomes un-English, un-Australian, too challenging."

The Australian literary scene has room for one Greek novelist, one Vietnamese, one African, and so on.

Small numbers can be contained. They are not a threat. Allowing them into the inner sanctum makes the people who run the game feel good about themselves. We're so inclusive! Too many Greeks or too many Chinese, on the other hand, don't just melt the pot; they tip it over. They are a deluge. We are overwhelmed. The true voice of Australia is diluted. Let's hold back the tide by creating ludicrous, outdated rules.

So went the telephone conversation with the publisher who wanted to publish my novel. Like the literary agent, he and I finally parted ways. Each man convinced he was in the right.

Of course, I fail to see why publishing under my name is a problem. Mother Land was a critical and (moderate) commercial success. Haunting Matilda was shortlisted for best horror novella in the Aurealis Awards. My essays are anthologised and praised. And they are all published under my all-too-woggy name.

It seems that Mistress Capulet's theory about names holds true for horticulture, but it can not hold true for homo sapiens. Jim will never smell as sweet as Dmetri. Though admittedly Kakmi can be a bit on the nose. Jim does not think like Dmetri. He does not have the same sensibility as Dmetri. He sees the world through different eyes. And I am too used to seeing out of Dmetri's somewhat sullied 55-year-old brown eyes. For better or worse, it's the vision I want to write about.

Or maybe I can make a cocktail out of both names and come up with Jimetri? But what do I do with Kakmi?