Many, many years ago back when my first books were published someone did some research into me because he could not believe that my name was really, “White Feather.” Surely it must be some pseudonym used by another author. To his dismay he discovered that my name really is White Feather. Sadly, this did nothing to help sales of my books.

Then, many years later, I published a book under a pseudonym. I wrote and published a book AS A WOMAN! As anyone who has read my books knows, I am male. This book published as by a woman was a way for me to connect to and vent the female aspect within me. It was a profoundly liberating experience for me. It was a way for the female energies within me to come out of the closet, so to speak. It was a way for me to step out of the testosterone that I have lived with for many decades.

That novel died on the vine. It never sold anywhere near the volume of what any of the books I’ve published under my own name. I never told anyone about it; not even close friends. None of my readers knew about it and still don’t.

I think about Stephen King who wrote under the name Richard Bachman. Those novels under that name never sold until he came out and announced that he had written them. Then they became instant bestsellers.

I’ve thought about doing that but I don’t think it will have much impact. Perhaps in 5 to 10 years doing that will be more lucrative. In the meantime, living a double life is exciting. It allows “HER” to retain her identity and it allows mystery to stew.

The bottom line is that an author’s name is utterly meaningless until it appears in the New York Times bestseller list repeatedly. Until that time, the only thing of importance is the story told between the covers of a book. Only then will readers notice the name of the author.