I begin today a series of posts about the lessons I learned or not in the hope that someone will find them useful. First one tries to mirror the importance of choosing a blog name and how a perfect choice might become in the end a beginner’s mistake.

A couple of months ago the idea of a blog struck me and in the next half an hour I was thinking of a name. Although fuzzy, I could see the image of what kind of blog I wanted: one that in the same time helps me understand what blogging means and that also records the experience, in the same time a sketch and the history of transforming it into a painting.

‘Call me Ishmael.’

Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Those three words create one of the greatest and most famous line in the history of literature. Why is it so famous and why does it have this special something, this extraordinary inner beauty? We’re seeing in this simple line only three words, nothing less, nothing more, but somehow they contain the key to our inner self and also to the way the others see us, in more words put choose what you will call me. In normal circumstances we don’t have the opportunity to name ourselves  and sometimes we struggle with someone else’s choice, strange or even creepy,  for all our life, hating it, but, at the same time, not daring to change it. To say the least, the name is as much as us as any other organ.

That’s why I felt that I have to choose wisely. I remember I dedicated some pages of my notebook for this on which with ink in different colours  I tried a myriad of names; at the same time I was checking them in the whois tools available online to see if the domain is available. I found amazing names, names that spoke to me from thousands of beautiful mouths, with slippery tongues, covered in arousing sounds, but, alas, they have already been taken. One thing was for sure: I wanted that the the name of my blog expresses the idea of beginning, but also the struggle that comes with. One thought was hunting me – it has to have a hint of craft in it, to suggest the anguish of learning and becoming, maybe even the sweat of the physical labour.

Apprentice seemed so obvious, but I rejected day after day because of the auxiliary political colour that it enclosed unwillingly.

Another search, another day, and another troubled night with strange images and sounds tormenting my dreams until I decided it is enough. The fight must come to an end. I liked the name, the domain was free, and maybe politics will shut its huge mouth for once.

‘Nobody has a good name in a bad mouth. Nobody has a good name in a silly mouth either. ‘
Booth Tarkington, The Magnificent Ambersons

One month passed and I’m no longer sure it was the right choice given the today’s circumstances, but the child is already born. I write and try to put flesh on the bones, but most of the times I feel that all is in vain. Could people resent so much a person that they pour all their hate to a innocent and charming word?

Should I have waited? Should I have chosen differently? Or it has nothing to do with the name?