As a kid, I hated my name.
No one could pronounce it. It wasn’t easy to spell. It came with a pause, a grimace, a deep breath, and a “sorry, how do you say that again?” I sat next to Nicolas and Tims—easy names. Mine always needed explaining.
As I got older, people would still struggle, they’d watch my mouth, try saying it with all kinds of exaggerated contortions, and still get it wrong. It was painful. Sometimes I just gave up and said, “Yeah, that’s fine.” I hated how much trouble it caused. But my parents insisted I never shorten it. The meaning would be lost.
It’s a Sanskrit name — it means “pursuit of knowledge” or “wisdom,” depending on who you ask. As a child, that felt abstract. Now, I like that it holds something — a direction, a weight, a quiet kind of meaning.
People still mispronounce it. Some get it quickly. Others shorten it to make things easier for themselves. It’s not always intentional, but it can feel like a quiet way of saying my name—and part of who I am—doesn’t quite matter. That subtle, everyday kind of erasure that often goes unnoticed, but still leaves a mark.
In Japanese, it’s easy. Phonetically, it fits. In English, it’s the “dh” that seems to trip people up, though it’s really just the soft th in they. “Dheer” sounds like “Cheers,” which people say all the time. I sometimes explain it like writing a letter to someone called Na — Dear-Na. Not that anyone writes letters anymore.
Now, I love my name and how unique it is, and no longer feel the need to over-explain. I love that there’s only one of me—no one else has this name (as far as I know) in the entire world. My name holds a story, a shape—a quiet meaning. I don’t mind if people stumble over it or don’t say it at all. But when someone does say it right, it hits differently.
I also know how much it means to others to have their names said right—or how it feels when they’re said wrong or forgotten. That whole, “Your name is Stacey? Or Sarah? Or… whatever” feeling. It’s small but sharp, a reminder of how much names carry—and how much they matter. We matter.
Since I’ve been working on the cover design this week for the graphic novel, I’ve been thinking about names again. It will be the first in a five-part series. So thinking of a series name and a title for the book is much harder than you’d expect.
The main character is a little rescue dog called Senbei. He lives with us in Japan now, but he was named in London—where, oddly, Biscuit is a very popular dog name.
We called him Senbei because he looked like a nori-sen — those round Japanese rice crackers wrapped in seaweed. The name just fit. He also loves eating them, and has similar colouring: caramel toes, markings, and a shiny black coat.
In Japan, people laugh when they hear it. It’s not a common dog name here.
In London, people laughed too, but for different reasons. He’d thunder past in the park being chased by a pack of dogs, and people would shout, “He is a rice cracker!” I’m still not sure what that meant exactly, but I liked that the name worked differently in different places—even if no one agreed on how.
Now, with the book nearly ready, I’m stuck again at the naming stage. Do I go with the dog’s name for each book in the series—even if it doesn’t mean much to anyone else? Or do I hint at the journey inside? My gut says the latter.
I have a design now and am exploring print options. Some are really standout and beautiful, but a bit tricky technically (and financially). My plan this week is to reach out and see who might take it on. If it proves too complex or expensive, I’ve got a simpler option up my sleeve. Gotta aim high though, right?
And because you’ve made it this far — here’s a little sneak peek at the colour palette I’m working with...
Thanks for reading x