At birth, we are given a name—the one thing we carry with us for the entirety of our life. We are told, “This is your name,” and we are taught to respond to it.
Some of us grow to love our name. Others wish they could change it—and some do.
But over time, something remarkable happens—we give our name its meaning.
At a memorial service, attendees will often pause to reflect on who “So-and-So” was. They were kind. They were brave. They were funny. They were the life of the party. But we are not one thing—we are many things to many people. Each person who hears our name conjures their own version of who we are.
I am Brenda. Someone gave me that name before they knew who I would become. It is I who gave it a personality.
The Writer’s Gift
As writers, we hold a rare kind of power. We choose our characters’ names—not just to identify them, but to hint at who they are, or who they might become.
When I studied literature in college, I was fascinated by allegory. In Hawthorne’s Young Goodman Brown, characters are named quite literally: Goodman Brown represents a faithful, morally upright man, while his wife, Faith, becomes a symbol of belief—both spiritual and personal.
In the morality play Everyman, characters wear their values like name tags: Fellowship, Kindred, Goods, Knowledge, and Confession. While these works are heavy-handed by modern standards, they demonstrate the lasting impact a name can have.
Today’s writers might be subtler, but the principle still stands—names matter. They guide the reader’s perception before the plot even unfolds.
A well-chosen name can suggest courage, gentleness, mystery, or even insecurity. Researching the origins and meanings of names allows us to bestow layers of depth to a character before a single word of dialogue is spoken. A character named Miles, rooted in the Latin for “soldier,” might carry quiet strength. A Celeste could evoke serenity, sky, or the ethereal. Even choosing an ironic name—like a hitman named Lamb—can reveal volumes.
Naming with Intention
As we shape our characters, we have the privilege—and responsibility—of ensuring their names say something about them, even if only in a whisper.
We don’t always choose the names we live with, but as storytellers, we get to assign meaning from the very beginning. We can give our characters the names we might have chosen for ourselves—names that reflect strength, hope, humor, or vulnerability.
I didn’t choose my name, but I’ve spent a lifetime making it mine. Now, when someone says it, they’re not just saying a name—they’re calling forth a carefully crafted identity—mine.
What do your characters’ names say before they ever speak?