Mr. Clay Potts writes:

It seems perhaps that among the greatest challenges in writing (fiction, anyway) is the proper naming of characters – I prefer names that are unique, humorous, but believable – I think Dickens was particularly adept at naming his characters – is there a secret to naming characters without assigning them all tired old monikers such as “Smith, Jones and Wilson”?

The question provoked an answer well worth reading from “Martin the Mess,” who considers all the practical difficulties the novelist faces in the simple act of naming a character.

We should acknowledge at the beginning that the problem of naming characters is not limited to the realm of fiction. Parents, when they give their child a name, are naming a character who will be the hero of his own history, and the name is of more importance than most parents understand. (On this subject Mr. Walter Shandy is the acknowledged authority.) Would Algernon Swinburne have been the blockbuster poet he was if his name had been Vlad “the Impaler” Jimenez? (You will notice that we follow the advice of Martin the Mess in mixing ethnicities.) Would Ethan Allen have been the hero of Ticonderoga if his name had been something prissy and pedantic, like “Benedict Arnold”?

Dickens was indeed the great master of suggestive names. One feels as if one knows the man already when one hears the name “Pecksniff.” Among novelists of our era, J. K. Rowling seems to have absorbed the principles of Dickensian naming more thoroughly than any other living writer. On the other hand, Anthony Trollope occasionally tried his hand at such indicative names and botched the job thoroughly. When we meet a Duke of Omnium or a lawyer named Slow, it takes all Trollope’s prodigious skill in characterization to make us forget the awkwardly one-dimensional name.

The example of Trollope suggests that, perhaps, the tired old monikers are the best. One of Dr. Boli’s own favorites among Trollope’s novels is The Struggles of Brown, Jones, and Robinson, and never were tired old monikers so deftly used: they put us in the thoroughly middle-class commercial world of the novel even before we open the cover. (Dr. Boli understands that this is perhaps no one else’s favorite Trollope novel, but at his age he feels little need to apologize for his peculiar tastes.) There is also the notable advantage that it would be very difficult for someone named Jones to claim that you meant him in particular when you named one of your main characters.

Dear Dr. Boli: I was thinking of writing a book, but I’m not sure how to go about it. I’m a good speller, if that helps. Do you have any other advice? —Sincerely, A Country Lawyer Who Has Seen a Lot and Thought He Might Write a Book About It.

Dear Sir: The easiest way to get a book together is by plagiarism. In the United States, at least, plagiarism is quite legal as long as the material plagiarized is old enough. You could probably sell quite a few copies if you decided to write a book called The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle.

If, however, you are set on producing an original work, Dr. Boli would advise you first to establish a projected word count. This is important, because it is easier than you think just to keep writing and writing until you have a fifteen-volume scribble that you need a motorized cart to carry. Use a word processor that keeps the word count constantly visible at the bottom of the screen, and stop when you hit your projected word count. You will save yourself a great deal of trouble that way.

Next, you should make an outline. If you divide your book into ten chapters, it is a very simple matter to calculate the appropriate word count for each chapter by dividing your projected word count by ten. Then you can divide each chapter into ten subheadings, each of which represents 1% of the entire book. That way you will always know exactly how far you have come and how much further you have to go.

So, you see, writing a book is mostly a matter of simple mathematical calculations. The only other thing you need is a cover with big words on the front, since all books are bought on line these days and your cover will be seen as a tiny picture on a Web page. Once you have that, the thing is done. The actual content of the book is irrelevant, because no one will read it anyway.

From Werner’s Magazine, January, 1895, by way of the Historical Spectator. This must certainly be the most terrifying allegorical depiction of the three theological virtues in the history of engraving.