How Pseudonymity Can Foster Innovations in the Modern Age

Opinions expressed by Entrepreneur contributors are their own. It may sound impractical and too good to be true, but pseudonymity is possible — and it has been exercised to some extent for some time. Benjamin Franklin took on the pen name Mrs. Silence Dogood after he was denied publication by The New-England Courant — and was quickly published. John le Carré published his novel Call for the Dead under the name David John Moore Cornwell for an impressive reason. He could not use his name as a book author while he was an MI-5 agent. JK Rowling of the Harry Potter series fame wrote The Cuckoo's Calling under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith to publish a new work without the hype and expectations.
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Arlington, TXuta.edu

Pseudonymous UTA Student Author Amaranthe Ivory Violeta Published Globally by Short Edition

Amaranthe Ivory Violeta pushes her long bangs out of her eyes as I set up my recorder and MacBook on the fourth floor of Central Library. The floor is still closed and being reset for fall 2021, so it’s eerily empty but for us. She holds an orange pencil—blunt from all the writing she has done this week—and a green leatherette journal in her lap, the matching ribbon bookmark draped lazily across her high-waisted shirt.
Books & Literaturebookriot.com

5 Author Pseudonyms That Have Never Been Revealed

There are a lot of reasons why authors might choose to write under a pseudonym; among them are personal safety, industry sexism, or simply writing something in a different style or genre from the one in which one is established. Years ago, Meg Cabot wrote romance novels under several pseudonyms because she wrote for three different publishers and couldn’t be seen to be competing against herself for readers.
New York City, NYThe New Yorker

On the Trail of a Mysterious, Pseudonymous Author

It arrived at the height of the pandemic, in a brown envelope with no return address and too many stamps, none of which had been marked by the post office. It was addressed to me at my parents’ New York City apartment, where I haven’t lived in more than a decade. My mother used the envelope as a notepad for a few weeks, then handed it off to me in July; it was the first time I’d seen her after months of quarantine. Inside the envelope was a small, stapled book—a pamphlet, really—titled “Foodie or The Capitalist Monsoon that is Mississippi,” by a writer named Stokes Prickett. On the cover, there was a photograph of a burrito truck and a notice that read “Advance Promotional Copy: Do Not Read.” The book began with a Cide Hamete Benengeli-style introduction attributed to a Professor Sherbert Taylor. Then a fifty-five-page bildungsroman written in short sections with boldface titles. The prose reminded me a bit of Richard Brautigan.