As long as there have been writers, there have been writers using pseudonyms.

In the 19th century, female authors such as Mary Ann Evans (George Eliot), Amandine Aurore Lucile Dupin (George Sands) and Emily Bronte (Ellis Bell) used nom de plumes in order to traverse the male-dominated publishing world.

Some female authors have chosen to abreviate their full names to make them more gender neutral, such Catherine Lucille Moore, who wrote in the 1930s male-dominated science fiction genre as C.L. Moore, and Susan Eloise Hinton, who published her famous novel The Outsiders as S.E. Hinton.

A more recent example of this is Joanna Rowling, who felt her book about a boy wizard were more likely to be published is she wrote as J.K. Rowling.

Some authors who write in both fiction and non-fiction, or across several genres, choose a pseudonym to avoid confusing readers about their work. For this reason, noted mathematician Charles Dodgson chose to write his fantasy novels Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland and Alice Through The Looking Glass as Lewis Carroll.

Stephen King, frustrated by the publishing industry’s view that an author should only publish one book every year, created the pseudonym Richard Bachman in order to allow him to release more books and avoid reader fatigue.

A pair or group of writers collaborating on a work may choose a colllective name to publish under. Thriller writer Nicci French for example, is actually a husband and wife team; Nicci Gerrard and Sean French.

I make no secret about the fact I write under a pseudonym.

From day one I’ve been candid about the existence of other me. I also told you that I’d explain my reasons for doing so. So here we go.

I’ve always wanted to publish under a pseudonym, and have tried a few out over the years. Part of the reason is to distance myself from the work. Once it is published, I no longer own it. You, the reader, do.

A pseudonym helps people who know other me separate any preconceptions or prejudices from the work. It helps separate my life as a journalist and as a social media strategist from my life as a writer of literature.

But why Daniel Dalton?

Daniel is my real first name. I go by Dan as preference, but Daniel is on my birth certificate.

As you may know I recently got married. My wife is an established web designer in Australia and her name holds professional currency, so we decided she wouldn’t change it to mine. (I’ve never been much bothered about that particular tradition - she turned up at the wedding and said yes, that’s good enough for me!)

But she also suggested that when we go to dinner, or events, or on holiday, that she would use my last name. A nice gesture I thought, makes us feel like a team when we’re out and about.

We were talking before the wedding and I happened to mention that Jack White, of The White Stripes fame, wasn’t originally Jack White. When he married first wife and fellow White Stripe Meg White, he took her last name. Pretty cool I thought. Very modern.

My wife looked at me and said it out loud, “Daniel Dalton”. She smiled.

I decided then that although I won’t be legally changing my name either, I’d very much like to borrow her surname for my literature. She agreed.

And shortly thereafter, Daniel Dalton was born.

Do any of you write under a pseudonym? Let me know in the comments…

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I’m carrying her in my arms when I feel the first blow. It catches me on the back of the head and I stumble forward almost dropping her. Almost. I manage to put her on her feet and spin around to face the attack.

The second blow lands and my head snaps backwards. There are two of them. This one came from a running punch. I keep her behind me. She is screaming.

Anger. Adrenaline. Pain. Fear. I lash out, catching both with fists, forearms, elbows. They struggle and groan. There is blood; mine, theirs. They are small but I am outnumbered. I can’t fight them both and hold her back at the same time.

She is shouting at one of them as the third blow lands. I’m dazed, distracted. My volley has done nothing to dissuade them. They come at me again. One of them is shouting. I still love you. I still love you. I still love you.

Stop. Stop it. One of them is on the ground. I broke my knuckle on his jaw bone. The other jumps on me. I wrestle with him, but now she has chance to get hold of him too. I try to hold her back, but she is clawing at him. I throw him to the ground. The first one is back to his feet now.

I’m trying to pull her away as the fourth blow lands. The fifth and sixth follow. I manage to pick her up and move her, placing myself between them and her. The blows are coming faster now. I dodge what I can, absorb the rest.

One of the blows catches my eye, another the bridge of my nose. I can’t see. The screams and shouts and cries are louder. I lash out but the momentum is theirs. We are close to the centre of town, but no-one is coming. No-one can hear.

I grab them both as they kick and punch. Run, I tell her. Run. She never did listen. She manages to grab hold of one of them again. Stop. Stop it. I let go of them and grab her, I pick her up and try to take her away from this.

I’m carrying her in my arms when I feel another blow to the back of the head. This is no fist. This is heavier, harder. I feel something else, something warm. Blood. Another blow and I stumble forward. I let her go and fall to my knees. She is screaming.

There is fear and blood as I turn and see the metal pole he is holding. The next blow lands on the side of my head, knocking me to the tarmac. My face hits the floor hard. My skull is cracked. She is screaming louder now.

I am losing consciousness as I see the first blow land. He punches her in the stomach. She’s on the floor now. She’s lying close to me. She’s too far away. I can taste blood, tears, bone. He strikes her across the face. I can’t move.

I feel no pain as the metal pole breaks my ribs, my collarbone. The one she knows is holding her face. He is shouting. Don’t you understand. Don’t you understand. I still love you. She can’t talk back. He strikes her again but she doesn’t feel it. I feel it.

A boot to my face breaks more teeth. The metal pole is passed between them. I still love you. She is still, quiet, lifeless, like a doll. I still love you. I still love you. She’s had enough the other one says. Come on, she’s had enough. No. I still love her.

I can’t breathe as they finally stop and walk away. Shattered ribs, punctured lungs, broken heart. She isn’t moving. I’m dizzy, the world is a blur. I hear them laugh in the distance. I try to move, but my body screams. I need to move.

We are lying together, but this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. We are too far away from the main road. No-one can see us. Nobody is coming to help. I’m looking at her, feeling myself slip in and out of consciousness. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

I can’t see the damage to my body, to my face, but I know it’s bad. The adrenaline is wearing off. The blood is flowing. I dig my fingernails into the ground, and I push. I push myself up. I’m standing, barely. I’m looking at her.

I’m screaming, crying, bleeding, as I pick her up. I stumble forward almost dropping her. Almost. I stumble, but I don’t fall. I see a bright glow, not the sunrise, just passing headlights. The main road. A car stops alongside us.

I’m carrying her in my arms as I feel the last blow. I hit the floor, falling backwards, cradling her. The last thing I feel is them taking her away from me, and the flashing lights become a sunset and then there is black.

(c) Daniel Dalton 2011