Phillip or Phillipina?

My son and his friends found an abandoned duckling down a sewer drain.

What is it about kids who think mom can fix everything including motherless ducklings?

So it's eight o'clock at night, I've already called animal control and gotten the after hours dispatcher, the police station called to let me know the best chance for the little thing was to keep him at least overnight.

We looked online to see how to take care of him and learned returning it to a water front meant almost certain death. We put him in a bucket with some hay underfoot and a water crock with clean rocks in the bottom so he wouldn't drown and made a cornmeal mush for food and set up a heat lamp that was purchased years ago for a science project.

And then I prayed. A lot.  A long sleepless night ensued.

Next day was full of doctor appointments. Because going to doctors all the time is the unpleasant reality of our lives. In between, I've got to figure out what to do with this little duck.

He's not looking so good. He's so lonely I don't know if he's going to make it.  He keeps languishing and wants someone's hand by him constantly.

I set my son the task of calling all over to see if there was an organization somewhere who takes in baby ducks while I'm dealing with doctors.

Animal Control did not, everywhere he called did not. Is this little creature going to die on my watch?

My children are so sure we'll find a solution. I love that about them.

We own bunnies. When they have problems we take them to an exotic vet. As I look at this little fluffy one who is cuddling up to my son's hand it occurs to me to call our vet.

They take ducks. They have a duck rehabilitater! Suddenly I love my vet! They are the most wonderful people on the planet. I can't believe they haven't achieved sainthood.

We pack him up and my son comforts him on the ride there. If he moves his hand away the little guy peeps at him to come back.

We get to the vet and they welcome him. They tell us it's a good thing he is there because they have another little duck who needs a friend. I love the vet even more. They have a friend for our little guy.

They share an incubator cuddled together.

With this ordeal behind us my kids finally decide he needs a name. We won't have him anymore, but I realize by naming him, they know he will live. We can all feel that. So they name him Phillip. After a moment's thought I say, 'Or Phillipina.'

Wherein One Gets Confused

Okay, so I guess I need to make something clear. I have a very common name.

There are famous people who have the same name I do.

There are other authors with my same name.

If you google 'Rebecca Blake', it's highly unlikely I'll be on the list.

Currently, I have no books of any kind for sale. If you see a book to buy and it says 'Rebecca Blake' is the author, I didn't write it.

If I finally decide to publish or republish I'll dedicate some space to it on this website. That will avoid confusion, one can only hope. I know I talk about writing a lot, after all, it is my hobby and it's not anything fantastically farfetched to like to talk about one's hobbies.

Online identity crisis happens all the time. In this day and age of internet pellapallooza people get crossed signals and mix up who is who. No one is to blame for it, it just is.

I gave a great deal of thought as to whether to do something to make my name slightly more distinctive. But is there any such thing? I'd have to rename myself something like 'Wild Flower of the Ocean', but I'm just not feeling it.

I've tossed around the idea of using 'Rebecca W. Blake' to avoid some bewilderment. I haven't decided just yet.

I am who I am and what I am is one of the masses. Regular person about town doing regular stuff. So if I have a regular name, I guess that fits.

Edit: there are now books I have published. Look at the published works page to see which ones are actually written by me. 

Why?

Why is the literary world obsessed with the process of becoming damaged?

Why is it considered good writing to write about that process and bad writing to write about healing? The process of becoming undamaged?

Have you noticed in books these days, the ones that show the horrors of humanity with a main character that ends the series emotionally and mentally worse off than when they started, is lauded and extolled as high quality stuff?

Books written, showing the better side of humanity with goodness, hope and forgiveness and a main character that ends a better person than they started, is considered shallow, unrealistic and fluffy?

Why is one point of view more valid than the other? Are we all emotionally bereft? Are we incapable as human beings of improvement, hope and joy? Are those things any less real than depravity, anger and sorrow? Are they not also part of the human experience?

Why aren't the better emotions worthy of exploring in our literary world? Why are they casually dismissed as fluff? Proclaimed to be okay if you want escapism reading, said with a curling sneer on the end of the lips.

Why is only what is depressing, unedifying and angry considered literary?

What is wrong with us?