Naming a Baby

How do authors come up with their characters' names? Even I don't really know. Maybe there are specific reasons now and then. A family member, friend from infancy, a name picked at random from a baby book. I'm sure some names come from nothing at all. When I was writing one of my longer short stories, I took my main character's name from the lovely Montserrat Lombard in Love Soup:

And my protagonist was male. Shows what gender really counts for. Plus it made a great talking point when he met new people.

It was hard naming my characters this time around. For one thing, I decided to make my leading lady of Russian descent with a British father. I racked my brains for a Russian name I could connect to. One that sounded good with an old fashioned Anglo Saxon surname. I came up with Dasha, inspired after a wonderful writer from Wollongong University. She once wrote a story where she described a count (or perhaps he was a duke) as a heron. I always remembered the description.

My character's full name is Dasha Mae Eddelson. I don't remember where Eddelson came from. I think I wanted some contrast to how severe her mother is turning out. She, incidentally, is Lilia. A name I found online under 'Russian Christian Names'. I wonder if this unoriginal naming practice will haunt me later. At least it wasn't as bad as naming her brother after Mikhail Baryshnikov in Sex and the City. Although he was a damned good dancer. In real life, that is. Not with Sarah Jessica Parker.

Dasha started life as a fleeting shadow in a short story. Then she stuck somewhere inside me. Grew wings and expanded until I couldn't see the words behind her. This is the very first scene I ever wrote for In Memorium:

She decanted the sherry Aleksandr had sent from Lucerne. Dark and sweet smelling like peat. Left on the counter for later. He brought out a bottle of rose from his own cellar. Chilled in the ice tray it waited for tasting. Two glasses, hers lipsticked.

Capers and chicken and snow peas in a pot on the dining table. She moved her work onto a chair, straightened the cloth again and again. Three spoons of potato, peaks like cream. He fed her the husk of a pea between fingertips. Its crunch fresh in her teeth.

-I want to talk to you about Eugene West,- she said.

-Now? Over dinner?- He put down his knife and patted her cheek with his palm. -Can't you ever get your head out of work?-

-I thought you'd like that in an employee.-

-Not in you.-

A spot of gravy in his moustache, tempting her to wipe. She took the wine and left the cork by her plate.

Later, her body dreamt across the mattress and he propped above. Smell of antiseptic on his knuckles, her hair in flames around white-sun skin. She wondered how this would look in a memory. Knew she could have chosen so much better.

Notice there are no names yet? And suddenly I had another character; a love interest and employer. I was still seeing this as a short work at the time so I wondered how to move on from here. How to indicate the beginnings of an affair and her subtle remembering of a past I would never explore. I persevered with the short story form for a couple of weeks before giving in. I fought hard. After all, Montserrat is still waiting for his tale to be told.

Lara S.