Lisa Shafter

I’ve never posted my last name on this blog. Sure, you’ve seen me sign off countless entries as “Lisa Shafter.” Shafter is not my last name, either maiden or current. It’s a nom de plume I’ve had since I was 14. 

14 was a magical age— it was sometime in that year that I read the book Eragon on a family trip to South Carolina to visit my grandparents. Leaning against the air mattress in the guest bedroom in the heat of the day, I scoffed at the novel’s contrived dialogue and heavily plagiarized plot. I could do better than that, I thought. 

When my mom and I took our daily walk, along a dusty road between tobacco fields and neat rows of pine trees, I told her I was going to write a novel. Ever the pragmatist, she said, “I’ll contact my agent and ask her for advice.”

Mom did, and her agent, Toni, told me to read two books, Stein on Writing and Self-Editing for Fiction Writers. I checked them out of the library and read them as I started pounding out the first few scenes.

After that, I worked patiently and steadily for a year and a half, stringing together a story about the cruelty of castes, the steadfastness of friendship, the fleetingness of romance, the power of an evil emperor, and the arbitrary wonder of magic. I pulled character’s names from Gaelic and Greek and my own head, imagining the scenes as high-budget film scenes in my head. I would listen to the Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack while trying to figure out a scene. I’d whisper words of my planned dialogue over the top, and rub away tears as I stirred my own emotion.

As I wrote, I realized that my last name just wouldn’t do. My last name was Barfield. That didn’t sound like a fantasy author’s name to my 14-year-old ears. Fantasy authors had names like Tolkien and LeGuin and Jordan. I asked my oldest brother for advice, and he suggested Shafter. It was a family name from the Louis L’Amour book he was reading. I loved the name. I was certain I would get published under this name, see my book resting on the shelves under this name, and pencil it onto fans’ copies at every book signing. 

The name stuck to me, if only in my own head (and in Kevin’s, who called me by my pen name when I started writing sketches for the worship service he led at our church). To this day, whenever I do something klutzy or stupid, I mutter to myself, “Nice one, Shafter.” And when I’m trying to come up with an answer or stop being distracted, I say to myself, “Think, Shafter, think!”

Although I didn’t realize it at the time, my novel dream fell asleep when I bought a laptop. Freed from my TV-sized desktop, I fled to Washington, California, Florida, Colorado. I learned about organic farming and European travel and the fascinating lives of people I had yet to meet. Travel swallowed me up, and my novel along with it.

Somewhere along the way, I began to realizing that publishing a novel would not happen— not now. My life had split off in another direction. I realized I liked exploring the country in search of new experiences and new thoughts. I liked putting those experiences into words and sharing them with people. I started publishing articles as Lisa E. Barfield, and Lisa Shafter quietly retreated until she could be of further use.

Four months ago, I wore a white dress, made a vow, and became Lisa Strader. Shafter and Strader, side by side, my pen name and my new name, blend together at a glance. My 14-year-old’s dreams have changed and grown up, but they are still part of me. 

Somewhere in the back of my head, I see a late middle-aged woman (with silver hair, like my mother’s) typing a novel, fearless and haphazard as a girl named Lisa Shafter.

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