The middle initial is on the outs.

So reports author Bruce Feiler (who dropped his), writing in the New York Times’ Sunday Styles section of July 13, 2014. The middle initial—once an indicator of authority, accomplishment  and sophistication—is now seen as extraneous, old-fashioned, impersonal, classist, obstructive, ostentatious and even priggish.

Phew! What a heavy load for one little letter!

The middle initial hasn’t been with us all that long anyway, Feiler says. Middle names only came into widespread use in the late nineteenth century, when population growth required people to add more names to identify themselves. The middle initial, as a shorter means of differentiation, didn't become common until the early 20th century. Think of it as nomenclature’s equivalent of zip+4.

Now, the pendulum swings again towards brevity and equanimity, and the middle initial is déclassé.

Which leads me to wonder why I am using my middle initial, “E,” on my book. I had a choice after all. The first draft of the cover that my publisher, Scott Gerber, designed for “Farewell, Aleppo” didn’t have my middle initial, and I asked him to add it.

Why?

It certainly wasn’t to differentiate myself from the other Claudette Sutton's out there. In my life I have barely met enough Claudette’s to count on two hands.

And no, it’s not an easy trick for dignifying my book or my writing. I have to count on what’s inside the covers to do that.

The choice has more to do (as does my book itself) with tradition and identity. By Syrian-Jewish custom, my middle name, Esther, should have been my first name. Traditionally—with few exceptions to this day—a family's first-born son or daughter is given the name of the paternal grandfather or grandmother, as the case may be. The second boy and girl are named for the maternal grandparents. After that, names are up for grabs. As a second daughter, I was in line for the name of mother’s mother, Esther Beyda. but my parents, straddling Old World customs and American suburbia, tweaked the tradition. I received Esther as my middle name.

Growing up, I didn’t use my middle name or initial except where required on school forms or passport applications. I only adopted it in daily life when I moved to Santa Fe from the east coast in my late 20s and applied for a new driver’s license and bank account. My grandmother felt honored, and I found a small daily connection to my grandmother and family, from whom I'd just moved two thousand miles away. Not a bad feat for a single letter.

A name reflects our individual identity, and also our connection to others. The balance requires a choice. Twenty-seven years ago I decided not to adopt my husband’s last name (a decision I haven’t regretted), because I felt clear that we were united in spirit even if our names remained different. I still do.

But given the chance to let middle initial fall by the wayside, I chose to pick it up. That letter reminds me of my grandmother, my heritage and my family – all parts of my self.

Plus I like the look of it: the fulcrum of a single letter between my first and last names; the upright, linear “E” contrasting the curved first letters of my given and surnames.

Back in high school journalism class, I learned how newspaper style was influenced by the physical reality of typesetting. Back in the days when men with ink-stained fingers set each word of a newspaper letter by letter in bars of metal type, any unnecessary mark of punctuation was like a stone in a mountain climber’s pack.

Different forces of streamlining are at play with today’s digital communication. It’s only a matter of time before the middle initial goes the way of the serial comma.

Until then, I’m embracing my “E.”

I love John McPhee’s periodic series “The Writing Life,” in the New Yorker. His most recent, “Elicitation” (April 7, 2014) is about all about the art of interviewing: tips, confessions, anecdotes and ethics. Jewels of the trade, like: To tape-record or not? (“Yes, but maybe not as a first choice—more like a relief pitcher.”) How much to prepare in advance? (“At a minimum, enough to be polite.”) How to get the most succinct reply from your interviewee? (Keep asking your question. “Who is going to care if you seem dumber than a cardboard box?")

I wish I’d had an article like this when I started out as a shy young reporter for the Montgomery County Sentinel, where I worked for a few years between high school and college. I could write decently but had little experience, so I was assigned lightweight human-interest stories: the father and daughter who were members of the volunteer fire department; the man celebrating his hundredth birthday who credited his long life to “wine, women and oysters.”

One of my first assignments was to interview a young priest who volunteered at a big public high school as an ad hoc counselor, informally making himself available to anyone who wanted to talk. He was personable and kind, barely older than the students—or me. He was also a dream interviewee. He practically dictated the article, slowly down when he knew he was delivering a good quote. This interviewing business is cake, I thought.

If only.

More often than not I’d stare nervously at my telephone, which in our crowded newsroom was only a few feet from the telephone of a reporter with decades more experience than I, before making a call.

Not being an investigative journalist (which The Sentinel still proudly employed) I didn’t often find myself in hostile situations, though tension sometimes arose unexpectedly. I remember an octogenarian woman who had lived on the same street in Rockville her whole life. My editor wanted a charming account of the changes this woman had seen in her hometown. I found a cranky, bigoted woman who didn’t want to talk and had nothing positive to say about the development in her neighborhood, where now “You have to go 'round Robin Hood’s barn to get anywhere.” But then, I’d never heard that expression before, which made the interview worth it.

Interviewing a close family member, as I did for “Farewell, Aleppo,” poses whole other challenges. English is my father’s fourth or fifth language, and until hearing him on a tape recorder I’d never noticed the slight irregularities of his syntax, which I tried to smooth out without losing a sense of him and his background. His tendency was to downplay his experiences, which in his mind were just about doing what needed to be done, while I had to determine how to play them up without making Dad feel he appeared boastful.

Years of conducting interviews have given me lessons in efficiency and confidence, yet each interview is unique. An interviewee is not just raw material that we have the liberty to shape to our needs but a unique collection of stories, memories, lessons learned, regrets, wishes and second chances. Our challenge is to evoke them as faithfully, as respectfully, as possible, whether we love them or endure them, whether we have known them our whole life or just for the length of a phone call.

“[T]he writer has the responsibility to be fair to the subject, who trustingly and perhaps unwittingly delivers words and story into the writer’s control,” McPhee says. “Some people are so balanced, self-possessed, and confident that they couldn’t care less what some ragmaker says about them, but they are in a minority among people who put their lives in your hands.”

Twenty-five years ago, when I was expecting my first (and as it turned out only) child, my midwife gave me sage advice. “Enjoy this time,” said this woman who had witnessed literally thousands of births. “There’s nothing quite like a first pregnancy.” 

Up until then I had been thinking of pregnancy not so much as a thing in itself but as preparation for the thing.  Eating five servings of dairy a day, taking prenatal vitamins, going to birth class and prenatal visits with my hubby, reading baby books, choosing a name, making the birth plan—all this was build-up to the main event: birth. My eyes were focused on the outcome, not the process. 

But as her words pointed out, a first-time experience is always unique. With a second baby, there’s (usually) another child in the home, commanding much of Mom’s time and attention. Second time around, we have some precedent for the sweeping physical and emotional changes that are utterly new with the first child.

I’ve been thinking about my midwife’s advice a lot lately, as I prepare to birth my first book. The process is not wholly unlike pregnancy: I have trouble sleeping, I eat weird foods, and I go around town with a dopey grin, wanting to tell everyone my due date and my baby’s name (“’Farewell, Aleppo.’  He takes after his grandfather.”) 

The brand-spanking-newness of this experience to me makes me scared, excited, sometimes exhausted. I’ve been stunned by how much there has been to do since we completed the final edit: locating photos, picking a name (agh! more on that in another post), finalizing the cover, setting up social media, planning the marketing and publicity, lining up readings, making a contact list for announcements….  

There are—as people like to taunt me—upwards of a million books published in this country every year. But this is my baby. Yes, I’m anxious to see the finished product (gestating so much longer than a human!). I can’t wait to hold my bouncing baby book, swaddled in the beautiful cover that Scott Gerber designed and show it off to the world. Most of all, I want to put my creation at last in the hands of my father, who has been waiting far more patiently than I’d ever have asked. 

And I want to savor this period of expectancy. There’s nothing like a first book.