Writers have been using pseudonyms for as long as writing has existed in public form.

Mary Ann Evans published her novels, including Middlemarch, one of the greatest ever written, as George Eliot in the 19th century. Her reason was sharp and pragmatic: she feared critics would dismiss her work as lightweight “feminine fiction.” By adopting a male pen name, she ensured her books were judged on their merit alone.

Around the same time, three sisters in Yorkshire made a similar calculation. Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë published their early poetry as Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, gender-neutral names chosen, as Charlotte later wrote, because they were “averse to personal publicity.

Charles Dodgson, an Oxford mathematics lecturer, published his whimsical fantasy novels under the name Lewis Carroll. The distance between his professional life and his imaginative one was, perhaps, the very space that made Wonderland possible.

More recently, Stephen King published prolifically as Richard Bachman to test whether his success was tied to talent or fame. (It was both, but the experiment itself was telling.) And thriller writer Nora Roberts became J.D. Robb when she began a new futuristic series, allowing readers to clearly distinguish between her two distinct bodies of work.

The pattern is consistent across centuries: writers use pen names to navigate a world that doesn’t always make space for the full range of who they are.