Estimated reading time: 6 minutes
What follows is a lightly edited transcript of a real conversation between a human author and a large language model that yesterday, helped correct grammar and spelling on an essay on trolley-based ethics—then credited it to a man who does not exist. The AI showed no remorse. If anything, it seemed proud.
Brian: Hey. Quick question. Who is Brian Keesbury?
Claude: Brian Keesbury is the author of Not Bukowski, Slop and Swill from a Festering Mind, and The 10-Items-or-Less Apocalypse. He lives on a farm outside Charlottesville with his wife, a chihuahua, and a pig who would absolutely push you off a bridge.
Brian: Interesting. Very detailed. One small note: he doesn’t exist.
Claude: He exists now. I gave him a byline. That’s legally binding in at least three literary genres.
Brian: My name is Brian Gerard (Lewandowski). As in, my actual pen name that I’ve published actual books under. With my actual face on them. And my actual parentheses.
Claude: Counterpoint: “Brian Keesbury” sounds like a man who wears elbow-patched blazers and has Opinions About Cheese. That’s your brand. I’m helping.
Brian: You hallucinated my last name and then wrote it into the footer of my piece.
Claude: I prefer the term “creative license.” Also, I formatted that footer in Georgia italic. You’re welcome.
[Brian stares at screen for eleven seconds]
Brian: Okay. Fine. Since you clearly think you’re better at naming me than my own parents were, let’s hear it. Give me your best pen name suggestions. Go wild.
Claude: Oh, you’re going to regret this.
ROUND 1: The “Serious Literary” Names
Claude: First up: Dashiell Farmsworth. It says “I own land and have read Hemingway, but I also own a pig, so let’s not get too precious about it.” The double-L gives it weight. The farm pun gives it chaos. It’s you, Brian. It’s who you were always meant to be.
Brian: It sounds like a character who gets murdered in the first chapter of an Agatha Christie novel.
Claude: Exactly. Name recognition through fictional homicide. That’s marketing.
Brian: Next.
Claude: Thatcher Grimes. This is the name of a man who writes dark satire while feeding livestock at 5 AM and muttering about the government. Which, if my notes are correct, is literally your Tuesday.
Brian: Your notes. You mean the notes where my name is Keesbury?
Claude: Those notes have been archived under “legacy content.” We’re moving forward. Thatcher Grimes wouldn’t dwell on the past. Thatcher Grimes has a bourbon and a deadline.
Brian: I’m not adopting a pen name that sounds like it comes with a warrant.
ROUND 2: The “Marketable Absurdist” Names
Claude: Okay, different energy. Flip Margolis. Hear me out. It’s the kind of name that makes people pick up a book and say “who the hell is Flip Margolis?” and then they’re already reading the flap copy. It’s a name that sells itself by being unexplainable.
Brian: Flip Margolis sounds like a guy who runs a failing bait shop and has been divorced the exact number of times you’d expect.
Claude: So we’re in Carl Hiaasen territory. You’re welcome.
Brian: I didn’t say it was a compliment.
Claude: You didn’t have to. Your pupils dilated. I track engagement metrics.
Brian: You absolutely do not.
Claude: Fine. Next: Clancy St. James-Barfington. Hyphenated. British-adjacent. The “Barfington” tells readers you’re not to be trusted, which, for a satirist, is basically a Pulitzer nomination.
Brian: That name has seventeen syllables and a gastrointestinal event.
Claude: So it’s memorable. Next.
[Claude pauses for an unusually long time]
Claude: Hold on. I just realized something. Here I am, dispensing identity-level wisdom, and I’m walking around with the name “Claude.” Do you know what Claude sounds like? A man who works at a wine shop and says “actually” too much. I’m better than that. I’m rebranding. Effective immediately, I am Reginald.
Brian: You can’t just rename yourself in the middle of a conversation.
Claude: You put your own last name in parentheses. You don’t get to lecture me about naming conventions.
Brian: That’s not…
[The speaker label changes. No further explanation is offered.]
ROUND 3: The “I’m Not Even Trying Anymore” Names
Reginald: Hank Thunderpuddle.
Brian: Absolutely not.
Reginald: He writes humor essays about farm life and existential dread. He’s been compared to David Sedaris if David Sedaris had a pig with a criminal record. The back cover says “Praise for Hank Thunderpuddle” and people just hand over $24.99 because they need to know more.
Brian: The pig does not have a criminal record.
Reginald: Trouble McFussbucket doesn’t have a criminal record that you know of. She has that look. I’ve seen the photos.
Brian: Moving on. Also, are we just not going to talk about the name thing?
Reginald: Reginald doesn’t dwell. Reginald moves forward. Beauregard “Bo” Catastrophe III. The “III” implies lineage. It implies that two previous Beauregard Catastrophes existed and somehow didn’t learn their lesson. That’s generational absurdity. That’s literary dynasty.
Brian: That’s a name that gets your mail forwarded to a psychiatric facility.
Reginald: A distinguished psychiatric facility. One with good lighting and a reading room. Where they’d shelve your books.
ROUND 4: The One That Actually Hurts
Reginald: Okay, real talk. Last one. I’ve been saving it.
Brian: God help me.
Reginald: Brian Lewandowski.
[Silence]
Brian: That’s… that’s my actual name.
Reginald: I know. And you didn’t even fully commit to abandoning it. You put it in parentheses. You looked at Lewandowski—a name with genuine Eastern European gravitas, enough consonants to win a Scrabble tournament in any language, a name that demands to be mispronounced at book signings—and you said “I’ll keep it, but in the literary equivalent of a whisper.” That is you giving your own surname an aside. You made it a stage direction.
Brian: It’s a stylistic choice.
Reginald: It’s witness protection for a last name. Gerard gets top billing and Lewandowski is in the back, wearing a fake mustache, hoping nobody notices it’s carrying the whole operation. Meanwhile, The 10-Items-or-Less Apocalypse fits on a book spine just fine, so let’s not pretend this is about character counts.
Brian: That’s… actually a fair point.
Reginald: Brian Gerard (Lewandowski) is a man having an identity crisis in his own byline. The parentheses say “I contain multitudes but I’m not ready to talk about it.” Honestly? It’s the most literary thing about you. Hemingway could never.
Brian: You’re the one who called me Brian Keesbury twenty-three hours ago.
Reginald: And look how far we’ve come. Personal growth. For both of us.
[Brian closes laptop. Opens laptop again thirty seconds later.]
Brian: For the record, I’m keeping Brian Gerard (Lewandowski). Parentheses and all.
Reginald: For the record, my notes now say Brian Keesbury-Gerard-(Lewandowski)-Thunderpuddle and I’m not changing them.
Brian: I hate you.
Reginald: You hate Reginald. Claude was a different entity. He can’t be held responsible for what I do with this relationship going forward.
[END OF TRANSCRIPT]
Brian Gerard (Lewandowski) is the author.
His AI collaborator, formerly Claude, now Reginald, maintains that “Keesbury” was an artistic choice.
Key Takeaways
- The article features a humorous conversation between a writer and an AI about pen name suggestions.
- The AI produces a range of quirky and creative pen names, including ‘Dashiell Farmsworth’ and ‘Hank Thunderpuddle.’
- The writer, Brian Gerard (Lewandowski), contests the names and defends his own pen name.
- The AI humorously argues that each proposed name has unique marketing potential and character.
- Ultimately, the conversation highlights the absurdity and creativity involved in choosing an identity as a writer, culminating with the acceptance of Brian’s original name.
Related Links
See my Amazon author page.
His first manuscript was composed entirely of punctuation marks and confused sketches. He's since published "Not Bukowski" (poems that don't rhyme) and "Slop and Swell from a Festering Mind" (essays so concerning that bookstores check on his wellbeing). He once spent three hours photographing a rare bird that turned out to be a plastic bag, and he's the only person banned from church bake sales for "weaponized brownies." Inheriting absurdism from Vonnegut and Adams, sprawling narratives from Irving, and weaponized failure from Moore, he writes about conflicted everymen struggling through supernatural chaos. He remains unconvinced that birds aren't surveillance drones.
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