The Mason Jar

You wouldn't believe my name. Nor did I when I came of age. Of the zillions of names my parents could have thought of, they decided on Sylvia. As a name I have no quirms, I quite like it when my buddies call me 'Hey Sylvie!', has a certain touch of flight about it, a feather, a leaf, perhaps because of the closeness with Sylvan, but point is you woudn't believe how the name ruined my life. I was born to my parents Jeremy and Emily Matthews, out of love. Somewhere down the line, their love lost its meaning, and I was taken under my Mum's custody. Being a strong Market Researcher, and having the will to consume life, rather than it being the other way round, her first step was to return to her maiden name -- Plath. You got it. In turn, I became Sylvia Plath. 

That would not have been too difficult either, except that I am a perfectly average, happy person, heavily invested with the Marketing Skills my Mum possesses. Each time though I fill up a form, or introduce my name, the curiosity inadvertently takes shape -- either in the form of raised eyebrows, or in the utmost enthusiasm to nullify it. To make it easy, imagine your name to be William Shakespeare, instead of William O'Connor, or Christopher Columbus in place of Christopher Marlowe, or Robert Cruise and not Robert Frost! What if your name was indeed George Washington? Because of someone before you who has completely taken over the collective consciousness of humanity, the chances of your existence becomes a) either hilarious, or b) controversial. Is it justified? You tell me.

I mean people ask me, and I know it is done jokingly, "Name?"

"Sylvia Plath".

Here they look up trying to hide a smile, and continue, "And you write. What are you doing here?"

I wish I could tell them if I were indeed a writer I would be at a publishing place being rejected, again on the same account of my name, than standing in front of a renowned blue-chip company submitting my CV for perusal. 

I never quite understood The Bell Jar. It is obvious, isn't it, for me to look up who the grand Sylvia Plath was? Quite frankly, it is a free-willy report of a talented person, who got lazy and used her life to turn to content. Anyway, thus I write this, The Mason Jar, my version of a happy-drinking-preservative jar, what I stand for. Nothing seems quirky within, nothing feels curated. I am what I am. Sip me and you will know how precious I am.

Unfortunately, I am Sylvia Plath.

(An imaginary column submitted by Sylvia Plath, quite understandably, rejected).