I could’ve gone with Makepeace

Let’s be honest right out of the gate: Jennifer J. Coldwater is not on my birth certificate.

She’s a choice. A construction. A little bit of magic trick, a little bit of manifesto.

Years ago, while I was on sabbatical in Oklahoma (yes, still weird to say), I became absolutely insufferable about pen names. I tried on new ones daily like outfits I wasn’t going to buy. My friends endured all of it—the dramatic reveals, the immediate reversals, the “wait, no, THIS one” energy.

And then one day, I said it:

Jennifer J. Coldwater.

There was cheering. Deeply suspicious cheering. The kind that says, thank God she’s done.

And that was that.

Now that I’m back in Los Angeles, let me clear something up:

I did not name myself after Coldwater Canyon.

I know. It’s right there. It feels obvious. It feels very “LA writer discovers herself on a scenic overlook.”

But no.

I named myself after a boy who did a magic trick no one noticed.

Quentin Makepeace Coldwater

Specifically, Quentin Coldwater from The Magicians by Lev Grossman.

“Quentin did a magic trick. Nobody noticed.”

That line rewires something in me every single time.

Quentin Makepeace Coldwater is—no exaggeration—my favorite character in all of literature. I’ve read The Magicians trilogy an unreasonable number of times. Sixteen full rereads. Minimum. The first book? Honestly, I’ve lost count.

Some people rewatch Friends. Others loop The Office like it’s a personality trait.

I reread The Magicians.

Same energy. Slightly more existential dread.

There’s a quote from George R. R. Martin that lives rent-free in my brain:

“The Magicians is to Harry Potter as a shot of Irish whiskey is to a glass of weak tea… dark and dangerous and full of twists.”

And listen—the more we talk about boycott Harry Potter these days, the more I find myself reaching for other magical worlds. Ones that feel… better to live in.

Lately, that’s been the Simon Snow trilogy by Rainbow Rowell.

Simon and Baz are currently on repeat in my earbuds. I’m on my fourth consecutive relisten. They’re just that comforting.

They haven’t replaced Brakebills—I’m not a traitor. I will absolutely find my way back to that deeply chaotic, emotionally devastating magical education at some point.

But right now?

Simon Snow is my “see, this is what magical school without TERFs can be” escape.

And honestly? It’s hitting.

But the “J.”?

That part comes from somewhere darker. Sharper. A little bit existential-crisis-inducing.

Claire Juniper Hadley

From Claire Juniper Hadley in The Library of the Unwritten by A. J. Hackwith.

“Stories can die… from neglect, from abuse, from rot.”

That book scared the absolute hell out of me. (Yes, literally. It’s set in Hell.)

In Hackwith’s world, there’s a library of unwritten books—stories that were never brought into existence. And Claire? She’s there because she never wrote hers.

Let me just—

Nope. No thank you. Hard pass. Not my destiny.

That was the moment I stopped romanticizing writing and actually started doing it.

Not beautifully. Not consistently at first. Not with some aesthetic montage and a perfect playlist.

Just… stubbornly. Imperfectly.

Anyway. I stole Claire’s middle initial as a reminder.

Not of who I want to be.

Of what I refuse to become.

So no—Jennifer J. Coldwater isn’t my given name.

It’s better.

It’s a promise I made to myself. To notice the magic. To choose better worlds when I can. To write the stories before they rot.

And yeah—I’m grateful you’re here, reading.

But let’s be clear.

I’m doing this for my (no longer) bound-for-hell soul.