When one is writing a novel in the first person, one must be that person.
A bad workman blames his tools.
Dead men tell no tales, Mary.
No, Mary had no illusions about romance. Falling in love was a pretty name for it, that was all.
The moment of crisis had come, and I must face it. My old fears, my diffidence, my shyness, my hopeless sense of inferiority, must be conquered now and thrust aside. If I failed now I should fail forever.
A familiar name on its own, however, does not carry its bearer far unless the talent is there, and the will to work.