On the Singularity of Voice (Or: Don’t Put Baby in a Corner)
By Mike Swift | September 4, 2015 |
Picture yourself in a strange coffee haven, sans plasticine porters with looking glass ties. It’s San Diego in the mid-1990’s and, although smoking indoors has been banned for a little over a year, the lingering haze of ten thousand clove cigarettes gives everything the feel of a White Diamonds commercial. I’m at the counter ordering a round for my buddies when our high-maintenance friend arrives, out of breath and late, again.
“What do you want?” I mouth the words across the room so as not to disturb a reading of The Vagina Monologues.
“A caramel macchiato, 2% organic, extra-shot, extra-hot, extra-whip, with three Splendas and a dusting of dark chocolate,” he mouths back.
I shoot him an “okay” sign with my finger and thumb, turn to the Liz Taylor impersonator and say, “Make that five regular coffees.”
We’re there for our weekly game of Balderdash, a competition of intellect, creativity, and bullshittery –- the perfect distraction for the writerly sect. If you’ve never heard of it, in a nutshell, players pick a word, write their “definitions,” read them along with the correct answer, then vote on which is real. Points are awarded to those who choose the correct definition and to those whose definitions are chosen.
I open with this vignette because among that group was my best friend, Jeff, whom I could never fool. While the others fell prey to my pseudo-Websterisms time and again, every attempt at tricking him was not only dashed, it was balderdashed.
“How do you always know?” I asked one night after a particularly grueling tournament ended with the announcement they had run out of everything but decaf.
“Yours sound like you.”
“Huh? Whaddya mean they sound like me?” I mean, seriously. Pick a word –- any word -– balderdash, for example. Does this not sound like it was ripped straight from the pages of the OED?
Balderdash: (n) the dash with less hair than the other dash.
I rest my case.
Then again, maybe I rest Jeff’s case. “It’s the way you put things,” he continued, “the phrasing, the word choices, the style –- the everything. Sure, they may sound like dictionary entries, but dictionary entries you wrote — even when they’re the correct definitions — if that makes any sense.”
Personally, I think it’s because I typed them.
And that, my friends, was the day I discovered my words had a voice behind them, and that voice was distinguishably mine.
The Authorial Voice
We’ve been celebrating diversity on the pages of Writer Unboxed, and there’s nothing more unique to a writer than their authorial voice. But what is it, exactly, and how can you find yours? Is it the narrative voice? A character voice? The voices in my head? Yes, and no…and yes.
As a writer, you can create character voices which are vastly different than your own, however, in the undercurrent of words, your authorial voice still flows. It’s as much a part of you as the natural brown hair underneath the bottled blonde. It’s the way you sing in the shower when no one else is home: an attempt at Al Green that’s more Al Yankovic. As Jeff said, “It’s the way you put things.” It’s who you are. After all, doesn’t a Rowling by any other Gaibreath spell as sweet?
That being said, with practice, you can train your voice to be as loud or as soft and stylistic as you deem necessary, from blaring bullhorns to whispered sweet nothings, snarky wit to heart-tugging drama. But you — or rather, your voice — still echoes in the catacombs. A Hemingway is a Hemingway, no matter the piece.
For instance, I’m writing this article in “Full Mike,” so to speak –- as if I were sitting on the ratty couch in that California coffee shop shouting above the clamor of silverware and dishes, gurgling espresso machines, and tedious recitations of The Vagina Monologues. I tell myself I’m writing as such to emphasize voice, but frankly, I write most of my non-fiction in Full Mike.
In contrast, with my fiction, I hide in the shadows. I’m still there, the puppet master pulling the strings and running the show, however, I prefer not to be seen, or at least, to be seen less. Even so, everyone realizes it’s a Mike Swift production, mainly because I’m listed in the credits five times.
In other words, authorial voice is not only evident in the words I choose and “how I put things,” but also in the way I gesticulate on paper. I don’t act wild and crazy at a formal dinner, nor do I act prim and proper at a frat party. It all depends on whether or not there’s an open bar.
Finding Your Voice
My friends are more than people who call my bluff at Balderdash. Besides telling me my words “sound like me,” they’ve also compared my work to that of famous authors, and I’ve taken heed.
When compared to other writers, I read them immediately and study the similarities –- even Jane Austen –- yes, Jane Austen! Can you believe one of my stories reminded someone of her? Huh! Who’da thunk? I’ve even hand-written chapters of various works to get a feel for the pacing, determine the timing of conflict, gain smoother word flow, and experience the amount of dialogue needed before breaking into description, etc.
Through the exercise above, I discovered my weaknesses and worked out the kinks (somewhat) until they became strengths. After a while, I sounded less like the authors to whom I was compared and more like an improved version of me, with deeper understanding and better storytelling capabilities.
Home is Where Your Story Begins
Another way I found my voice was by reading through old journals, letters I wrote in college, and high school yearbooks.
Case in point: I received a Facebook friend request from a girl who, judging by our mutual friends, must have been someone from high school. That was a long time ago and I didn’t recognize her picture, so to the annual I went, hoping to see what she looked like without the crew cut. I couldn’t find her anywhere, and it seemed like we all wore flannel back then. But as I leafed through the pages, comments from schoolmates caught my attention:
- “You are a really insane person! I’ll never forget the crazy times.”
- “You’ve managed to make Physics one of the wildest classes I’ve ever had.” (Yes, Physics.)
- “The world will never be the same once you graduate.”
- “Whose yearbook is this? Swift’s? Oh. I got nothing.”
Once I thought about it, I realized those are essentially critiques of my personality…my essence…my voice. And decades later, I haven’t changed a bit. Okay, so maybe I’ve mellowed some, but that comes with age and experience. The same can be said about my writing.
Be Fearless and Soar
It wasn’t easy finding a balance between over-the-top and mellow yellow. As witnessed above, when I was younger, I really pushed the envelope with my antics. Through trial and error –- mostly error –- I learned what worked and what didn’t, what soared and what fell flat. More often than not, I put my foot in my mouth, and sometimes, when things got crazy, in your mouth. However, for the most part, people liked what I had to say and how I said it. I only had to trust my instincts, fearlessly. I had to take a leap of faith. Ha!
Transcribing my voice to paper was no easy task. I joined flash fiction and critique groups, and took part in weekly writing prompts for almost two years. I wrote and wrote and wrote, and accepted all feedback with an open mind. And I found Writer Unboxed somewhere along the way.
Today, I surround myself with people I trust, people I admire, people who are kind, yet honest, with no problem telling me, through smiles on their faces, “This sucks.” Of course, they proceed to tell me exactly how it sucks, which is the real joy in our friendships. I prefer hearing what’s wrong with my story than what’s right.
Stay out of the Corner
In closing, I want to tell you the story of Jennifer “Nobody puts Baby in the corner” Grey. You remember her – the cute, quirky ingénue with the misshapen nose in Dirty Dancing. America’s sweetheart. And then, for whatever reason, she got a nose job. She took her quirky uniqueness and chopped it off to be like all the other Hollywood starlets. She put her own self in the corner, and I haven’t seen her since, except for a recent appearance on Dancing With the Stars. She did the tango.
My earnest hope is that, if you take nothing else from this article, you learn to be fearless and trust in your uniqueness. There is only one you. Be brazen. Don’t let anyone, especially you, put your Baby in the corner.
How about you? In what ways have you discovered your voice? How do you “hear” yourself? How do others hear you?
[coffee]
M.L. Swift is a lover of words who squanders away his afternoons arranging them into sentences which, when combined, resemble fiction. He has written articles for Writer Unboxed and The Alzheimer’s Reading Room and, as a caregiver for ten years, is writing a novel based on his experience. He lives in the Florida panhandle with his two dogs, Rameses and Buster, and spends his nights fighting a losing battle to reclaim his side of the bed.
It’s good to be back in [insert your city name here]! Thanks for having me again, T.
Thanks for being with us, Mike! [Just added some TinyCoffee for you! Cheers!]
W00t! It’s like I’m in San Diego all over again. Thanks for the coffee! :D
Terrific post, Mike. Your voice IS unique. I was laughing all the way through this. I could see your thoughtful, intellectual, yet utterly goofiness bleed through. Fabulous. Don’t change a thing about your voice. It’s wonderful.
Thanks, Heather. This was a blast to write. And, try as I might, I can never completely lose the goofiness. I think it’s inherent.
Again, I appreciate the kind words.
Mike,
I got excited when I saw the word ‘balderdash’. It is my all-time favorite game. Years back, a group of friends played regularly. I quickly became a consistent winner and was given the title, Queen of Bullshit (only my husband could pick me out of the crowd). Not sure what that says about my writerly voice. But years later I was in a writers’ group where my work was read out loud, and I got to actually hear myself trying on different voices. It took maybe five years of this before I heard the beginnings of my own unique way of telling a story. I say ‘beginning’ because that voice is ever-evolving. Still, as time goes by, it feels more uniquely mine. That sounds like a contradiction, I know. Or maybe a paradox. You know, two jetties sticking out into the water? Thanks for your wisdom and your humor this morning.
Susan,
I used to look forward to our Balderdash Thursdays with great anticipation! It was so much fun and most of my definitions — whether real or fake — were more serious than the above example. But still, I could never fool my friend.
Hearing someone else read your words is like hearing a recording of yourself, like when you’re leaving an outgoing message on your answering machine/voice mail: “Ugh! Is that really what I sound like? Let the robot recording answer it.” After more writing and more feedback, you begin to finesse your prose, and you start hearing it differently, it seems more melodic. Like practicing for the answering machine. Pretty soon you like the sound — you’ve gotten the nasal out.
And yes, ever-evolving, but keeping that main strand of DNA throughout.
Thanks for coming by and commenting.
Welcome back, Mike. Thanks for the great insights on voice. It’s such a hard thing to define, but it is essential for a writer to find his voice. The only thing I can add to your words of wisdom is this: don’t try to sound like someone else. Be yourself. Thanks!
Oh, Chris, I was all over the map with this one. I cut over half of what I wrote. I brought more technical definitions into the equation with the mnifty mnemonic device, DUCATS: diction, unity, coherence, audience, tone, and syntax.
And then there are the themes we choose to discuss. They also shape our voices. There is so much to be said on the subject, I decided to show DUCATS in action and touch on my experience, instead. I agree, the one thing to take away is being true to yourself. Do that, along with good story/good writing, and you’ll soar. Thanks for the comment!
I always love it when there’s a Mike Swift production on WU. Especially when you’re doing the Full Mike. But this phrase right here is one of the best descriptions of voice I’ve read: “the way I gesticulate on paper.” That made me fan my face with my hand.
I don’t know that I can describe my voice, but my friends tell me they can hear me when they read my work, so I must have one. But I try not to think about it, especially while I’m writing; I don’t want wondering what kind of voice I have to interrupt the actual using of said voice.
You know, Natalie, John Vorhaus’s book, “How to Write Good” set me free. Seriously. There was one sentence that became my mantra: “Let whimsy rule the page.” You can always go back and edit, smooth it out, give it as little or as much whimsy as you want (or none at all), but it truly released me from the bondage of self and of overthinking. It’s freewriting at its funnest.
Your voice, to me, is subtly in the background. I know it when I hear it (read it), and it’s beautiful.
Mike, I really enjoyed your essay. You definitely have a unique voice. Moseyed along to your blog and realized that your sense of humor must have carried you through the rough times taking care of your mom. I have a friend whose wife is suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s and it’d be completely devastating if not for his humorous bent. I found the Dave Barry article … sent it to my husband for some laughs.
I stuttered horribly as a child and could barely speak. But in the misery of my silence I discovered my writing voice. Funny how that works.
Vijaya,
Good to see you! And thanks for giving my blog a gander. Fortunately, my mom had a wonderful sense of humor, too, and she made it even easier. Sometimes we couldn’t help but laugh. It sure beat crying.
That Dave Barry — ha! Been following him for years. One of my heroes, as well as Erma Bombeck, may she RIP.
As a child, I suffered from rhotacism (couldn’t pronounce r’s) and had to take speech therapy for a couple of years. Plus, my mind gets to racing so fast sometimes I tend to stammer, so I feel your pain.
But those experiences — they’re another thing you’ve tapped on about voice — it’s an amalgamation of all your life experiences: all the people you’ve crossed paths with, the lady you sat beside on the bus who said something that left an indelible imprint on you, whether you realized it at the time or not. It took refuge somewhere in the nooks and crannies of that wrinkled gray mass in your head. Lots of places to hide there, and lo and behold! Out it pops one day in your writing. Didn’t even see it coming, but there it was. A part of you.
Thanks for reading and commenting!
Thank you for describing something ethereal like “author voice”. It’s hard to describe!
When I first began writing, not that long ago, I thought I had to write perfectly. In other words, as if I were writing an English essay. Blech!
Then I read a Kathryn Magendie book and she was making up words all over the place! And her words described situations and feelings better than the “correct” words. Right then and there I knew I had to be fearless and soar. “Forget it! It’s my book I’ll do as I dang well please.”
And as a side note: My heart bleeds for Jennifer Grey. She said her nose job was the biggest mistake she ever made. As a person with a not-so-small-nose, who also wanted a nose job when I was younger, I’m glad I didn’t. Every time I mentioned it my friends would get mad at me. “But it’s you! No other nose would fit your face!” I’m still not crazy about and it somehow got crooked along the way. But it’s me, just like my voice. So I guess I’ll keep it. :)
Valerie, I could have probably written a novella on the topic. As it was, I cut about 1500 words off and still ended up with around 1500. I hope I kept the right ones. I wanted to “show, not tell.” Ha!
Noses. I used to want a nose job so bad. I have a deviated septum that blocks the whole left nostril and gives that side of my nose a bump (the other side has a beautiful crease in it, like it’s supposed to have). It’s pretty much why I’m a mouth-breather — I can never get any air through my nose! But even with the “medical” needs (since I couldn’t breathe through it), it was still considered cosmetic, so never made it to the top of my financial priority list. I’m glad. It adds character. And yours is perfectly perfect, too!
Oh, and as you could tell from “pseudo-Websterisms,” I make up words all the time. Shakespeare did it. Carroll did it. Heck, I’m gonna do it, too. Sometimes just because it’s funnier (e.g., “definitions” or “pseudo-Websterisms” — which brings a smile to your face?). Rock on!
Hey, Mike — wonderful post. (Surprise, surprise.)
My family used to play a pre-Balderdash game which we called — and we incinerated many brain cells to come up with this name — “The Dictionary Game.” It worked just like Balderdash, and we have numerous stories like yours in the San Diego cafe. I remember getting so frustrated by the “It sounds just like you” claim that I started to sabotage the game: when it was my turn to select a word from the dictionary, I’d intentionally re-write the definition to intentionally “sound just like me.” It confused the hell out everybody, because even when they caught on, no one could figure out what exactly my objective was. And luckily, by that point in the game we’d all have had just enough to drink that no one asked me to explain it for real. (“Luckily,” because I couldn’t have explained it if I’d wanted to. I was just being perverse.)
The Missus flatters me by insisting that I can write anything convincingly (which if true would mean I have many “voices”: doing the Zelig thing whenever I sit down at the keyboard). I don’t believe it — but she’s got an advanced English degree, so presumably it’s okay to derive some odd comfort from it, without buying into the fantasy.
John,
Thanks for coming by!
You know, the authorial voice is complicated and is comprised of so many factors (see DUCATS, in a comment above). For instance, Full Mike is more of an implied authorial voice — how I want to come across to my audience, but certainly not how I run around all the time. That would be exhausting. But it’s Regular Mike on high octane.
When you mention “many voices,” I think that starts falling more into a character voice definition. By that I mean, I wrote a short once about a bingo-playing Jewish grandmother and her unorthodox grandson. The characters were quite convincing, and I’m not Jewish in the least. But surrounding the piece was my imprint. You could just tell I wrote it, even though I used no familiar vernacular (I included a lot of Yiddish). It was the piece in its entirety that had a Mike feel to it. Sublimely comical. The voice behind the voices…I dunno…like the director of a movie.
And now I’m sure I’m clear as mud. Thanks again for the comment. Good to see you.
“It’s the way you put things, the phrasing, the word choices, the style –- the everything.”
Writers are so often told to write what they love most. A story they’re truly invested in will result in a story that’s better written. I think the same goes with voice. Tell the story you want to tell, in the way you want to tell it–in the way that is unique to yourself, your views, your perspective. It will become a story that’s unique, that different, and a story that readers will remember.
Amen, brother Ben! Or whatever your name is. :) Sing it! Thanks for stopping to read and comment.
Excellent, excellent post. Thank you! You do have a way with words, my friend.
Hey, Densie! Always good to see you. I try to twist a phrase here and there. Thanks for swinging by.
Hey Mike, really fun stuff. And yet a solid explanation. Wish you’d written it for me back in your SD days. (Where’ve you been all my writerly life?)
Here’s a tricksy issue for you. It probably wouldn’t surprise anyone in WU-land, but one of the most consistent notes I get is regarding the density of my prose. I’ve always leaned to verbosity (particularly when in Full V), but I think it’s a bit more complicated than just cutting and culling my fiction. The critique has become like this fear-pebble I swallowed, long ago. I knew it was in there, but it seemed like the only way to be me on the page was to pretend it wasn’t there. And as I’ve continued to receive this note, from people I really respect, it’s grown into a rock. Heavy sucker, too.
It’s not that I’m unable to respond to critique. I have. I do. But on this one, I honestly fear that if I allow it into the writing room, it’ll affect (or infect) my voice. I suppose the trick is going to be to boil down that density all while keeping the essential essence of my voice. And I’m going to have to boil away that fear-rock while I’m at it. (Might be painful to pass it, too.)
It sort of feels like the last hurdle for me. So wish me luck, and thanks for reminding me not to go lopping off my essence when I go after my big ole’ Jen Grey-like density issue.
The nail on the head, V. Just yesterday, I heard my protag, the blood spilled on the page from my slit veins, described as “unlikeable” and those sentence fragments (her/my signature voice tic) as “tiresome.”
Like you, I’m pushing mightily against the fear-pebble, balancing precariously between Letting the Freak Flag Fly (F to the third) and the snarky suspicion those critiques are right. Damned right.
Thank you thank you Mike, a compelling read for any day, but most especially the morning of the Critque-Hangover.
Great post! As a former AP Language teacher, I like to find style descriptors, and I might call Mike’s vigorous and breezy. Also, as it happens, I am reading a book called The Sound on the Page by Ben Yagoda–maybe I saw it recommended here; I can’t recall. Oddly, I had never considered whether I have a prose style before.
In response to Vaughn and Gail and the fear-rock: I have one too. Mine is that I think it’s sad to let words, idioms, and syntactical structures die (for that matter, it’s even sadder to let the books they’re in die), so I sometimes use 19th-century forms that I know will be confusing or sound fussy to modern readers. I’m always trying to figure out how “accessible” to make my prose (i.e., simple).
SK,
Vigorous and breezy…I like that! :D
And I’m of a like mind…I love old words and idioms. I love writing in dialect when appropriate. Every now and then I’ll tweet a “dying” word — a word I haven’t seen in a while but don’t want to whither away — just to get it out there again, in everybody’s minds. Right now I have a few post-its with older words like flibbertigibbet, hoping to give them to a character who’ll have a use for them. Thanks for the great discussion!
Gail, it truly is a balancing act. How much F to the third and how much rule-following? When in doubt, moderation in everything (especially moderation) but when trying to find a balance, yeah, moderation.
A long time ago I beta read this one girl’s book. It was littered with sentence fragments. A veritable trash dump of them. Normally, I wouldn’t have made it past the first page, but she was a friend of a friend so I forced myself to get to chapter 10. I approached my friend and stated my reservations and concerns. She had pointed out the same concerns to the author and the author refused, stating, “That’s my voice.” I ended up telling her it didn’t appeal to me and left it at that.
The thing about our voices is that people have to understand them. They have to hear what we’re saying and comprehend our meanings. Too many snatches of sentences doesn’t paint a complete picture and we end up merely mumbling to ourselves.
“Huh? What did he say, Velma?”
“He said, ‘We’re numbing ourselves.'”
My motto: when in doubt, leave it out. :) Thanks for the great discussion!
Hey, Vaughn,
Lots of good stuff going on down here in the basement today.
“Here’s a tricksy issue for you. It probably wouldn’t surprise anyone in WU-land, but my one of the most consistent notes I get is regarding the density of my prose. I’ve always leaned to verbosity (particularly when in Full V), but I think it’s a bit more complicated than just cutting and culling my fiction. The critique has become like this fear-pebble I swallowed, long ago. I knew it was in there, but it seemed like the only way to be me on the page was to pretend it wasn’t there. And as I’ve continued to receive this note, from people I really respect, it’s grown into a rock. Heavy sucker, too.”
You’ve touched on a fear that shrouds us all: how much of my voice is too much? Even with this article, which I purposefully wanted to shine with all the brightness of a thousand suns, I kept asking T, “Is it too much? I know I can be too much at times.” For me, finessing is a never-ending task (and I could have given this another spit and polish or two).
Although I’ve only read your essays, never your fiction, I have an idea to what you’re referring in your critiques. Whenever I come to an essay you’ve written, I immediately put my thinking cap on, for I know it’s going to be a heady read. Sometimes I even pull out the dictionary. ;) And that’s not a bad thing at all. You’re deep. You explain meticulously — and beautifully, don’t forget that.
But there are times when a reader can get bogged down in all that. Period pieces are tricky because the language is different. I look at it as “dialect” or “slang.” I look at ten-dollar words the same. I use them sparingly. A little really does go a long way, and our readers can get a pretty accurate vision with more common words, even in period pieces. Same with Sci-fi. Just because you’re making up a lot of words that start with “x” and “z” doesn’t mean it’s going to fly.
I mentioned to Natalie about John Vorhaus’s, “How to Write Good” and how one sentence in that book really set me free. It was “Let whimsy rule the page.” It didn’t set me free because I normally write with a humorous slant, but because I struggled with that same fear-pebble-rock-boulder-mountain.
My writing was stilted…wooden. I was trying too hard to write instead of just writing and it showed. My stories looked and read like writing, not like living, and then, with the freedom of whimsy, I was able to let go. I kept it simple. I just got the story out, then went back and prettied it up. Took out the whimsy if I didn’t want it there.
I still keep things simple on that first go-round. That’s not to say elementary, though…far from it. Simple. Then I go in and complicate things. Add more tension, deeper character development, better wording, phrasing, etc., but still remembering that less is more. A few polysyllabic words go a long way, like semi-colons; they tend to stand out.
I know, because I know how conscientious you are, you will overcome that fear-rock. Just let.it.go. Simple as that. ;)
All best, bro! I have faith!
Mike–
Your prose isn’t dense, nor are you verbose. Anyone who says otherwise just isn’t up to appreciating Full Mike’s wit. As for voice, oy vay, I don’t know from voice. But I know what I like, and that would be this post!
Thanks, Barry! I appreciate the support!
Mike, imagining you in that charged atmosphere of caffeinated balderdashians and sermonizing vaginas, I had to take a sponge bath. I’m a slow reader, one of the reasons being that I’ll often read certain paragraphs over again, several times—how did they DO that? Joan Didion is not Cormac McCarthy is not Pico Iyer is not Rainer Maria Rilke. They gesture at a cactus, and you are pricked; they remove words, and their voices are louder—their very punctuation is voice. Tricky stuff.
I was on the campus paper for years as an undergrad, and I took so many exhausting pains to lard my writing with ten-dollar words that the paper’s editor titled one of my articles “A Lot of Big Words About Housing.” It took me a long time to realize that syllable count wasn’t voice.
I’m struggling with a female character who is a closet drinker, with family and control issues. I feel her greyness, the constraints she’s created to get from morning to night and morning again, but I don’t quite have her voice yet, because it’s some diverted river of my own, and I need to move back to the source without tripping over myself. But hey, we’re writers, right? The struggle is just the price of admission, and when you finally enter the circus tent, you have to manage all the animals.
And now that I’ve mixed a lot of metaphors with a blowtorch, let me thank you for a funny, thoughtful piece, you miserable man, because you’ve reminded me that this finding your voice stuff is a lifelong hunt. Damn thing keeps getting itself lost all over again.
Tom,
Busy day yesterday — both online and off — and I petered out before making it to your comment…sorry if you checked back and found no reply.
Ha! “A Lot of Big Words about Housing.” At least your editor had a pretty good sense of humor.
I’m a slow reader for the same reason. I relish a good phrase, wallowing in the words like Demi Moore in a bed of money — I’m a word whore. And yeah, all the while wondering how they captured that moment so accurately. That’s why I do that exercise of copying chapters…it gets me into their skin, into their thought processes somehow.
Our voices (yours and mine) have been compared to each other’s (favorably, might I add), which I consider high praise. I love your voice. Yes, the search for it is a lifelong hunt, and just when I think I’ve sculpted it out of the rock, I realize it’s only the bust and I can’t separate it. I have to keep chipping away to reveal the rest of the statue, and once that’s revealed, I come to find out it’s merely one piece of a thousand piece set. Damn! Back to chipping.
Good luck with your closet drinking control freak! Knowing you, she’ll be jumping off the page in no time. And then you’ll have some strange, drunk woman living in your closet.
This was entertaining, especially since I played Balderdash a couple times last week. Thanks!
Isn’t it the greatest game? I’ll have to buy one and take it to the next UnCon — have a Balderdash night. Thanks for reading!
I could hear you, reading this, and see you that night at WU when you read your story aloud to us. Brought a grin to my face. You really made quite a (good) impression on me.
I’m writing lots of poetry these days. It’s where my voice soars. I don’t know how to define it, necessarily. Some poems are querulous, others more soft and loving of the world around me.
Open-hearted, I suppose. That’s what I’ve been told before. Truth is important to me. Embracing it all- the good stuff, the shitty stuff. The days when I’m closed off, those are the times when the writing is petulant and I know I’m not there on the page. I know because I spent years trying to write novels this way.
Perhaps the poetry is a way back to myself, and perhaps a way back to writing another novel. Perhaps not. Right now, I’m dancing with the words. Be they as sleek, graceful, and sinuous as Patrick Swayzie. (Sorry, tangent here.)
Loved this post. So glad you showed up in my inbox today.
Tonia,
You indeed have the heart of a poet — I recognized that at the UnCon. Poetry is the music of the writer. Be open to the petulant times. They happen. Sometimes we have to let the spoiled brat run around until they tire themselves out and fall asleep just to quiet our minds again.
You know who you (your voice) remind(s) me of? Sister Mary Robert from Sister Act. Remember when Whoopi first takes charge of the choir and sees Sister Mary Robert singing, but can’t hear her? She’s meek and quiet, but Whoopi knows that, with a little support in her diaphragm, she’ll raise the roof. So Whoopi pushes her stomach and Lo! Mary Robert rattles the rafters.
Let us be your diaphragm. We hear you quietly singing a beautiful song, now for the support to really sing out loud and strong. You have it. Just believe.
Hugs!
Terrific post and I am particularly glad you pointed out that character voice and author voice are different. In my first drafts they often get mixed and I will be reading something Sarah said and realize she said it just like Maryann. Establishing unique character voices while maintaining author voice is a challenge, but I find it gets easier with practice.
I’m also discovering that my author voice is different for different books. All the mysteries have a certain style, while the latest book I’m working on, a novel of real life – is very different. That has been a challenge, but a fun one.
Maryann,
Thanks for coming by!
One of my hobbies is acting. I’ve been doing it ever since I caught the acting bug in a fifth-grade production of American History (I played Abe Lincoln and a couple of other roles). I’m also, by nature, a people-watcher. I spy people across the park, walking down the sidewalk, doing whatever, and create scenarios for them. I make up dialogue they’re having with the person they’re with. Or, when I’m close enough, I listen in on the conversations. It’s fun.
When writing, I combine the people-watching with the acting experience and slip into the skin of my characters. Since it’s me “playing the role” (writing the scene), I’m there, but if I’m playing it convincingly enough (through accent change, differing body language, demeanor, make-up, maybe even a wig or fake moustache), you don’t notice me. You lose me in the character. But, I’m still there.
To translate this into writing, let’s say another male writer and I are writing dialogue for a teenage girl. We have to get the same point across and we’re doing an excellent job, might I add. ;) We sound just like girls. But while the other writer may choose “Oh, my God!” to express surprise, I may choose “Goodness gracious!” Both characters are feeling the same emotion and expressing themselves as teenage girls, but we (the authors) have let our authorial voices decide — through word choice (diction) — how that expression is stated. So I never truly “lose” me, but it doesn’t mean I have to stand out.
Yes, I’ve also found that writing for different stories calls for varying degrees of authorial voice. I’m much more subdued in my fiction. Thanks again for the discussion!
“I’m much more subdued in my fiction.” Such an excellent example of Voice…you’d be hard pressed to recognize the me-you-see (blogging, email or live) with the dark, dark voices that emerge (at least so far, I’ve only been writing a few years) on the page from my fictional mouths.
Maybe that’s part of the development of a writer? Finding a way to use all our resources? Even…humor? For now, trying to force it just falls flat, and I hit delete delete delete!
Exactly, Gail…put all of your resources and experiences to work while learning new ones, too. The voice is ever evolving, just like the author.
All my deepest darkest goes to the page, too. The terrible awful. We all go a little mad sometimes. :)
Michael michlein
To Writer Unboxed Today at 11:23 AM
Dear Mike & Others,
I have been looking for my voice. Your essay really helped. Good grief! I have been spewing it out and sharing it with others all along. Having been Jesuit educated as an English Major in the early sixties, I thought I was supposed to write like the guys I admired – classical and not-so-classical. I still cannot get Catcher In the Rye out of my small, grey cells. Hemingway’s war and overseas experiences drove my curiosity. I wanted to write like him. I wanted write like Fitzgerald and meet The Great Gatsby. I went there. I was in the Navy during Vietnam and lived in Europe for six years after that. You know what? I got my experiences and they were different from Hemingway’s. I liked them better because I actually experienced them. Hemingway & Fitzgerald motivated me. But my time was different, my experiences different, and I was stymied because I could not describe it all in their voices. I get it now. They’d be reading my stuff and longing for my voice had I been born and written before they had. Thank you, WU and Mike. I’d stay and type longer but I need to get back to my yellow pad, notebook, and Scrivener. It’s my turn in my unfettered voice now! I get it.
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Michael,
I hope you returned to Scrivener unfettered!
Salinger, Hemingway, Fitzgerald…you really hit on all my favorites. I wanted to write like Scott so badly, but I’m just not refined enough. He’s too elegant and eloquent for me. But I certainly refer to him when I need that in a character!
Anne Lamott says, “The truth of your experience can only come through in your own voice.” It makes sense that your experiences were fettered when trying to write like another.
To unfetteredness!
This is such a personal admission, that at one time I couldn’t have stated it publicly. I had to release my fear and allow my voice to come out of the closet where I’d stuffed it for my own protection. When I finally came to grips with the fact that it was more important to be myself then to give a shit about what others thought of me, I opened up the door and let my essence flow full force. Faith in your own soul is way more powerful then kowtowing in fear to any status quo. To filch a line from Keats and paraphrase it… Truth is a beautiful thing…
Bee — so good to see you!
When we quit giving a shit about what others think of us, the world is our oyster. I think it was Mark Twain who said, “It’s none of my business what people think of me.” Then we come to find out they weren’t thinking about us at all. Ha!
Here’s to faith in your soul. Hugs.
I love to read what you write. I’ll follow you anywhere. LOL
One thing I’ve noticed is that what I’m reading can affect my writer’s voice when I’m drafting. I have to be careful. Sometimes I’ll go back and re-read books by the same author just to keep it consistent.
I like that you copied passages of well-known works to get the feel for pacing and such. Neat idea.
Mel!
So good to see you here!
You know, what I’m reading affects my writing, too, so when writing, I make sure I only read Pulitzer prize winners. ;)
Copying passages is very rewarding. You know what it really helps me with? Tense issues. Sometimes, when I’m copying them and get going full-speed, I almost write it differently — erroneously — by changing the tense. Then I see what they’ve done and why it’s correct. It’s a great teaching method.
I always love seeing you. Good luck with Precious Atonement! So happy for you!
Dear Mike. Can you say in one sentence—so I can tell my writers’ feedback group—what is voice? Pleeease…lol
Anne,
Thanks for coming by. I wanted to show these things in action rather than state them. I’ve always taught by example more than lectures. I relate my ideas in metaphors and similes, but here’s a more technical explanation:
Voice is determined through diction (the writer’s word choices), unity (everything is relevant to the focus of the piece), coherence (organization and logic of the piece), audience (who are you writing for? Who will be reading this?), tone (the “attitude” of the subject matter), and syntax (how the author arranges his thoughts/words) — easily remembered with the acronym, DUCATS.
Hope that helps!
Hey Mike! Great article here. It was really funny. I liked how you wove the humor into the advice, and it would catch me by surprise, which made it more funny. I especially love the yearbook part.
Hmm I feel like I find my voice by listening to music. Also doodling random things that come to my head and then writing. Also, nature walks help me to think in this very non-judgmental, non-self-doubting way, and then I can return to the writing computer and not write stuff that sounds like everyone else’s stuff, but stuff that lives and breathes with me-ness.
Interesting, because I hadn’t really thought of it in such a specific attempt to pin it down, until now. This is going to help me with the second draft of my book! Thanks, Mike!
Also, I love the baby analogy, it totally works. =)
CS,
Your second paragraph — some really good stuff there. Love it all and do it myself for the same reasons.
And the yearbook anecdote — true story! Ha!
Thanks for reading and commenting. Good luck with your second draft!
Mike, I am so happy this popped up in my FB Feed! As a professional blogger for others, I must train my words to behave in the proper form that the business blog dictates. Formal and businessy-know-it-all, pretty much. It is not fun and writing for my own blog in “full Susie” is such a relief that I use it as my reward for completing my client work.
I notice that my real truth often emerges even more in my replies to my comments, sometimes even MORE honest than the blog post which had to be cut etc. So I really loved reading this entire comment and reply string so much. It reveals more and more of you and that was fun!
Susie,
Thanks for making it over! So good to see you.
Yeah, since I was writing this for WU, at first I was going to write in technospeak. Facts, figures, definitions, etc…it was boring, so I decided Full Mike was the way to go. I cut tons of stuff but hoped I’d have the opportunity to discuss them in the comments. I always look at the comments as a continuation of the article — the after-article where the fun people hang out. Like an after-party when the bars close.
Ann Lamott also says (I quoted her somewhere above): “The core, ethical concepts which you most passionately believe are the language in which you are writing.” I guess I believe — in the grand scheme of things — that all work and no play makes Mike a dull boy, therefore, I integrate a lot of playtime in my work! Never a dull moment. :D
Thanks again for coming by and commenting.
Find that voice, flaunt it, revel in it. But above all play with it! Great post, Mike.
Lee,
Thanks for following me over. Yeah, I had a lot of fun playing with my voice in this post. I felt like a Crazy Eddie’s Used Cars commercial! Good to see you. :)
So late in joining the throng, Mike, but wanted to say thanks for an awesome post!
Dee Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT
I’ve told others before and I’ll tell you and Jan (below) the same…with me, it’s never too late. The party goes on for at least a week after the event! Thanks for your kind words, Denise, and it’s so good to see you!
Coming late, as usual these days, but your voice made me feel like joining the party. It’s always a party with Mike Swift in da house.
If you don’t mind me asking, which writers have been named as your comps? One aspect of your voice, which I don’t see in a lot of humorous writing, is a real vulnerability. (Hmmm. Now you’ve got me thinking of Jenny Lawson as a peer.)
I’d love to know my comps– On second thought, maybe not. Could end up with a Sisyphus-sized fear-pebble of my own.
Re finding voice: I think I worked much of this out in my practice because I was as weird there as I am online. But people depended upon me for an authentic, *timely* response. I learned I had to be myself and that my practice would self-select until I was serving those who (mostly) appreciated my beliefs, attitude, and presentation.
If tardiness started a club, I’d be its founding member. No sweat. I’m always up for a good time, and time spent with you is always nice. :)
Let’s see…my comps: Augusten Burroughs, whom I adore. I love his books, his voice, his humor, so being compared to him made my day. Plus, there is a certain vulnerability to his work, maybe the same thing you picked up on with me. Bill Bryson, who wrote The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid. I bought his book but loaned it to my dad before I read it, and of course, we can’t find it now. So I have no idea what he’s like, personally. Piers Anthony, whom I’ve yet to read. Don’t know a thing about him except through Google. Virginia Woolf, specifically, Mrs. Dalloway. I think that’s derived from the way I ramble on…express my thoughts as they happen…interrupt myself and the dialogue in my work. And Jane Austen, as mentioned. I still don’t see that.
You remind me so much of my cousin, who was also a doctor but gave it up for the simpler life. Your voice is deliberate, methodical, yet there’s a zaniness to you — a whimsical nature — that gives it a lovely lilt. As I said, you remind me of her…love her…you even have the same hair color. She recently wrote a book (you can get it on Amazon): Doctor’s Orders: One Physician’s Journey Back to Self. I just received my copy the other day.
You know, I’ve always been self-aware, but when I approached writing, I was trying so hard to write, I lost my voice in the process. I guess I was trying to sound more profound than I am, I dunno, I can’t put my finger on it, but if I could I’d have to wash it. With the epiphany of “Mike, this is how you’ve always been, quit fighting it and translate it to the page,” everything became so much easier. Well, I hate to say easier…more readily.
Thanks for joining the party. It’s never really a party until you get here, anyway.