Finding My Voice—So Easy. So Hard.
By Vaughn Roycroft | August 13, 2018 |
I’m currently rereading an old favorite: Last of the Amazons, by Steven Pressfield. I’ve always known the book is seminal to my own work, but oddly I haven’t revisited it in many years. I’m starting to feel like the lengthy interim has been serendipitous. Experiencing the book again after all of these years is revealing much about my own evolution as a writer.
Even though I’ve always been aware of its influence, I hadn’t really recognized its prominence. I was already a fan of Pressfield’s historical fiction when it released, and bought it shortly after its publication in 2002. I just dug out some notes from my earliest research forays prior to my first attempt at storytelling (even before admitting to myself that I was preparing to write).
The notes are from the winter of ’03-’04. The subject? Amazons. Influential indeed.
Those of you who know my work features warrior women might have already surmised that rereading the book reveals one of the sources of my interest in them, as well as some of the enduring characteristics of the warrior woman archetype. And you’d be correct. But those things aren’t surprising to me. What is surprising is how influenced my early composing attempts were by Pressfield’s language and style.
In other words, I was influenced by his voice.
Initiation Through Imitation
I’m sure I’m not the only writer who’s discovered in hindsight that they had been imitating a literary hero, or heroes, in their early work. Rereading Last of the Amazons has reminded me how captivated and inspired I was by the fictive spell Pressfield’s voice casts. The style is definitely archaic, but without being florid, elusive, or overly metaphoric.
The story is told from the first-person perspective of the youngest daughter of an Athenian nobleman whose governess is an Amazon named Selene. Selene has surrendered herself to the father in war. I still love the introduction, in which the girl describes Selene and her background and circumstance in their household. Here’s a taste (or should I say a whiff?):
Selene smelled. Mother would not permit her into the formal rooms of the house, as the odour she exhaled, so Mother claimed, clung to every garment, to her hair, and even the very walls themselves. ‘Can you not smell it, children? Good God, what a stink!’ Mother chased out our governess, often with a broom, to peals of our laughter. For Selene’s part, she abhorred the house and entered it only under compulsion, as civilized folk will a tomb.
It was different than the typical archaic writing I was used to (which was usually vaguely Elizabethan, whether or not the story took place in England). I never found myself asking if this was how an ancient Greek girl from a noble family would sound. I just accepted it. I think I was as captivated and intrigued by that as I was by the elements of backstory and plot.
The voice didn’t work for everyone, of course. I checked the book’s Goodreads reviews, and it seems the style of the prose is among its most frequently cited complaints. But whether or not readers believed Pressfield succeeded in sounding like an ancient Greek girl, he’d succeeded in awakening me to the possibilities of writing from the perspectives of ancient Goths and Romans.
Looking back at those early drafts, written with Pressfield’s voice echoing in my mind, makes me cringe. The prose is so stiff, so formal. Not to mention my wordiness (something with which I still struggle—have you noticed?). But rereading Amazons has me wondering what my early attempts might have been like without my unconscious imitation. Even more cringe-worthy, I’m guessing.
More importantly, I wonder if I would’ve dared to attempt what I did at all.
My Evolving Understanding of Voice
“Who you are is what you write.”—Steven Pressfield
Earlier I mention the elements of language and style in regard to authorial voice. And for the longest time, I didn’t really understand voice beyond those basics. I’ve since come to a broader understanding, but I don’t think my take is a universal one. And I’m not sure it’s done evolving.
I’ve come to see that the Pressfield quote above is true. Who I am is what I write. Pressfield also says that voice is born of the project. If that’s so, and you combine the two statements, then each of our writing endeavors is necessarily “of ourselves.” Therefore, the voice born of each project is found not just by perceiving ourselves within it, but through a complete willingness to reveal ourselves there.
I’ve come to see that there has to be an aspect of surrender. Anything short of submission involves imposition. Without surrendering to it, I’ll find that I’m imposing what I think my voice ought to sound like. Which means I’m trying to craft a voice to please others.
I don’t know about you, but if I’m consciously trying to please others, I’m not being myself. That’s no way to find your true voice.
Finding My Voice…By Ceasing to Look For It?
I recently received one of my favorite and most memorable compliments. It came from a critique partner—a fellow fantasy writer who has read my work over a long period of time, including each of my finished manuscripts (more than one version of some). She said four simple words: “You’ve found your voice.”
I swear—even though my initial reaction in hearing those words from someone who’s read me for so long was, “Only just now?”—I very quickly accepted that it was true, and recognized it as very special praise.
Of course I still routinely question whether or not I’m using my true voice (more on that later). But assuming that I’ve found it (at least once, however ephemerally), how did I do it? The short answer: I stopped trying to find it. It’s that easy…
And that hard.
So hard it can sometimes seem impossible to maintain. The whole thing is tied up with what I allude to above—the trap of caring too much what others will think of what I write. Not that I can advise anyone to simply stop caring. I’m not sure that’s possible. It wouldn’t have been for me. What I’m about to describe is the route I accidentally took, and it’s sort of contrary to not caring.
I’m saying you have to care so much that you’ll spend years and years striving to please readers.
You have to care so much that you’ll almost trip over yourself to change things to make your stories more pleasing, only to find that many of those changes have done the opposite.
You have to care so much you come to realize that critique can actually resonate, that every bit of it can be helpful—including the elements you finally come to realize you need not react to (rather than taking it all personally, and clinging to that which doesn’t apply).
You have to care so much that you’re willing not just to fail, but fail often enough that the failure reveals just how subjective this really is, and accept that most readers either won’t choose your stuff or, even if they do, just won’t get it.
You have to care until you earn being care-free.
For me, that’s when it happened. Only when I cared till I was beyond caring could I honest-to-God write just to please myself. That’s when I recognized and accepted that the stories I choose are the truest part of me. Only then could I willingly reveal my true self within them.
Maybe it can work for you, too. If you’re willing to surrender to the process, you just may come to realize you’ve stopped caring. And you’ll willingly reveal you. And after that, you may notice that you’ve stopped trying to find your voice.
And then, of course, you’ll realize that you’ve found it. See? Easy. And hard.
Continuing to Find My Voice
But, of course, when it comes to the pursuit of art, nothing’s ever over-and-done. It seems that my newly-won authorial voice doesn’t have an on/off switch I can flip. For me, the trick is to find it again and again. I can’t just surrender to the process once. My Ego is so damn resilient, I find I have to surrender over and over—each writing day, in fact. Talk about the need for patience and persistence!
The ongoing quest is about staying true to that authentic voice I fleetingly find. And recognizing it, even when my sneaky Ego starts mimicking it so that I can hide again. Some days it can leave me feeling raw and exhausted.
But the effort produces deep satisfaction, and even joy, too. And the lasting reward is significant—even beyond the assurance that the work done in my true voice is my best. In the quest to surrender to the process, to reveal myself in order to find and to continue to recognize my authorial voice, I not only find and recognize who I am as a writer, but who I am as a human being.
Your turn. Did you start by imitating anyone? Who? Do you believe you can care until you’re care-free? Have you found your voice? How do you know? Does staying true to it require ongoing effort?
[Image is: Microphone at MOMA, by John Wolfe @Flickr]
Vaughn Roycroft’s (he/him) teacher gave him a copy of The Hobbit in the 6th grade, sparking a lifelong passion for reading and history. After college, life intervened, and Vaughn spent twenty years building a successful business. During those years, he and his wife built a getaway cottage near their favorite shoreline, in a fashion that would make the elves of Rivendell proud. After many milestone achievements, and with the mantra ‘life’s too short,’ they left their hectic lives in the business world, moved to their little cottage, and Vaughn finally returned to writing. Now he spends his days striving to finish his epic fantasy series.
Precisely. When I write like I imagine I ought to write, I make mud. No light shines through it.
But when my characters speak (for “voice” to me really means characters’ manner of narration) then the story feels real.
Some influences on me have been Walter Tevis, George RR Martin, Irwin Shaw, Anton Myrer. Third person writers.
Having read your post today, Vaughn, I shall have to reread them. I suspect I am missing something about the subtle line between authorial versus POV narration. Less me, more them—characters, I mean.
Or—? Anyway, terrific post on a meat and potatoes topic fundamental to what we do every day. Thanks.
Hey Benjamin – Excellent addition to the conversation: immersion in character(s). It’s funny, but if I – even for a second – lose it, I start imposing again. I insert things “I” want added, not what the character would see, say, feel, experience.
Glad I inspired the rereads. I’m finding this one really enlightening. I suspect I’d be as enlightened by reading Martin, whose shadow looms large on my early days of writing.
Let us know what you find. Thanks for weighing in.
David instead of responding with statements that might agree with your process and what you experienced, I would have questions. Many. Voice can be ethereal like something one pursues and might catch on page ten and lose in Chapter five. I recently had 35 pages if my WIP evaluated in a contest. One reader was exceedingly complimentary about my pages and dug down to sentences. The other two readers could not have cared about my characters, style, plot….very disconcerting. So where was my voice for those two readers? A foreign language? I’ll keep writing and try to capture the ghost of my voice and give it flesh.
Hoo-boy, do I feel for you, Beth. What you’re describing is *exactly* what I’ve struggled with these past few years. And, either fortunately or unfortunately, what I’ve finally decided is that only I can be the judge of what makes muster – whether or not I’m speaking from my true voice.
It’s evident that you care, and that you’ve earned being care-free. Thanks, and wishing you the best in your pursuit of the ghost!
For me, finding my voice was a bit, I imagine, like dying. All my past came back to haunt me, most especially my childhood. As a child my voice was there without effort. I didn’t even know it was called “voice” until I lost it along the way of too many stories read, too many teachers advice, too much praise for a certain aspect of my voice, which I then worked to hone, to the disregard of other aspects of my truth, or voice as we call it.
Recently, I have learned to let go, to brush away and push against all the debris of that well intentioned advice, and just be. It’s amazing how the free fall flows when untethered by the restrictions of other expectation than my own.
I’m happy for you, V, and I think I understand. Blessed be your journey.
Hey B – Lots of wisdom to unpack here. I agree, we *naturally* have a voice, and it gets lost in all of our societal “aiming to please and obey.” I wonder though – Do we need to go through it to get back again? Do we have to lose ourselves in order to find the true us?
Whether or not that’s the case, I am absolutely sure you’re on the right path. The real you has been shining through in your words for many years. As you say, it’s just a matter of honing to stay true to your voice.
Thanks for walking alongside on this journey, and for being so generous in lending a shoulder when needed, my friend.
Yes, all of this. :)
I am also at a point of coming back to me. I’ve been thinking about it and working on it for the past year or so. When working toward getting an agent and getting published, there is so much reacting to the advice of others (to the point you’re willing to change almost anything just to move the project forward). You lose yourself a bit on the way.
It’s gotten to the point that I think it is stymieing me as I try to start drafting something new. That first draft has to be all me, without worrying about or anticipating critique. And as I try to get my footing as I start my fifth manuscript (or even decide which of half a dozen ideas to pursue) I am having to work to allow just me to tell the story.
And this is bigger than just writing to me–it’s like I am trying to recover not just my voice but me as a unique, separate entity in a world that pretends to value difference even as it demands conformity to this or that viewpoint or cause.
To help me in this process, I’ve abandoned my last journal–filled as it was with two years of angst as I got an agent and went on submission and JUST WANTED PEOPLE TO LIKE ME!!!–and I’ve started a new one aimed at focusing in on who I am apart from everything and everyone else. After that, I started writing little memoir-ish things that I’ve turned into a short weekly podcast called Your Face Is Crooked, which amounts to a sort of a neurotic self-examination plus humor. Along with that, I’ve just started a short story which, I now realize, has the same goal–who is this character alone, by herself, stripped of associations with and the opinions of others?
There once was a time when I was more me. And I’m looking everywhere for the path that will lead me back there.
Hi Erin – Sounds like we’re in a very similar circumstance. You’re a bit ahead of me, so it’s always wonderful to hear from you on these things.
Though nothing of mine has sold yet, I’ve been through the landing of the agent and a boatload or two of editors’ rejections. And I just wanted… Scrap that. I NEEDED to unplug from all of that in order to proceed. I realized it when I was about halfway through the manuscript I worked on while book one was still out on submission. It was during all of this that I came to the realizations I describe in the post.
I now find myself longing not just to finish the last third of my story (the two manuscripts mentioned above are two thirds of a trilogy), but to return to a place where story was all. Well, if not *all*, a big solid chunk of it. I so clearly recall a time when the hours crafting this story was the highlight of my weeks.
I’ve recently set aside social media and most television (the stuff I would’ve watched alone, especially news – I only read the newspapers, and only watch TV for entertainment on the occasional evening with my sweetie). It’s been a big plus, and my work is going well. I have seen bursts of the passion I recall, but I’m still not “back there.” I wonder if I can ever totally get back there. And I wonder if it’s partly because I know too much. Or maybe it never really existed (you know how nostalgia can cloud memory?). But I’m still going to keep giving it a go. Mainly because even the partial success of my attempt is still supplying productivity. I’m about 20K into the WIP.
Thanks for sharing this. And for climbing ahead, and lighting the way. Wishing you the best in your pursuit of you.
Vaughn, I can’t even begin to list all the voices I’ve tried on during this very long journey. I was like a kid with a dress-up box. But it was an important part of the process for me because it got me in the game. In art school, we had an assignment to go to the Philadelphia Museum and choose a painting by a Master to copy. I didn’t get the significance immediately, but at some point I realized that by copying the decisions-making process of a brilliant artist, my brain was getting re-wired. Your description of the voice-finding process is so spot-on, especially when you talk about the weight of caring what others think. When that weight gets too heavy, it breaks you open. “You have to care until you earn being care-free”. Yes, yes, and yes!! You also make the point that while ‘voice’ is elusive and can change from project to project, the mindset one must have in order to allow it to come through remains a constant. Surrender is hard. This post is awesome. Thank you.
Hey Susan – Such an astute addition to the conversation. Yes, we need to “try on” other voices in order to find our own. You reminded me of something I saw while researching this post. I came across a bit Pressfield confessed to, regarding his early journey. He used to retype (on an actual typewriter) pages he loved from authors he admired. Just to get the feel of their cadence.
I love the concept of re-wiring in order to find ourselves. Thanks for the excellent additions (as usual)!
“I’ve come to see that there has to be an aspect of surrender. Anything short of submission involves imposition. Without surrendering to it, I’ll find that I’m imposing what I think my voice ought to sound like.”
Precisely! But this caring until you are carefree business can be challenging, though deeply rewarding. It takes years, or at least it did for me. And still that anxious Ego voice wants to creep in, over and over. And still I tend to hold my writing up against some idealized, stripped down modern style that is more “accessible” for readers. The trouble is that I can’t write that way, not honestly at any rate. I sometimes feel that we are no longer supposed to use so many of the beautiful words and syntaxes of our language.
Thanks, Vaughn, for a post that I shall (word we don’t use anymore) certainly reread.
Hey S.K. – Great enhancement to the conversation! Yes, we’re so often comparing ourselves to others. And that’s really a way to rob the objective from the get-go, isn’t it? I know *exactly* what you mean, about wishing to be “stripped down and accessible.”
I have tried to sound edgier. Or more raw. But trying to sound any certain way defeats the purpose. Such a paradox! But one we must accept and strive beyond. Each and every writing day. Thanks for your insight and kind praise.
Vaughn, I wanted to be Mark Twain so much that I smoked both cigars and pipes and grew a mustache and tried an affected drawl all before I was twenty. I probably would have spray-painted my hair white too, but didn’t think of it. Lucky for me now, that whitening is happening anyway.
I do think we try on a bunch of different styles of artists we admire, even when the fit makes us walk funny. There’s even a backlash of sorts for me: my urge for waggish words has me admiring writers with more economy, like Marilynne Robinson and Kent Haruf.
I’m more comfortable now with the voice that’s come after many throat-clearings, though as you suggest, applying it unconsciously (and consistently) is a bit like tricking your mind into being itself, rather than a host of social anxieties and constraints.
Thanks for the nudge. Stop by anytime for a cigar.
Knowing me, by the time I get my cigar lit and demonstrate my funny walk, readers would think I’m trying to channel Groucho. Not all bad if I happen to say the secret word, I suppose.
I’m with you in the admiration of economy. Even Pressfield, as stern as stiff as he sometimes comes off, manages a lean muscularity that I admire and can’t seem to even imitate. As S.K. says above, it’s just not me.
It sort of is like a Jedi mind trick, isn’t it? (“These aren’t the words you’re looking for. You can go about your business. Move along.”) True to ourselves we must be, eh?
Thanks for weighing in – when it comes to voice, you’re clearly no featherweight, Tom. Funny walks aside, I can’t wait for an opportunity to share that cigar. Cheers!
“If you’re willing to surrender to the process you just may come to realize you’ve stopped caring and you’ll willingly reveal you. And after that, you may notice that you’ve stopped trying to find your voice.” Wise words, my friend. Voice in fiction is one of the hardest things bro learn and to find. It took me several failed novels and short stories before I found even a semblance of my own voice. And I’m still not there, but I’m gettIng closer. It’s a cliche, but you really do have to trust the process. Thanks for another insightful essay, Vaughn.
Hey Chris – I’m pretty sure we’re ahead of the game just by knowing it’s not over – that the pursuit is perpetual. In the absence of visiting with you in person, it’s great hearing from you here, my friend. Thanks for sharing your voice.
Nice, Vaughn, nice, and three cheers. Non-writers may understand this when presented with the concept of self-consciousness. The self is (or gets in) in the way. In the beginning our wish to please rouses self-consciousness, which is prolly based on hoping to connect with others. Not a bad thing.
So we go there until it rots of its own accord. The exhaustion–if you will–of trying to be conscious of self reveals consciousness, the pure thing, which is the writing art of writer, pen/keyboard, character and heart all wanting to connect.
Hey Tom – I just had the most self-conscious conversation with an acquaintance. It reminded me of my agonizingly self-conscious youth, and demonstrates the truth of your comment.
Thank the writing gods! Something good coming of my increasing and more frequent exhaustion. Here’s to the advantages of our… um, shall we say, inexorable maturity?
Thanks much for your insight. Hope you’re having a nice summer, and that the smoke and fire is keeping its distance.
Good post on what I think is a difficult topic. When I first began to write it was very unself-conscious. I had something to say and said it, simply, without much judgement. Once I started studying how to write, I lost my voice for a while because I was so aware of what I should or shouldn’t be doing. It took a few years to find my voice again but like you said, once I surrendered to the story, that was it. I suspect each story will teach me something new.
It is a difficult topic, isn’t it, Vijaya? Certainly tougher than most of us would’ve guessed, back when – as you say – we were unself-conscous (great word!).
Here’s to knowing that each story has something to teach, and to the humility to learn and use it. Wise outlook. Thanks for sharing it.
When it comes to voice, I surrendered quite early in my career, such as it is, for two reasons:
1. The voices I enjoy are quite diverse, as are the genres, extending from Dickens to Dr. Seuss in the same day. Yet I’ll frequently find myself wishing I could emulate them both. So as I apparently have no external consistency, the best I can do is develop an internal one.
2. The very first writing class I took happened to be on the topic of voice, and it’s teacher? WU’s Barbara O’Neal. (She helped guide me here, actually.) As you know, her educational chops are rivaled only by her authorial ones, so I ceded to her wisdom a long time ago.
But congratulations, V. Sounds like you’ve accomplished a major milestone. I’m very happy for you.
Hey Boss – I suppose I’d put #1 in the “good problems to have” category, though I’m sure you didn’t as it evolved. And as for Barbara’s wisdom, I heartily agree. Her session at the last UnCon remains one of the most memorable and useful craft sessions I’ve ever attended.
Thanks, as always, for shining a light and showing me the way, Jan.
I have never written like anyone else, but can say I’ve been influenced by everything I’ve ever read in the same way that people don’t deliberately learn to speak by watching the national news, but somehow acquire the ‘6 o’clock news’ accent that is the standard for broadcasters. Immersed in reading material, affected by it because that is unavoidable, selecting the parts which resonate – that leads to ‘voice.’
It just clicked when I realized I wanted to tell a story without the contamination of a narrator/author, and learned to be my characters – from the inside. See what they see… Listen to what they think.
My contribution as author is to select what the characters get to tell of individual pieces so that the whole story gets told.
Orson Scott Card’s book on Characters and Viewpoint allowed me to see how it works to do everything, from intensely close and personal to distant and almost cinematic, but from the character’s head.
I spend a significant amount of time switching into each person when writing a scene with a different pov, since there are three in the WIP, and they are quite different.
But mostly, I aim to be invisible.
Yours is a very wise outlook and approach, Alicia. Thanks much for sharing it!
For me, “voice” is also tied to “language”. I am a German native speaker. From childhood to university (studying literature) I read and read endless amounts of German books. During the past 15 years though, living an expat life, I have been reading and speaking a lot of English. Even when I talk about my writing it is mostly in English, but the writing itself is German. Feels weird sometimes. Lately I have tried reading more German books, to immerse myself in the language again. But very often it feels strange and I find that I do not connect to German writers easily now, that I get irritated by their style. There are only a few that truly please me. Writing German still feels natural though.
Being the typical, monolingual American, I can only imagine the dilemma, J. But quite frankly, I think it’s cool. And, since I am working on a story that heavily features the need for bilingual characters, I like imagining the potential issues and repercussions of what you describe.
You have me wondering if this is going to be an advantage to you, when it’s time to share your work with German-speaking readers. Will what you’re doing seem novel (sorry, no pun intended), or perhaps even fresher than what’s typically available to them? Seems possible from my uneducated position.
Thanks for bringing your unique insight and fresh perspective to the conversation!
Not sure if it is an advantage or an disadvantage – probably a bit of both, as usually. At least I am quite sure I am not copying the style of one of my favourite authors, as I read them in English.
The funny thing is: my writing buddy is English speaking too, so in order to show her my stuff, I need to translate it. I have been translating about two chapters already. It is not as tedious as I first thought, and it does help me with the German original: in order to translate, I read my text much more slowly than I would otherwise (still at the end of draft 1, so not in revising mode at all yet), and I notice that sometimes passages are too slow/long etc or that I use a certain word very often. So I do a little editing while translating. And it for sure makes me appreciate the choice to write in German: while I do have no problems reading and writing in English, there is still always this barrier between “native” and “learned”. When I write a sentence in German, I might struggle with the perfect wording, but I am always sure I know exactly what it means, including atmosphere, subtext etc. I feel this language. English I love, but I lack the intuition. I might write a sentence intending a meaning, but a native speaker might read it differently, because I missed a little something. – As for communicating with my buddy: She knows there is no point in judging the wording, style of my translation, so we concentrate on the story, characters etc. At least we do not get sidetracked by details now! But at one point I will need to look for German beta readers.
Really intriguing topic, J. Thanks again for raising it. Seems like one for an essay of its own.
Wishing you the best!