Welcome back to our ongoing writing series! And thank for you patience. I am deep, DEEP in the new novel and the story is finally coming together. I long for this moment with every book and when it comes, I tend to throw myself at the manuscript, inbox and to-do list be damned. But I wanted to come up for air and send this long-promised post because Voice has been on my mind a great deal the last few weeks. For the first time in many months of writing, I can hear my story and it sounds like me. What exactly does that mean? Read below:
I’ll be honest: for years I didn’t understand what people meant when they talked about a writer’s “voice.” I didn’t think I had one. How could I when I didn’t even know what it was? Then a friend of mine told me that she would recognize my voice anywhere, that you could rip the cover off a book, flip to a random page, and let her read a paragraph and she’d know if it was me.
I was, in a word, perplexed.
Twelve years later, I have a better idea of what she meant. But only because I’ve been sitting with my own words for so long and I have figured out what I sound like on the page. The only reason this is important to me now is because it helps me write every piece of work. It helps me know when I’m off—which is, unfortunately, a significant amount of the time.
So I thought it would be fun to do a little exercise that will help you find your own voice. Here’s the only thing I want you to do:
Look over your writing—past, present, or in progress—and identify at least one passage that came easily. You know what I’m talking about. You didn’t struggle with it. The words came without much effort. Maybe you had fun or nodded along as you typed or scribbled. And you’ve remained happy with it ever since. The more passages you can find, the easier this will be.
While you’re looking, I’ll share a handful of mine:
“We begin a bar. We will end here as well, but that is more than you need to know at the moment. For now, a woman sits in a corner booth waiting to give her confession. But her party is late, and without an audience, she looks small and alone, like an invalid in an oversize church pew. It’s not so easy for her, this truth-telling, and she strains against it. A single strand of pearls, brittle and yellowed with age, rests against the flat plane of her chest. She rolls them between her fingers as though counting the beads on a rosary. Stella Crater has avoided this confession for thirty-nine years. The same number of years she has been coming to this bar.” — From The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress
“The decision came to Emilie immediately upon waking this morning. She learned long ago never to rob herself of sleep, no matter the tragedy or trouble she faced. To Emilie, sleep is the solution to every problem. She lets each worry surface in her mind once her head is on the pillow, but she does not try to solve them. Emilie thinks of them as tiny spots of light, like those luminous pinpricks that dance in her peripheral vision when she is dizzy. Each concern is a bright spot in her mind. She studies the problems from every angle, acknowledges their presence, waits for them to go dark or brighten. And then she wills her body to sleep, starting at her toes and working her way up, inch by inch, toward her mind. The stewardess learned this skill in the hard, lonely days after her husband died, when she would lie awake at night weeping and worrying, only to be disgusted with herself in the morning, stumbling around in a state beyond anything that could even be described as exhaustion. Now when she faces a troubling issue she sits with it before falling asleep, then passes it off to her subconscious mind to solve. It is a rare morning that she wakes without an answer. Today that single pinprick of light grew and blazed and came barreling into her mind like a meteor.” — From Flight of Dreams
“It’s a lie, of course. Anna does not forget. Her memory is as sound and solid as a gun safe. And just as impenetrable. But she can’t very well tell this man that she gave him the nickname because she once watched him eat a piece of steak so rare that a puddle of blood collected on his plate. It reminded her of beef tartare. Tartare became Tartar, and that has been his name ever since. Nor does Anna tell him that she has labeled people for as long as she can remember, given them monikers as both a way to remember all these names and faces that have been forced upon her through the decades, and a means of reminding herself of their true nature in case she’s tempted to lower her defenses. And it has worked. The Heiress and the Duck and the Private Investigator are proof of this. Tartar is just one in a long list of bynames. He might be loyal, but she does not want to forget that he is a man with a taste for blood.” — From I Was Anastasia
“The weapons of warfare are different for women. Rarely do we have the luxury of bullets and bombs. Our tools are benign. Silk stockings and red lipstick. Laughter. Cunning. The ability to curse in foreign languages and make eye contact without trembling. But the most effective weapon by far, I believe, is charm.” — from Code Name Hélène
“Blood didn’t scare her. Nor did the inherent sights and smells common to every operating room. It wasn’t until Corregedor, however, that she discovered the only part of her profession that truly upset her were the sounds…Penny knew these sounds would stay with her for the rest of her life. And they weren’t just emanating from her operating table. The surgery was filled with doctors and nurses, medics and patients—most of whom were still awake. They rarely screamed anymore—the boys had figured out that didn’t help anyone—but they did whimper and curse and hiss. Hissing filled the surgery: the lukewarm air moving through the ventilation system, the sterilizer, blowing plumes of boiling steam, desperate prayers streaming through clenched teeth.” — from When We Had Wings
“This, I believe is why so few physicians pursue careers as medical examiners. They prefer to use their skills on the living patients. Yet the dead are calling and it is the living who must answer. And I do sympathize with these men. It took years before I could look at a crime scene photo without flinching. In a sense, the living must deaden themselves to the dead.” — from Barriers to Entry
“I step into my husband’s arm, soaking up his warmth and scent. We are in the twilight years of a long love affair, and it has recently occurred to me that a day will come when one of us buries the other. But, I remind myself, that is the happy ending to a story like ours. It is a vow made and kept. Till death do us part. It is the only acceptable outcome to a long and happy marriage, and I am determined not to fear that day, whenever it arrives. I am equally determined to soak up all the days between.” — from The Frozen River
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