Romance Writers Report, June 1998, Vol. 18, #6
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True ease in writing comes from art, not chance As those move easiest who have learned to dance Tis not enough no harshness gives offense The sound must seem an echo to the sense. Alexander Pope An Essay on Criticism
"... an echo to the sense." When I read those
words, I think of my favorite writers, the ones who make me feel the things
they write, whose stories not only entertain me, but make me understand something
fundamental about both the word and myself. Writers who make me think:
"Yes, she understands, she knows." When I read those
words, I think of the writer's voice. What is voice?
Briefly, voice is the single most important thing a writer can bring to her
work. Voice is what tells the reader who you are, it tells them that what you
say is important. It is personal and individual, the spirit, the intellect
and the vision. It is the genius of the writer and the controlling
consciousness of the book. Sound
complicated? It isn't. If you
want to know what voice is, open an anthology of short stories or novellas by
various authors. Look at the page layout, the way the words arrange
themselves. Look at the white space. Now, read bits
and pieces of each author's work. Anthologies are usually linked by a common
theme; notice that although all the stories reflect that theme, they all
explore it in a different way. They all sound different. This is voice. Voice is what
words sound like in your head, how your sentences fall on the page, the
rhythms you hear. We all hear things differently, just as we all see things
differently. Ask a group of people to look at the same scene, and then ask
each of them to describe it. Each person's description will be unlike
another's. Probably, those
descriptions will bear little resemblance to what you viewed yourself. Your voice is
unique. It is the product of everything you've experienced, everything you've
read and all the ways you think. Where and when you grew up, your
socioeconomic background, your education, your family view, and your
religion, all play a part in determining your voice. So does the language you
speak. Irving Howe, in The Critic's Notebook, says "Any
language persuades its speakers to see the universe in certain ways, to the
exclusion of other ways. It thereby limits the possibilities of choice for
any writer." Voice is like
that too. The choices you make as a writer are never accidental; you make
them based on how you think and how you've been trained. You see the universe
in a certain way "to the exclusion of other ways." Whatever
it is that made you want to write, whatever it is you want to say—that is
your voice. Voice manifests
itself in theme. Each of us has a central theme, something we want to
explore, our own "hot button," if you will. Look at the writers you
know, and see if you can find the central theme that runs through their work.
Kristin Hannah writes about rebirth in some form or another in every one of
her books, Laura Kinsale about redemption. Susan Elizabeth Phillips explores
finding and empowering yourself. These themes come
from your own life, they are the demons that haunt you, your angels. They are your personal vision, and they
give you your voice. How important is
voice? How often have you heard an editor say, "We're looking for new
voices."? Publishers love to tout new "finds" as new
"voices." Reviewers nearly fell over themselves trying to
adequately describe the profound voices of the two newest literary phenoms of
our time: David Guterson (Snow Falling on Cedars), and Charles
Frazier (Cold Mountain). For Pam Houston's Cowboys are my
Weakness, the "Los Angeles Times" said,
"[Her] voice is wholly formed and perfect." Of Donna Tartt (The
Secret History), the "Boston Globe" said,
"Tartt's voice is unlike that of any of her contemporaries." Mona
Simpson (Anywhere But Here) "joins those female literary
stars—Colette, Willa Cather—whose voices are uniquely recognizable, always
their own." ("Vogue").
The quality of a
writers' voice tells the reader how much time to invest in them, whether or
not to believe them. Reviewers said
of Theresa Weir (Cool Shade), "[Her stories are] Poignant,
powerfully gripping, with truths that cut to the bone." ("Rendezvous").
Read it again: "Truths that cut to the bone." She knows what she's
talking about, the universality of the emotions she writes about has the
strength to touch us all. Whether or
not Ms. Weir has actually experienced those emotions doesn't matter; she
makes us believe that she has. Read the first
line of Jane Austin's Pride and Prejudice (if you haven't
already, read the whole thing!): "It is a truth universally acknowledged
that a man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." Not only does Austin
speak with the voice of authority, that first line sets the theme for the
entire book, as well as showing the irony and wit that make it not just a
profound reading experience, but an exploration of universal emotions and
societal roles that still grips readers more than a century after she wrote
it. That, my friends, is voice. We all have a
unique voice, a unique philosophy.
The real question is: How do we find it? It would be easy
to assume that because your voice is an extension of yourself, because it
consists of your vision, it would come naturally to you. But like
speaking, searching for that voice takes time. It is not something you come
out of the womb knowing how to do (unfortunately). Your own voice
may not be the first one that comes to you. Because your voice is based on
influences you've had throughout your life, it's usually derivative. My first
major writing influences were the Caddie Woodlawn stories, and Anya Seton. My
first attempt at a novel was a direct recreation of Katherine.
Other authors whose style snuck into my work at various times were Mary
Stewart, John Jakes, Ursula LeGuin. I read Tolkien probably a million times,
but, unlike the others, his style never influenced mine. The authors I imitated I had a natural
affinity for. Which brings me
to the first way to find your voice. Try imitation. What, you say?
Imitate! But I thought I was supposed to find my own voice! Yes, of course.
One of the easiest ways to define your own style is to imitate someone else.
(Lest I risk an onslaught of angry letters regarding plagiarism, note here
that I am telling you to do this only in writing exercises, and to imitate,
not copy. These exercise are not meant for publication). Imitating an
experienced and favorite author will tell you when something feels natural or
unnatural. You'll learn the limitations of other writers—how does their style
limit you in getting across what you want to say? How is it freeing? Those
discoveries will help you uncover new aspects of your own writing. There are
a few caveats here: this only works if the authors you imitate are good and
if they are appropriate to your subject matter and aspirations—in other
words, don't imitate another century. The melodramatic and sentimental
affectations of other eras will immediately date you. Keep in mind also, that writing like
Hemingway probably won't do much to win you a career in historical romance,
though it will help you become a better writer. As in all things,
moderation is the key. Try this
exercise. Pick a passage from an author you admire. Now, write an example
imitating the author's style—not necessarily the topic or the mood. Remember,
you're using your own vision here. The words you're choosing are your own, as
well as what you choose to write about. The style alone is what you're
mimicking. This simple act
of imitation requires you to make a choice. Your first decision is: What will
I write about? How does that single choice come from what you know about the
world and yourself? Your second decision is: What words will I use? Words are
evocative, they have force and hidden meanings. The words you use will be
different from the words anyone else will choose. Don't believe me?
Try this: Do this imitative exercise with
two or three other writers. Compare the paragraphs you've written. You'll see
at a glance that, even though you've all imitated the same author's style,
your paragraphs are distinctly different. Notice the individual choices each
writer made. Even if you all picked the same subject to write about, not a
single sentence will be the same. Instinctively,
you already know this. How often have you grimaced because you read a review
of a book that sounds exactly like the one you're working on—and then read the
book only to realize how very different it is? One of my writer friends and I
joke often about how we tend to write about the same themes—and even the same
situations—yet we could not write like each other to save our souls. At a
writing seminar I once attended, the teacher asked everyone in the room to
write a story about a woman sitting at a bar in a red dress. Among eighty
students, not a single page about that woman was the same. Imitating other
writers is one way to understand your own voice. When imitation becomes
restraining, when you start to yearn for different rhythms and chaff at the
limitations, when you understand what it means to rework a sentence over and
over again and that the first choice is not necessarily the right choice,
then it's time to refine your own voice. The power of
voice is reflected in these questions: What Point-of-View do I use? Which
characters' sensibility most helps me illustrate my theme? How will I utilize
grammar? How do I want the piece to look and feel? Am I a lyrical writer or
one who prefers the energy of short, crisp sentences? Know the
difference between the denotative and connotative meanings of words. Make
those meanings your own. One of my favorite programs is "Inside the
Actor's Studio" on the Bravo channel. On the show, the host
interviews actors, directors and screenwriters. I've learned a great deal
about the creative process from this program, and how similar it is for
everyone. But one of the most useful
things I've taken from it is a list of questions the host asks each guest at
the end of the program. Among the questions are: "What is your favorite
word?", "What is your least favorite word?", "What is
your favorite drug—and it need not be chemical?" Alec Baldwin
answered that last question with "My wife," and taught me forever
and forever how powerful are the responses that push beyond the literal, how
they are intensely individual, products of both voice and vision. Look at this
simile from Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird: "Ladies
bathed before noon, after their three o'clock naps, and by nightfall were
like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum." After
reading this, do you have any doubt of the power of a writer's experience in
creating time, place and mood? Could anyone but Harper Lee write a sentence
like this? How about this
one, from Edith Wharton's The Age of Innocence:
"[Marriage] was not the safe anchorage he had been taught to think but a
voyage on uncharted seas." Edith Wharton lived in a world where the most
common way to travel long distances was by ship. Her experiences are not only
reflected in her own, strong voice, but they give a strength to the metaphor
that makes it emotionally universal. Jayne Ann Krentz
talks about utilizing myths and legends that tap into deep cultural currents.
The Beauty and Beast myth, the Man from the Past, the Mysterious Stranger ...
The legends you choose to a large extent define your voice. Again, these are
your personal themes, your own mythologies. The choices you make come from the
person you are and the writer you want to be. Refine your voice
by refusing to turn away from experience. Discover and analyze your own
"hot buttons," the things that move you. Don't be afraid to pull
from your deepest emotional experiences. Dorothy Allison, in Bastard
Out of Carolina, drew upon her own history of child abuse and
poverty to write a distinctly powerful book. But the old adage "Write
what you know," has more to do with the emotions you understand than in
actual physical experience. In order
to write about death, it's not necessary to have experienced it firsthand—but
it is vital that you understand the nature of loss and grief. Listen to
conversations (without getting arrested), watch people. Read widely, allow
yourself lots of influences. There is no better way to refine your voice than
by understanding what other writers have done. Allow movies, books,
paintings, poetry, television to find their way into your works. The more you
see, the more you understand that there is nothing new in the world, that
everything has already been done. This is so freeing. It allows you to be
afraid of nothing but the challenge. Nothing you can do is "wrong."
In an interview with "Writer's Digest," John Jakes once
said: "Originality does not consist of saying what has never been said
before; it consists of saying what you have to say." Again, voice. Practice makes voice. If you write long enough, you
will begin to "hear" your voice. You will know instinctively if
something is not right. In the past, I never read romance while I was writing
it because I was too afraid of other influences sneaking into my work. Now, I
am so sure of the power and strength of my own voice, that those influences
feel "wrong," and I know instantly if I've strayed from my own path. Expect to be in
love with words while you're learning, to resist editing. Eventually, you'll
begin to see when affectation is at the expense of true emotion, when the
rhythm of a sentence overwhelms its meaning, when the beauty of a description
is simply a need to be poetic that contributes nothing to the story.
Experiment with form. Know that the more you limit yourself, the more you set
yourself free. Take a paragraph from a book and rewrite it as poetry (iambic
pentameter, free verse, a rondele-you decide). Write a character sketch
through the eyes of a pet. Limits challenge the mind by forcing creativity.
On my refrigerator, I have blocks of "Magnetic Poetry." When I'm
blocked, I play around with it, and it has never failed to inspire me (or,
for that matter, my husband. His poetry tends to the obscene; I keep telling
him it's his writer's voice dying to break free). Voice is your
vision, it is your emotional truth, the way you put a sentence on the page,
the rhythm of your paragraphs. What it is not is the voice of your characters. You may have to
adjust the words you use in writing a character. For example, in my
latest book, The Way Home, my heroine was uneducated.
She couldn't read. I was careful, for the most part, to use words that were appropriate
for her character whenever I wrote her dialogue or her point-of-view
narrative. In my third book, The Portrait, both
characters were highly educated members of the literati in New York.
Their dialogue and narrative reflected that. But though the
characters's voices changed, my own writer's voice did not. The themes I
explored were still products of my vision, the sentence rhythms and structure
were essentially the same, my dark and dismal view of the world didn't vary. For an example of
this from a true master, look to Mark Twain. Read a chapter from The
Adventures of Tom Sawyer, then read from The Adventures
of Huckleberry Finn. On the surface, these boys could not be
more different. Tom was an educated boy. He writes in third person, with bigger
words and a more distant tone. This is a boy who can write down his thoughts.
Now look at Huck Finn. Huck is
uneducated, he comes from a long line of oral storytellers, and the narrative
reflects that. But the essential
Mark Twain has not changed. His humor is still there, his view of boyhood is
the same. His philosophy runs strong through each book, making these works
uniquely Mark Twain's, even though the characters are different. Mark Twain's
voice is undiluted. The only change has been in the voice of the characters. Finally, I have
two words of advice for you. Be patient. Eventually, you
will find that thing that sets you apart from every other writer, and with it
will come the confidence that comes from knowing you are truly in control.
You will find an ability to critique your own work with a scalpel instead of
a broadaxe, and you will begin to recognize when an editor or fellow
critiquer's criticisms are dead on or completely off the mark. And, even
better, you will know what to do about it. "...
an echo to the sense." A true voice,
a brilliant voice. It's yours for the taking. All you have to do is discover
it. |
Copyright 1998 Megan Chance
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Copyright 2001 Megan Chance