The Elusive Voice

A writer friend recently told me he’d found his voice. In the way he said it—eyes wide and hands gesturing with a manic energy—it was clear something had clicked into place for him. That’s how I knew he was right.

Voice often comes as a religious epiphany or, for the less inclined, discovery of superpowers. Before this moment, we play at being gods to our creations, writing sentences to make imaginary people do imaginary things that may entertain, educate, and inspire. Learning to wield that power feels nothing short of magic.

But the real reason I believe my friend has passed that first true threshold of his writer’s journey is in what he said next: I don’t know how to describe it. A frustrating concept for any writer to admit, but voice is impossible to teach for that exact reason, which is why most creative writing courses opt for the easier route: writing workshops.

For those who’ve never participated in one, a writing workshop is a class where you share your work with other writers, who do the same with theirs. Everyone reads and gives a critique, which doesn’t teach much beyond how to give and take criticism. While thick skin is crucial for writers, it doesn’t move the needle any closer to the ultimate goal of becoming bona fide authors. So why don’t classes teach that instead? Because the only way to learn to write is to get the words down until the miracle happens.

A Window into the Past

One of my goals in starting this website was to archive the first two iterations of my debut novel, The Road Cain Walks. I call it my trainer novel, each edition representing a milestone in my understanding of the art-craft balance. When I’ve finished transcribing them, both will be freely accessible as a guide through my writing process.

The original novel was stored on a 2000s-era iMac, the last Apple computer I’ve owned. I haven’t found a cost-effective and trustworthy method to transfer the files to a Windows computer, so I’m manually typing the chapters from the physical copy open in my lap. Despite lost time and aching fingers, the real torture is in all those problematic sentences.

With 14 years’ experience as a professional copyeditor, the inner me screams to drop all the dialogue tags and redundant details, but I believe their preservation is important. Those missteps stand as an example of how the novel’s second edition (draft) not only corrected those errors but became a better story. The work has also given me a window into that twenty-something-year-old writer I once was—one who had yet to have his own lightning-struck epiphany of voice.

So What Is Voice?

At its core, voice means confidence. Not the kind that dissolves all the doubt, fear, imposter syndrome, and existential depression that come with knowing your brainchild is a drop in an ocean of other books. This confidence keeps you from choreographing every step a character takes across a room or overdescribing some inconsequential detail, such as clothing or interior design. Exaggerated and overdetailed facial expressions. Dialogue tags to make sure the exact tone of every spoken word is captured.

The original edition of The Road Cain Walks teems with overwriting. Most work I’ve read by writers who haven’t yet discovered their voice does the same thing. Without confidence, they use five words when one will do, naively assuming the reader will remember any of them by the time they finish a page.

The Difference in Voice and Style

Some people refer to voice in terms of authorial style—how Stephen King’s novels read in comparison to Ernest Hemingway’s. This definition still falls into the purview of confidence but on the far end of the spectrum, where masters and legends reach a level of communication that makes their words easy to pick out of a line-up.

If voice is the confidence that serves as a foundation for successful writers, style comes from the decisions that confidence allows them to make. Sometimes they choose to focus more on plot than characters, or vice versa. Other times, style refers to whether their sentences are sparse or stuffed with (relevant) details. The more automatic and instinctual those choices become, the more we recognize an author’s voice.

Like Manna from Heaven

In previous posts, I’ve described writing the first draft as passing through a pitch-black room, waving your arms in front of you with every tentative step forward. Through the wormhole opened by my transcription project, I see a lack of trust in my ability to transfer the images in my head to the page and the readers’ ability to understand them.

Voice is going into that same room for the fiftieth time. You’re no better at seeing in the dark but have developed a sense of where the furniture sits and where to find the light switch. Though you can’t see, you manage well enough to feel like you can. In writing terms, this results in precise and direct sentences, which results in precise and direct scenes.

When voice comes, it feels like the clouds have finally opened to shine a boon of light on your head. It’s a dragon you’ll chase and find in smaller doses as you figure out plot points and connect details. If you’re not there yet, keep writing and be patient. It will come eventually. When it does, savor it. Nothing beats the first time you cross that dark room without a stumble. 

Thanks for your attention. See you next time.