My favorite comments from the latest contest judges concerned my writing voice — hugely encouraging. But they got me thinking about voice and how we learn it — or if we learn it at all. Is the cadence of our writing bred into us like the language of our tongues?
I don’t pretend to have an answer to that. I write, I’ve always written, the way I hear language. Yesterday I spent some hours revisiting an old story with Maryland’s Eastern Shore as the backdrop. There I heard a different tone from my Beaufort stories, a different word patterning. The cadence of the South, which permeates conversation and thought as well as observation, fixes itself into the words of the Beaufort folk. Does that mean I as author see things differently when I’m in different places?
I think it does. I think the me who wrote from Mexico had images pressed into my mind that were slower, drier, perhaps friendlier. They held whiffs of deep sea and large expanses of open water and empty land, of mountains plunging toward the sea and whales cavorting off our bow.
The me who writes here in NC feels more confined to place. I’m no longer surrounded by the lilt or clip of foreign tongues or by the lazy days at anchor. Here, the world seems populated with issues that need to be solved, tempers that must be assuaged, emotions that must have reason…if only I could plumb deeply enough to discover them. Here, I’m awash in a world of care, which must translate somehow into the words I use to craft stories. (Or the ones I pluck from the moment to write on this blog.)
What are your thoughts on voice and writing? Do you think you’ve learned the voice with which you write, or is it merely you as you’ve always written on paper (or screen)? Please post a comment and let me know.
I think you’ve got a major point here, N. I know our voice must come from the inside out, translate to the written word, end up on the page. Where we are and how we adapt/feel in a certain place contributes to how we express our experiences and ultimately our stories. If we feel displaced in our different environment, I think we might write in first person and display the awkwardness of feeling like an outsider. But if we allow the location to infuse us with its unique beauty, sound, emotions, or strangeness, we adapt that unusual “persona” and write accordingly.
Good thoughts, N.
I like your note on writing as a displaced person — from the outside looking in to a world that seems slightly foreign to the protagonist (perhaps to the writer?) It certainly fits the first-person POV I used in the Eastern Shore story, whereas all my others are third-person POV.
Thanks so much for your thoughtful comment, though I wouldn’t have expected less from one of my favorite people. We should meet, don’t you think?!
Totally.
Loved this! I think of a writer’s “voice” as what makes them unique as a writer. Something a person reads and says “that sounds like _______’s writing.
My voice is what I call “conversational.” No matter what I write it is as if my reader is sitting across the table from me while we enjoy coffee together.
Thanks for your thoughts, Linda. You have a lovely conversational voice in your writing.
Loved your post, Normandie. You’re so right.
Jean
Thanks, Jean. I appreciate you stopping by!
Dear Normandie,
Voice, for me, is a character speaking through me, the author. As an actress, I write as my characters speak, but I also choose characters that I can relate to or hear in my head.
I also think when I write from the heart, my heartbeat is evident and is as unique as a fingerprint.
Anne, that’s what we want, isn’t it? I love the way you phrased it, declaring that readers can see your heartbeat in your writing. Excellent!