What is a Writer’s Voice?

voice

What is a Writer’s Voice?

I was always confused when critics talk about a writer’s voice. What exactly was that? And frankly, even though I think I have a better idea of what that means now, it’s still a bit vague. I think a writer’s voice can consist of:

  • Settings he typically prefers. Cormac McCarthy picks settings I hate—cowboys, post-apocalyptic world—but I love his writing.
  • Types of characters often used. Do they tend to have an active inner life or is everything revealed in what they do?
  • Language or diction. Is it fairly formal or informal (like this blog)?
  • Imagery and description. Does the author tend to fully situate the reader in the setting through description or does she tend to allow the reader to imagine what things look like? Are the metaphors and similes to die for, poetry in disguise, or are they more functional?
  • Type of plot. Psychological drama or action thriller? Romantic or pragmatic?

There are many other possible components of a writer’s voice but I don’t think we need to beat a dead horse. Suffice it to say that voice is what makes you uniquely you as a writer. Let’s take Jane Austen as an example.

  • Settings she prefers. Middle class semi-rural England.
  • Types of characters often used. Women protagonists, usually with an active inner life, often a little bit outside the norm of that period (poor, orphaned, etc. Okay, Emma the exception that proves the rule).
  • Language or diction. Formal language but with both a wicked and elegant turn of phrase
  • Imagery and description. I would say the Austen tends to let you imagine what things look like unless you need to have the detail. For example, in Pride and Prejudice, she describes Rosings, Lady Catherine de Burg’s residence because the reader needs to know how imposing it is. But otherwise, she tends to leave it to the reader’s imagination. And her writing, while elegant and witty, is not poetry lyrical.
  • Type of plot. Romantic novels of manners, and the small things in life which are big.

Whether or not you concur with my analysis, I think you would agree that Jane Austen would not have written a novel about prize fighters, or the slums of London. She would not take on the big social issues of her day as Dickens did in his but instead focused on the individual trying to make her way in the world.

Similarly, Mark Twain tended to semi-rural, small town America. His characters often spoke in a colloquial way and the writing was frequently humorous as well as biting. It’s not that he stuck with this always—much of his writing does not fit this description, but he developed a style of writing—funny, satirical, unadorned, straight—which is characteristic of him.

So, there you are—voice. Next post: Finding Your Distinctive Voice.

The Muse and the Piano Tuner

Muse

The Muse and the Piano Tuner

I learned a lot about the writing muse from a piano tuner.

After half an hour of plucking strings, the piano tuner called to me. “Okay, I’m done.” He rippled through some swing tune, no sheet music of course.

“Wow, you’re good! Do you play professionally?”

He shrugged. “I’m in a band.” As he stuck his tools into his satchel, “You a writer?”

I raised my eyebrows. “How did you know?”

He pointed to the book face down on the piano. “This is you, right?”

“Oh, yeah. Crummy picture.”

“So, you write full time?”

“Not full-time. As much as I can.”

He asked, almost shyly, as if it might be too personal. “Do you have to wait until you’re in the mood to write?”

I shrugged. “Well, no. If I waited, I don’t think I’d ever do it.”

Suddenly, his face cleared. “Oh, yeah, I get it. It’s like when you have a gig. Doesn’t matter whether you want to play or not. You just show up and play.”

Show up and play and the Muse might too

Show up and play. I know there’s a lot of stuff writers believe about waiting for the Muse to strike. Or I suppose ‘visit’ would be a better word for such a sought-after commodity.

With hand to head, they vow they can’t write a word unless inspired by some external force. And thus have a perfect reason not to, because that Muse, she’s not much into house calls.

However, many famous authors didn’t seem to wait. Tolstoy said, “I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine.” Victor Hugo wrote from dawn to 11:00 every day. Agatha Christie saw writing as a job.

They discovered what all writers, I believe, need to understand. The Muse isn’t going to show up until you do. It’s like Moses and the parting of the Red Sea. As a friend much more learned than me pointed out, the real learning from that story is that Moses and the Israelites had to start wading into the Red Sea before God parted it. That is, they had to show their commitment and faith before God would step in.

As the piano tuner said, you need to show up and play. It is when you are actively engaged in writing that the Muse or whatever the magic consists of, can show up. So, don’t wait for It to strike. Invite It in.

Fixing Conversation with As-You-Know-Bobs

conversation

Fixing Conversation with As-You-Know-Bobs

The seduction of a conversation with As-You-Know-Bobs

In a previous post, I talked about As-You-Know-Bobs—information which the characters already know but the reader doesn’t. A short-cut but not very effective way to inform the reader is to use an As you know, Bob, my life was shattered by the recent death of my grandmother.

They’re easy, efficient, and let you get onto more interesting bits of the story.

And sometimes, they’re even OK to use. If the point is unimportant to the main plot and not worth spending a lot of time on, you can get away with an AYKB. However, the example in the previous paragraph demonstrates where you probably shouldn’t use one because it’s hard to believe that this isn’t going to figure in the plot line (otherwise, why bring it up at all?).

Identifying when you are falling into As-You-Know-Bobs

It can be quite subtle. Here are some times when you might be tempted:

  • Establishing info. You want to give background on a character. If the character is major, a couple of short flashbacks or a conversation of the ramifications of the background on the present situation might work better.
  • You need to remind the reader of an earlier event. Remembering readers will not necessarily read your work in one go, it is often helpful to remind them of a past event which is the basis for the present action. A character not at the previous event could be informed by one who was. Or a one liner by the protagonist (Drat, those Munchkins again) might be enough.
  • ‘Tell’ in disguise. Dan says to Bob: “Remember our treks into the hinterland when we were younger? I know that your wife Marj never liked you going on them. But they were great fun, weren’t they? I’ve never felt so free.

You get across a lot of information in a telescoped format. Again, if it’s unimportant, might be okay (although I’d lose the ‘your wife’—that’s an AKYB within an AKYB). Otherwise, a flashback or a more back-and-forth dialog between the characters could bring out the information more naturally.

  • Want to move onto a more interesting bit in the narrative. You know where you want to go in this scene and are eager to get to it but have to establish some point first. There is an excellent possibility that this is an AYKB in the making. Again, if the point is small, no prob. But if it’s big (AYKB, I was assaulted on this mountain and never wanted to come back), stifle your urge to get through this bit quickly to get onto the character dealing with the aftermath of this trauma.

How to avoid As-You-Know-Bobs

Two suggestions, one practical and one a bit airy-fairy. But the airy-fairy one is the better, I think.

Slow down. Remember, the intent is not for you or your reader to get to the end in record time. The intent is to create a fully realized world where the characters act naturally and credibly.

Get into the character’s head space. You are probably already writing from the protagonist’s point of view but I’m suggesting a little more. If you can immerse yourself in that character so that you see the world through her eyes, it’s much harder to commit AYK-B. In her head space, you don’t fall prey to the temptations outlined above. You wouldn’t tell Bob things you know he already knows but would take them as givens and move on from there.

As You Know, Bob—Cheating with Dialog

As You Know, Bob—Cheating with Dialog

I didn’t come up with this term about dialog so I thank whoever in my distant past introduced me to the concept.

What is an As-you-know-Bob? Sometimes, they’re easy to spot. As you know, Bob, I’m short and plump or As you know, Bob, I’m carrying a mysterious package. These are obvious and silly but they can slip into dialog in other ways.

As you know, Bob, my brother and I have not spoken for forty years and this is my attempt at reconciliation.

OR

As you know, Bob, my daughter is really beautiful and attracts all kinds of unwanted attention.

Would this happen in real life? Wouldn’t you get Well, of course I know—why are you telling me again? The characters in your narrative should be no less sharp.

What’s so bad about dialog which is As-you-know-Bob?

Well, as sins of the world go, it’s not right up there. There are more egregious items just in the writing sphere.

Still, it’s a bit of a cheat. It is an economical but not effective way to communicate information the reader needs (e.g. relationship to main protagonist, history of the divorce) by pretending to remind Bob even though he already knows it. Otherwise, why say As you know?.

Avoiding As-you-know-Bobs

Let’s take the two examples from above and redo them to avoid the A-Y-K,B.

You: My brother called last night.
Bob: Really? How long has it been?
You: God, maybe going on forty years.
Bob: What did he want?
You: Trying to get back in my good graces, I guess.
Bob: So, what are you gonna do?
You: I dunno. Maybe try to meet him half-way.

Here, Bob knows the situation and can ask intelligent questions which the reader wants to know also. You can move the story forward without telescoping everything into an A-Y-K,B.

Second example.

You: I’m pissed.
Bob: What?
You: That jerk Dan keeps calling Jenny.
Bob: You don’t like him?
You: He’s just another one after her for her looks.
Bob: There’ve been a few like that, haven’t there?

Generally speaking, a more vivid way to portray a situation is to use a specific example from which the general conclusion can be drawn. You are pissed about Dan not just about young men in general. Avoiding an A-Y-K,B allows you to put more meat on the fictional bones.

Doesn’t this take longer?

Yes, and what’s your point? Again, the aim is not to get your reader to the end of your piece in record time, but to engage her in what feels like a real world.

As you know, Bob, this is what you want to do. The next post will walk you through identifying and fixing A-Y-K-Bs in your writing.

Reality—‘This is How it Really Happened’–is No Defense

reality

Reality—‘This is How it Really Happened’–is No Defense

Sometimes a writer will be told that whatever scenario he’s written doesn’t work to which he may indignantly reply, “But that’s how it happened!” and assume that reality is an acceptable defense.

News. It is not.

As we discussed in a previous post, Fiction is Not Life, story-telling has requirements which can be, and often are, quite different from real life. Without realizing it, readers expect the conventions of fiction to be followed even if they are unaware that they exist.

Why reality is not an adequate defense

If the world were fair, you’d just have to record your searing experiences and that intensity would be communicated to the reader. Sometimes that happens but sometimes it doesn’t.

Whether autobiography or memoir or even just a thinly disguised piece of reality in your fiction, you can’t possibly record every moment even if you could remember them. Bowel movements and grocery shopping are not usually the stuff of drama. Therefore, as a writer, you are constantly making choices of what to include, what to emphasize, what to ignore. It is in these choices that things can go off the rails.

An example

Say you want to write about the death of a friend in a car accident. There are any number of things you could choose to include in the account:

  • The road conditions
  • The condition of the car
  • The police report
  • The bystanders’ reactions
  • The time of day
  • The make of the car
  • The driving experience of the friend
  • Others in the car
  • The conversation in the car before the accident
  • The background to the friend’s erratic driving
  • How you met the friend
  • Your reaction to the news of his death
  • The condition of the car after the accident
  • His relatives’ reactions

I’ll quit now but I wasn’t even trying hard to generate the list. The list could probably go on for quite a while. You have to make choices of what to include in your story.

How do I make reality compelling?

Say you intend to focus on your reaction to the death. Then it’s possible that the first part of the list will not help you hone in on your story and will either bore your reader or make it feel more mechanical than you intend.

You need to pick the elements of the event which are dramatically interesting even, or perhaps especially, in a piece that is close to your heart. If you don’t, you will not be able to communicate its importance. As I mentioned at the beginning of the post, readers unconsciously expect writing to follow the conventions of fiction and are kicked out of the continuous dream if you don’t.

So use auto-biographical material by all means, but make sure you pick those elements of the event or events which are both dramatically interesting and which support your intent.

And quit saying, “But this is how it really happened!”