Building Your Writing Toolkit: Part 7 - Voice as Stain

Many writers don't know literary voice from their asshole. They write plots and poems just trying to get from Point A to Point B without thinking about how their work sounds inbetween inception and completion. This is reqlly quite sad because the authors through history who have been loved (and perhaps more importantly, remembered) have strong, complex, delicate literary voices. Scroll down the page. Look at what Jack has written this week, find Leena’s most recent post, check out Nick and Slick's musings, read Rainamoinen’s writings. Can you hear them? Can you hear the author here? It doesn't matter if you know these people: if you read three of any of their blogs you will start to hear a voice coming through - you'll begin to know who they are by what they say and how they say it. Jack sounds businesslike to me when he's writing a blog (please note that Jack is a man who will open our meetings by saying "Alright Motherfuckers, what are we doing today?"), but he sounds resignedly whimsical in his poems; someone who is tired of wonder but wonders nonetheless. Leena has a delightful wit, almost as sharp as the sadness frequently found in her writing – she is more consistent in different styles than Jack is, maintaining a very precise diction that balances artfully on the edge of juvenile joy and cutting maturity. Nick writes in questions, even when he writes in statements, asking with his poetry and prose “What is this world we’re in? Isn’t it grand? Isn’t it large and lovely? Aren’t you happy to see it?” – Nick’s writing is full of gentle cheer, warming his readers with its comfort and peace. Slick is a card – hard and churlish and jutting in direct, entendre riddled phrases and sly thrusts of jest. He writes like he wants you to think he fucks: each piece is a fun and sometimes-sloppy romp, to the point but never forgetting that reading is for pleasure. Rainamoinen is a budding rhetorician; he guides his readers neatly to the edge of a tall, stark cliff and happily drops them off, letting them land precisely where he intended. There is a charming contempt in his voice – he writes simply and elegantly, as if it doesn’t matter to him whether you read his work or not, but he’s well aware that you read it anyway. And if you’ve been reading this Writing Toolkit series for any length of time you’ve probably noticed that my voice is somewhat schizophrenic – to quote my own poetry (as any good schizophrenic should) “I’m a casual cynic who prays for optimists, but it’s hard for me to be one when I’m talking with my fists.” I want joy and wonder and sadness and comfort in my writing (humor too, if I can get it,) but I also want to make my point brutally, unmissably obvious (sometimes in the bitchiest way imaginable.) Now think of the Big Names – the writers we all know. How do you know you’re hearing Shakespeare? How can you identify Dickens at a glance? What is it about Emily Dickinson that shrieks out of her poems and declares “I AM EMILY!”? Some of it is style – Dickinson poems are pretty easy to visually identify and if you’re looking at Early Modern English iambic pentameter there’s very little chance that you’re reading anyone BUT Shakespeare. Dickens can be spotted by density alone. But what we read in the authors we love is voice – Shakespeare’s lazy attitude about proper word usage and correct grammar created a unique sound that caught the ears of audiences, creating mnemonics for concepts that other authors had explored but never defined. Dickens’ intense descriptions reshaped the way that novels were written. Dickinson’s disregard for accepted forms and heavy use of atypical rhyme sticks, disjointed, in our minds and helps us remember that it can matter when a bird comes down the path. It is the voice in an author’s writing that speaks to us – that’s why it’s called VOICE. We hear authors in our heads and so novels and poems become conversations, we know these writers as friends because we hear their warmth and sorrow and joy and love in the way they speak to us. Voice is the most important part of a writer’s repertoire because it is what makes an impression on readers. So write like you mean it, write like every paragraph and stanza is a speech, or wedding vows, or a eulogy, because everything you write IS a speech, wedding vows, and eulogy to your subject, your readers, and yourself. Good writing becomes permanent eventually, great writing is immediately indelible. I’ll be back in two weeks with more on voice and how to assert your voice in writing. After that we’ll be back with character voice and separating what your characters say from what you mean. Speak well, Cheers, - Alli

There are no conversations with the dead

I haven’t been reading this year. I know my life is falling apart because I’m not reading. The last book I read? American Psycho and I didn’t even finish it. When I don’t read, I feel like I’m not really thinking. I feel like my head is constantly fuzzy. In fact, it feels somewhat like what I imagine Sylvia Plath meant when she described a “bell jar” descending over one’s head. There’s not much air.

And really it’s the perspective that I lose when I don’t read. The perspective of other human beings. Often everyday communication just feels so banal in comparison to the camaraderie I find within the pages of a book. Characters open themselves up to us in the most intimate ways, and we know that the words they say are true to them; if they lie to anyone, it’s not to us.

These feelings of intimacy and dependence on literature is, in fact, critiqued in the movie Good Will Hunting. There is a scene in which Robin Williams’ character asks Will if he believes in soul mates, and Will responds affirmatively, explaining that Shakespeare is one of his. Williams’ character gently scoffs at this, asserting that the relationship between Will and Shakespeare can’t involve much dialogue.

While I agree that we must cultivate “real” relationships and that relationships with literature are not enough, I contend that they are damn well close to it. And I contend that we do carry on dialogues with literature; to proclaim otherwise is to see literature as static and largely dead. And I like to side with Emily Dickinson on this one and say, "A word is dead/ When it is said,/ Some say./ I say it just/ Begins to live/ That day."

And words begin to live when put to paper too. And words continue to live and be a part of life as they are read again and again. What could be more real for a bibliophile than the words on a page? The ones that cannot be destroyed through proverbial games of telephone? Authors speak forever through their written work and there, on their pages, they are able to elaborate in manners they may never have been able to in their “real” lives.

I’ve always felt that the only way I can truly express myself is through writing, not talking. Because of this conviction, I have come to believe that the written word is much more sacred than the spoken one. When I read, I bring that sensibility to the task; I believe that what I read on the page must be paid attention to because the person who put it there did so with intent. (Side note: this conviction is also why I cannot stand when a person does not put effort into his writing; it wastes the reader’s time.) The writer had something to tell me, the reader, and I have something to gain from paying attention- some insight, some perspective, the specifics of which could be gleaned from no other source. How is that not a dialogue?

And, just like a dialogue, this exchange of ideas can only carry on if we lend our ears (well, our eyes). You take their words into your being, as you allow them to become a part of you and to shape your thinking.

So I started a GoodReads account today, and I’m determined to bring insight and passion back into my life in the form of literature. Not another day should pass without the company of a book. And while we’re on the subject, what have ya’ll been reading lately?

-Leena