writer’s voice

The Consistency Of Your Voice

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This post by Ksenia Anske originally appeared on her site on 9/29/15.

You know that feeling you get when you read a fantastic book and it gives you shivers? When every page you turn makes you want to read more and more, and every sentence is so bloody good you want to read it twice and when you get to the end you’re devastated the book is over? I have been pondering about this lately, having recently read three books that took my breath away, THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA by Ernest Hemingway and THE RITUAL by Adam Nevill and CRUDDY by Lynda Barry, and having dug up more information on all [the] authors and having read this interview with Adam Nevill and having put WHAT IT IS by Lynda Barry (a book on her creative method) and Hemingway’s ON WRITING on hold at the library, and all this pondering led me to write this post.

What was it so special about these books that got me?

The consistency of the voices. And where does this consistency come from? From rewriting until you bleed out of your eyes, it seems. In his interview Adam said that “there are ten versions of The Ritual on my computer. In fact there are some chapters that I cut out. Although I really liked the chapters, my inner reader said: this doesn’t feel right…. You have to trust your inner reader, write a draft and then leave it. When you go back to it, ensure you look at it with fresh eyes. If you’re only able to write a couple of evenings a week, because of work and other commitments, every time you return to it, you often find that the voice has changed. A lot of the re-writing is about making the voice consistent throughout.”

 

Read the full post on Ksenia Anske’s site.

 

Once Upon a Time…

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This post by Lee Kofman originally appeared on Writers Victoria on 1/20/15.

The beginning of yet another year makes me think about other beginnings – those first pages, paragraphs, sentences, words that pull readers into our tales. How do we make them sing?

Most obviously, banality is the enemy of good writing. Yet in many openings of published and unpublished works I read clichés creep in, often because of the current fashion to begin stories mid-scene, where characters are ‘doing’ something. Such an opening can be effective of course, yet scene-writing – with its focus on the action – lends itself to clichés. How many books begin with someone staring out of the window at a meadow, or running for their lives, or tracing something cool with their finger? We can get away more easily with such descriptions in the middle, but to entice intelligent strangers to stick with our stories we need to work harder.

Think of this beginning:

‘In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”’

This is the opening of ‘The Great Gatsby’, hailed by some critics as ‘the perfect novel’. Here we are at once plunged not into the action, but into the mind of the narrator who confides something urgent to us, thereby immediately creating intimacy with the readers. Moreover, this start hints at a dramatic narrative to do with moral dilemmas around our tendency to both judge and empathise, and the problem of social inequality. In short, these first sentences suggest that this novel is going to be one of substance, and do so without pomposity. This suggestion is conveyed by the measured voice of a sympathetic narrator.

 

Read the full post on Writers Victoria.

 

Music, Fiction, and the Value of Attention

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This article by Nicholas Games originally appeared on The New Yorker on 1/27/15.

The protagonist of Richard Powers’s 2014 novel, “Orfeo,” is a composer named Peter Els who, late in life, begins to dabble in biotechnology. Els’s attempts to “compose” in DNA turn him into a suspected bioterrorist fleeing across the country; one of his furtive stops is Champaign, Illinois, where he attended graduate school. In a coffee shop that he remembers from his student days, Els recognizes Steve Reich’s 1995 “Proverb” coming from the speakers. In the bravura passage that follows, Powers describes the way that Els listens to the music:

Another modulation, and the ghosts disperse. He wants the piece to be over. Not because of the thrilling sameness: monotony could almost save him now. Because of the waves of connection lighting up long-dark regions in his head. He knows better, but can’t help it: these spinning, condensed ecstasies, this cascade of echoes, these abstract patterns without significance, this seamless breathing leaves him sure, one more time, of some lush design waiting for him.

In the long tradition of novels about music and musicians, this language is new. The listening being depicted is a cognitive event: it happens in the skull and leaps from synapse to synapse, as if it were registering on a brain scan. The imagery of the fMRI machine was, of course, unavailable to Marcel Proust or Thomas Mann, say, who thought of music more in cultural terms than in cognitive terms (though for Proust the subject was, like nearly everything else, intimately connected to memory). But this new language—the lighting up of regions in the head—resonates, because a kind of folk version of neuroscience has entered everyday speech. Nearly all of us now speak of “chemical imbalances,” hormone levels, and how this or that person is “wired.”

 

Read the full article on The New Yorker.

 

Magical Thinking: Talent and the Cult of Craft

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This post by Michael Bourne originally appeared on The Millions on 11/18/14.

In August 1954, just months after he graduated from Harvard, John Updike had his first story accepted by The New Yorker. He was 22 years old. Three years after that, having spent a year studying drawing in England and two years as a staff writer at The New Yorker, Updike gave up his office job and set out his shingle as a freelance writer. For the next half century, he pumped out a steady stream of award-winning novels, poetry, criticism, and stories, often averaging more than a book a year.

Updike was an excellent student — all A’s from 7th to twelfth grade, summa cum laude from Harvard — and a ferociously hard worker, but he had little formal training in the craft of writing. In fact, as Adam Begley notes in his recent biography, Updike, the future two-time Pulitzer Prize-winner was rejected, twice, in his bid to take English S, Harvard’s most prestigious creative writing class taught by Archibald MacLeish. Yet from 1957, when he left the staff at The New Yorker until his death in 2009, Updike supported four children through two marriages without ever holding down a job other than writer.

Interestingly, Updike’s mother, Linda, was also a writer. Like her son, Linda dedicated her life to the craft of fiction, spending 25 years revising Dear Juan, a ponderous historical novel about the Spanish explorer Ponce de Léon, which remains unpublished to this day. She did eventually publish 10 stories in The New Yorker, along with two story collections (one posthumously), but Begley goes to some length to assure readers that without her famous son’s help rescuing her stories from the slush pile, they likely never would have been published. “I had only a little gift,” Linda once told an interviewer, “but it was the only one I got.”

 

Read the full post on The Millions.

 

The Craft of Voice: Part 1

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This post by JJ Marsh originally appeared on the Vine Leaves Literary Journal on 9/8/14.

In this section, I’m looking at choices: person and tense, distinctive character voices, Point of View (POV) and how to make the reader take sides.

I assume you have a Work-In-Progress (WIP) or some material you can use to practise the exercises below. If not, use the exercises to create some, or play with an existing work.

 

Person

The most popular ways of telling a story are in first (I) or third person (s/he), although second person (you) has occasionally been used to powerful effect in such novels as Jay McInerney’s Bright Lights, Big City. Some books make a feature of switching the person. For example, in Complicity by Iain Banks, the readers only know we’re in the killer’s head by the change to second person narration. Many writers have strong opinions on which is best and why. First person aficionados cite intimacy and identification with the narrator. Those who favour third quote the freedom of being able to change characters or observe things the narrator cannot see/know. (WARNING! See POV points below*.)

Publetariat Editor’s Note: asterisk refers to another section in the full post, linked below.

 

Tense

 

Click here to read the full post on the Vine Leaves Literary Journal.

 

A Guide To Finding One's Voice As A Writer

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This post by Kimberly Lo originally appeared on The Elephant on 2/24/14.

It probably goes without saying, but I love to write.

Indeed, it’s one my favorite things to do. Many years ago, when I was starting out and I decided that I would like to take a serious stab at writing, I asked several former and current professional writers for tips.

Each of them said the same thing: Find your voice as a writer.

Needless to say, that can be easier said than done (some may even be reading this and wondering what exactly that means). Simply put, it means tapping into that unique voice that all of us possess, whether we write professionally or not.

While the tips below may not guarantee that we find that voice right away, they may make the process easier. I certainly wish I had known or done the following when I was starting out:

1. Find writers whose work you like and make a list of what you like about them.

Some of the writers that I have enjoyed and have inspired me over the years include Elizabeth Wurtzel, UK-based columnist Julie Burchill, and the late Caroline Knapp.

Interestingly, at least in the case of the first two writers, I didn’t always share the same points of view, but I nonetheless enjoyed their writing styles.

 

Click here to read the full article, which includes three more specific tips, on The Elephant.