Raise your voice

I’ve mentioned that a writer’s ‘voice’ was likely to be a recurring theme here. We’re constantly told it’s voice that matters, yet it can be the most fragile tool in our repertoire. Well-intentioned meddling can so easily blunt that sharp, shiny edge.

Voice is as distinctive as your personality. As teenagers most of us learned the difficult lesson that not everyone was going to like us; sometimes, people simply don’t connect. The same is true of voice, but this can be a message writers just don’t hear.

When critique partners, contest judges, agents or editors criticise your voice it can be devastating and for many writers there’s a temptation to change things. This attempt to please others is natural, but misguided.

Voice is personal. Voice is you. And you will never please everyone.

Do you like all the same movies, books and food as your friends? No. You will have some likes and dislikes in common or you probably wouldn’t be friends, but you can have a difference of opinion and still be friends. Good friends. You can have a writing voice that some people don’t like and still be a terrific writer.

And, much as your personality develops and changes over time, so will your voice. Again, a natural phenomenon, but this is usually a good thing. As you learn better craft, your voice will mature and your writing will gain more polish.

Just as you know in your heart when you are true to yourself, you know when you are true to your voice. Ultimately, writers write stories they like to read, and if you like your writing, so will other people. Just not everyone.

You know your voice. Use it.

Speaking in tongues

What happens when you lose confidence in your writing? When you get some negative feedback from a competition judge or a critique partner, does that mean you didn’t get it right or they just didn’t get it?

Does this mean you need to change something? But what about all the people who liked it?

It seems writers are always waiting for the sledgehammer. Five positive comments are neutralised by the one person who doesn’t like your heroine, or who thinks you use too many adjectives. Five? Even the fifty-five people who liked it can be undermined by the one who didn’t – particularly if that one person is adamant.

I think I've said it here before that I believe voice comes from inside. I think voice essentially is the muse. Usually, once you've been writing for a little while, you are already half-expecting it when someone tells you your scene-setting still needs work, or one of the character's motivations doesn't make sense, because you already have a feeling there's something wrong.

If you lose confidence and try to write what you think other people want, you lose your voice. The story may not be terrible, but it probably won’t be very good, either. It certainly won’t be wonderful.

Repeat this after me:

I will listen to my voice. I will write in my own voice. When I receive negative feedback I will allow my voice to be heard, because this is what tells me which things I need to change and which I need to fight for.

I will listen to my voice. I will...

I never met a cliche I didn’t like

And you know, that’s surely another one right there. Cliches. Can’t live with em, can’t live without em – ooh, did I really say that?

Seriously, I was horrified recently when I realised just how many cliches I use in my writing. I use them all the time in speech too, and you can bet I was a little dismayed when I worked that one out.

But hey, at least that means I’m writing in my own voice. Right?

Cliches do have a legitimate use in writing. A phrase becomes a cliche because it becomes overused, but this only happens because the phrase is so apt everyone starts using it. These soon-to-be-cliches resonate with us; we feel they exactly describe what we want to communicate.

When writing a first draft, let those cliches off the chain. They act as place-markers, allowing you to say what you want to say and get on with telling the story. Using a cliche allows you to capture the idea or tone of something without getting hung up searching for that perfect, interesting way of saying it. It means you aren’t wasting time, agonising over a sentence that may end up cut during revisions. When you come to revise, you can freshen up those tired old phrases and find exciting, clever ways of saying it instead.

And if when you go back to look at your revised manuscript you still find cliches lurking in the corners, then you hunt down and slaughter every one of the little buggers.

Which reminds me. It’s time I signed off.

I’ve got some hunting to do.

Fear and honesty in Las Writing

For Erica it comes down to shedding fear. For me it means embracing honesty. I think we’re probably talking about the same thing.

Being true to yourself on the page.

To a certain extent, this is also being true to your voice. I agree with Erica, and I think she revealed something particularly interesting when she pointed out our themes are as much a part of our voice as the way we put words together. But I digress.

Fear and honesty. In my real life (as opposed to the fantasy life I dwell in when writing) I avoid conflict. Can’t stand it.

This is such bad news for my writing.

I’m uncomfortable with conflict, I don’t relish suspense, and so I tend to smooth the way for my characters. I tell you, fictional people never had it so good.

Drama – story – is about conflict. Without conflict there is no suspense, no interest, no damn story.

Honesty in writing means whenever I find myself shying away from something – a character set back, a sexual encounter, simply a painfully emotional scene – it’s a warning to me I’m about to duck out on something important. Something vital to the heart and power of the story.

What you write about, and how you reveal it to the reader, is just as much a part of your voice as the words you choose. Yes, and the themes that haunt you.

The year my voice broke

The other day I talked about reccurring themes in a writer’s work. Themes recur in blogs, too, and I’m airing one today: voice.

Such a precious thing, so elusive, so delicate, so vital.

I actually found my voice late last year, even though I’ve been writing since I was a kid. Nearly thirty years of trying to write what I thought I should be writing. It was a long time before I questioned whether it was what I wanted to be writing.

I’d heard about voice and how it couldn’t be described, exactly, but it was the one thing that made you unique, made you stand out. That sounded like a cop out to me. It was a lot like being single, when all those well meaning but patronising friends and relatives tell you how you’ll find the right person. One day.

Yeah, right.

But I did find that person, and I did find eventually find my voice. It just never occurred to me that when I found it, the darn thing would come with an ‘under construction’ sign around its neck.

It seems voice slowly evolves as you improve as a writer; it broadens and strengthens and increases its range as you do. I guess this means you’ll always be watching that line – be true to yourself, to your voice, but allow enough room to grow.

That’s scary and exciting at the same time, but ultimately great news. Change is a good thing, and it doesn’t mean something’s gone wrong with your voice. Having yearned for it so long, it seems only natural we'd be afraid of losing it.

But as long as I keep sight of my line, I’ll be fine. And so will you.

To crit or not to crit

Many of us who write have a small circle of critique partners, fellow writers–usually at a similar standard and with similar goals–with whom we exchange work and offer constructive criticism. Or that’s the theory.

Critiquing may be a great help in improving your work but it can also be rather like walking a tightrope over a snake-infested pit circled by tigers. And lions. Hungry ones.

OK, I got a bit carried away there, but critiquing does come with responsibility and a not insignificant risk.

The responsibility lies in making sure you give your critique partners fair and constructive feedback on their work. Your job as a CP is to help them figure out what they’re trying to say when they haven’t done that as well as they could have – you’ll need tact, by the way – and to spot any deficiencies and suggest remedies. It’s a tough job.

Now to the risks. There’s the risk you’ll offend someone. The risk they’ll offend you. The risk you’ll be making changes that are contrary to your story, your themes and your voice.

I am lucky to have some awesome CPs and this is what I’ve learnt: when critiquing it’s best to be honest, but go gently. You need to stay true to the writer’s voice and goals, not your own. This is not your story.

When you ask for a critique, be specific about what feedback you are looking for; this gives your CPs some guidance and ensures you don’t get a line edit when you just wanted to know if the plot hung together. If you listen to that voice within you’ll know which bits of advice to act on, which bits to tuck away for some thought, and which bits to dump in the bin.

Which voice is that, you say? You know. It’s the voice you let out on the page when everything is going well. Your voice.

What will my mother think?

Kirsty and Erica get the blame for kicking this one off, as their comments dragged another aspect of fear kicking and scratching out into the light.

The fear of what someone else will think presents a hurdle to most writers. It can take the shape of trying to write something you don't love because you think it will sell. It can take the shape of censoring the words you put on the page. It can even stop you from writing at all.

Writing fantasy romance means I have characters falling in - and making - love. Yes, sex. Hot, steamy, inhuman sex - and what will my critique partners think when they read that bit where he...? What will my frends think? And oh, my stars - what will my mother think?

My mother thinks my sex scenes rock.

Don't be afraid, because fear in witing will make you dishonest. If you aren't writing what you love, if you aren't letting your voice shine through then you are cheating your readers. You are cheating yourself.

The audience yet to come

Hi there.

I'm new to blogging so I hope you'll bear with me. Of course, that presumes there's actually someone out there reading this. Someone interested in what I have to say.

As a writer I operate on that assumption all the time; I'm usually writing for the ghost of the audience yet to come.

One of the reasons I've never blogged: I wasn't sure I'd have anything to blog about. In hindsight, that seems ridiculous. If I didn't have anything to say, I wouldn't be a writer.

Being a writer is about communicating. Communicating hopes. Fears. Dreams. Raising your voice. At least, that's what it means to me. I'd love to hear what it means to you.