Voice 2 -- further thoughts
This will be Part II to the piece on voice posted on the 6th. (To access this post on site, simply click on the title.)
I returned from a seven-day hike late Monday. Hiking is—surprisingly—not “thinking time” in terms of writing. Rather, with the careful placing of feet—no twisted ankles, please!—it’s more meditative, with the focus and the clearing of all else. But I carry a notebook and pen in my pack and scribble once we stop moving. Thank you for your patience, as I navigated the summer months, writing and posting to The Unschool. I’m absolutely delighted with the flurry over workshopping this week, the energy around the looming autumn, and WRITING.
It feels as if so much—of the exciting work of writing, of life itself—is just under the surface. I have more than one writer here with a full first draft of a novel, and wondering where to go next. Let’s dig a bit. I’ve written a few posts about such, from how to find a doorway into a “stale” project, to creating “scene,” and others. But “voice” is another possible entry into just about any writing project.
PLAY
Sometimes I have the feeling that The Unschool might come across as all about the Work of writing. I do take writing seriously! But I take equally seriously that writing is about play.
Young children learn best by play. Play is their work. Or their “labour.” (Check out The Gift, by Lewis Hyde, for his definition of “Work” versus “Labour.” Artists labour.)
“Play” is a solid approach to voice. Try things. Experiment. Take a character, and write in what you think might be their voice. Then again, same character, different age. And again. Imagine them at a party—a party in a room of 100 people of different paths in life. Imagine yourself at such a party—you know your diction changes when you meet a person you’ve met before at such parties… be it an old friend or a relative of your host; an educated person; a person of few words, when you have to fill gaps. A talkative person, when you are forced to silence (how are you with that?). Maybe someone you are polite to, but wish to be no more. And so on. Maybe before you begin this exercise/play, write a list of a dozen people you might meet at a party. Then a dozen people your character might meet. Begin to hear all the nuance and shift in “voice,” your own and this character’s. Mostly, have fun. Be open.
Reading about, and Doing
The thing about writing is that you have to do it—write—in order to understand both your questions about it and the possible “answers” to those questions. “Answers” is more about “paths to dealing with writing.”
Although some writers want spontaneity and value first draft, more often there is re-writing involved. Often, a great deal of re-writing. When it comes to voice, you KNOW your character more, the more time you spent with this person. So the voice might “deepen” with such understanding and re-writing.
Or you develop understanding of who the narrator is. Or who you are as an author. Because those three are the sources of voice—
Voices: Author (Nonfiction)
The “author’s” voice is more significant in the writing of nonfiction. Really, with fiction, “voice” is something else, and we should make the distinction here.
You might think of the nonfiction “voice” as “persona.”
Janet Burroway, in her book, Imaginative Writing: the Elements of Craft, defines persona as:
“…a mask adopted by the author, which may be a public manifestation of the author’s self, or a distorted or partial version of that self… The concept of a persona allows us to acknowledge that, just as no written account can tell the whole truth about an event, so no “I” of a poem, essay, or story is exactly the same as the person who writes.” (pp. 39-40)
For me, the word “partial” stands out, and gives me the freedom to carve away some of the self—of necessity—in writing memoir or personal essay; I cannot—no, I should not—include everything. It gives me the freedom to not only carve away, but to recognize, acknowledge, and make use of, the personal stuff I must, to create the nonfiction I need to.
When I pulled apart my journal to create my memoir, for instance (with not one sentence shared between the two; the journal was used as source material, not as publishable work), equal thought went in to what to leave out as to what to re-write.
The “partial” was what the readers might respond to; it was intended for readers, not for me. It’s not that the “me” in the memoir is someone else; it is me. It’s just not all of me. This serves many purposes: I don’t want to bore the reader with material that is simply not interesting; it allows me to stay with the arc of that particular time in my life; it frees me from sharing too much; it allows me to hold on to my life, and some privacy. (Something increasingly significant in this contemporary life!) It allows me to choose to show and dissect the useful for the reader.
As for the word “distorted,” mull it over… bring that sense of play to it; think of seeing one’s self in a funhouse mirror. It’s still you, distorted.
Where might this image take you?
Burroway’s book of writing is yet another that I’ve pulled for my shelves recently… forgotten for some time now. (I see it’s about to be released in a 4th edition.)
In my recent review of Novakovich’s, I mentioned how he reserved “voice” for the penultimate chapter… as a result of how complicated is the subject, I’ve been thinking. But for Burroway, it’s right up there in chapter 2, with “Image” being the opening chapter, which makes me think of “poetry.” So interesting to see how these master teachers choose where to begin, and where to close.
“The version of youself that you choose to reveal is part of your meaning.” (p. 40)
(That brings us back to form-&-content, doesn’t it?)
Narrator
And on to fiction. A narrator might be telling your fictional story. You might want for your narrator’s voice to be “clean”—that is, not to draw attention to itself. In the first part of this post, I cite Charlotte’s Web as an e.g. of voice. This is “clean” voice.
But a narrator can also be thought of as a persona, or even as a character.
Again, the “doing” and not “reading about”: take a pasage you’ve written (fiction) in third person. (If you don’t use your own work, “borrow” someone else’s! No this is not “cheating”—it is learning.) Spend some minutes thinking through the idea of “persona” —that is, imagine some PART/aspect of your self that you might be writing from (this doesn’t even have to have anything to do with you—the “real” you. Let your imgination go), and begin to write.
An e.g.: for decades I’ve wanted a campervan. I’ve just purchased one. (Really! I have. It’s been on my rust-bucket list…)
Okay… let me take this part of my self that has wanted this van—all the ideas and dreams I associate with this—and write from that part of my self. What language do I use? How am I thinking of the world as I write? What are my feelings about travel? excitement? a wedge of anxiety? how does that manifest?
Take some part of your self—yes, I deliberately break down these ‘self’ words—your self/my self—and write from that part. Set aside other aspects of self. In this way, we can mine our own existences to explore others’ and characters… Play.
You can also conceive of a narrator as a character. Note that this “character” does not have to be a role-carrying character within your story. Your narrator can be a character in your own mind, and remain unexplained to the reader. This, for the purpose of you working with the VOICE of this narrator; seeing/recognizing the narrator as a character can serve you to hear/create a voice from which to tell the story. Your reader gets the benefit of an enriched voice.
Do:
Play with the narratorial voice. Imagine this voice as several different characters, and spend ten minutes writing from each. Look at the vocabulary, the rhythm, the syntax. When this character/narrator comes up with a metaphor or simile, what is that about? How does it demonstrate “voice”?
Character
Both of the concepts above are not easy. In comparison, to create voice from a first person POV character is relatively easy. (Start with a page of journal jotting…)
I’m going to suggest you play with these three. Take a WIP, and try on, and write. See where this take you.
(This section is the briefest—refer to Part I of this post for more.)
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Elements to consider
Vocabulary & Syntax - words you choose, and the order in which you place them—creates “diction.”
Geography - where did this character/narrator/persona grow up? How does this influence what comes out of his mouth? Have they moved? Emigrated? Re-located?
Era - when did this person grow up? what might they have picked up from parents or caregivers?
Socioeconomics - how does this piece of reality reveal itself?
Situations & Emotions - what has occurred in this person’s life that—again—reveals?
Other people - how does this voice shift in the presence of others? Who are the “others”? Emotionally close others? Distanced or unknown/little known others?
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Do check out the September Prompt and consider posting some “voice” work. Check out the September 1 newsletter for the details, and remember to ‘play.’
Thoughts? Questions? Responses to some suggestion here… Post, please.
My most recent novel (which I hope is complete), has occasional visits from the ghost of Spanish poet/ playwright Lorca. I have more than entertained the thought that his voice might be the omniscient third person telling the story, and to have it more definitely emerge by the end, as a kind of a wink to the reader. It is a humorous novel. However, on my NEXT read-through I will think a little more of syntax and era. I'll have to deal with that somewhat gingerly, so readers don't think I am being precious or pretentious, but would like an aha moment at the end when the narrator's voice emerges more strongly in the sort of final sum up off into the sunset moment. the story takes place in 1999 and Lorca died in 1936. Obviously reading his poems and diaries in translation. I may have to take this to the next step. Thanks Alison, back to the grindstone...something to get me through the next lockdown!
Last month read The Late Comer by Jean Hanff Korelitz and was struck by how undeveloped the characters were, yet the book was mesmerizing. It was the satire that successfully carried it. Yes, family ties also delineated, but by the narrator's admission (and who is the narrator? Sometimes omniscient, sometimes the reader is reminded that it is the voice of one of the characters) the characters are not particularly interesting with few interests.
Now with difficulty forcing my way through Carol Shields "Unless," an ongoing analysis of writing, what needs to be included in character, pearls from other writers, all in first person, a woman so far pretty staid. I am sorry - I have never taken a shine to Carol Shields, revered as she is. Everything I've read feels so pedantic. Anyway, everything about writing and character development upon which the main character muses is very different than what is found in The Late Comer.