Rakes Rogues and Romance

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Know Your Voice

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When I started on the journey of thinking maybe, just maybe I could fulfill my childhood dream of becoming a writer, one constant theme I saw running through all the blogs, chat forums and critique groups was:  What is your voice?  Do you have a voice?

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Just checking to make sure you were all still with me. :)  Happy birthday Adam Levine!!

Of course I’m not talking about a singing competition, but in a way, it is similar.  Every time we listen to a judge on one of these talent shows, or even when we hear someone on the radio, we recognize them by their distinctive “sound”, aka, their voice.  No one wants to listen to a duplicate of their favorite singer.  There is only one Mick Jagger, one Tina Turner and I’m hoping only one Justin Beiber.

The same can be said for writing.  You can’t write a novel in the hopes that your book will sound like Grace Burrowes, Anna Campbell,  Renee Bernard or Suzanne Enoch.  They are in possession of their own voice, their own unique style.  When I pick up a book by one of them, I know I can expect evocative imagery, strong emotion and characters that will remain with me long after I have finished reading the story.  It’s what drives us as readers to continue buying their books.

No one should try and copy someone’s else’s voice; it won’t sound natural; the beauty of language is the ease with which we we speak and read it.  If you have to model yourself upon someone else visions and ideas, what are you creating?

I didn’t know anything about voice when I started tapping away at my fist attempt.  I did know how I wanted to sound.  I have my style and it works for me.  When i first joined an on-line critiquing group (not any that I am involved with now), I had one person tell me I had the perfect voice for my style of writing.  Then i received a very nasty critique from someone who literally eviscerated me on line.  It was shocking to say the least.  Another member actually posted and told me not to mind, that this author does it all the time and is only trying to help.

The critique was not only my use of terminology (which to this day I disagree with, knowing the you address a duke as “Your Grace,” not “My Lord,”)  but in the whole negative attitude towards my style of writing because it wasn’t highly formal and stylized.  The critiquer’s defender stated that the author believed that when you write in the Regency period, you must write in the Austen style.  As my ‘voice’ is less formal, she told me I would be a failure and never sell my book.

I took it to heart for a while and stopped.  I never went back on that board to critique or have my work critiqued.  I looked and found another group with whom I finally felt comfortable enough to put my work out.  And I finished and sent out my queries.

I got critiqued, and had my work torn apart, and I was happy for it.  Because it wasn’t about my style or my voice or the way I wrote.  It was for the form and substance of writing.  I was told by more than one person I have a voice for the period.  I finally believed that I was creating something that was mine.

What I have learned is that what works for one person won’t necessarily work for you.  There are Historical romance writers who use humor in their books.  There are those who don’t.  There are some who write so beautifully that I am in envy of their ability to use the English language the way they do.  But it hasn’t ever once driven me to emulate them.

So writers, fire up your own creative juices and tell me, how did you recognize your own voice?  What is your style?  If you feel like it, post a snippet of your work that best shows your unique voice.

Me? I’m still waiting for Adam Levine’s call…Hey I’m a Jewish mother, I can make him chicken soup. ;)

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8 thoughts on “Know Your Voice

  1. Funny. Not long after I finished my first book, without a critique group, I started entereding contests. Looking back, I’m surprised the comments wern’t worse. Having a pretty thick skin, I sluffed off most of the bad and focused on the good. A published writer, I will probably never know who she was, said that although I needed to work on my craft, I had a strong voice and, in her opinion, voice was something that could not be taught. About six months later when I went through a crash course with my editor’s assistant on editing, she laughed at one point and said she was never worried about ruining my voice because it was strong and consistant.

    To this day, I can not describe why some have it and some don’t, but it’s something you see in all great writers. I love yours, Nancy.

  2. Thanks so much Ella! Coming from a soon to be multi-published author as yourself, that means so much to me!! You must save me an interview spot when you near release date!

  3. I bet if we compared notes – we used to be in the same critique group – from your use of the word eviscerated I got the impression she did one of my early chapters. Kinda scary isn’t it. Glad you moved on to a more humane group.
    My voice modifies with my different novels – a contemporary has a different voice that a medieval. And I’m sure if in 10 yrs we come back to this post we’ll both be amazed at how our voices are the same and yet different. Good post.

  4. I would avoid Adam Levine…there’s a hand growing out of his neck (In your pic) That’s just creepy.

    I loved your voice from the first thing you wrote. I also hava a casual style when I write historicals.

    Since you asked for an except, here’s my favorite Victorian series, not yet published,
    Vic is a young woman who decided at 13 she’d rather live life as a man (far more interesting)
    Xavier is reputed to be the ‘real’ Sherlock Holmes. The inexplicable murder of Vic’s aunt has brought them together for the first time.

    “There are three footprints, two made last night and one this morning,” Xavier explained.
    “But I only saw one.”
    “Are you doubting my ability to count?”
    “No, of course not, but…”
    “There are two and let us move onward.”
    “If there are two and one is the driver, why wasn’t the driver sent in?” Victor challenged.

    “Excellent question. Why would this gentleman climb in a window, cut his hand on the glass and then root about the embers when his driver could presumably have been ordered to do so?”

    Vic pondered the question and then smiled. “Because whatever he searched for, he didn’t think the driver could find or didn’t want the driver to find.”

    Xavier smiled. “I had not considered the latter possibility. Very good, Victor. You have the makings of a fine sleuth. I’m amazed Oxford hasn’t driven such insightfulness out of your head by now.”

    “They keep trying, but I’m rather stubborn.”

    Liza

  5. Voice is so important–more important than some realize. I have critiqued many many stories over the years and have had “The Voice” discussion with many writers.

    I remember critting this one writer’s story and technically it was perfect, but something was lacking–something at the time I couldn’t put my finger on. The story read stiff and flat. I brought this up to her and she sent me a long message explaining she had had this story critiqued many, many times, by many, many different writers.

    Well what had happened was she had listened to all the different writer’s opinions and forgot the most important opinion of all–her own. She had essentially edited HER VOICE right out of her work.

    Lucky she had a copy of her original document. Although it needed a bit of polishing, I finally heard HER voice and the story was much for alive and vibrant. She is a multi-pubbed author now with a very unique voice.

  6. Brenda, what you described I call “writing by committee” and on those rare occasions it produces a really good story (which is not very often) the writer must then try to figure out how to duplicate the experience. They never can. So much of writing is craft and therefore a learning experience. But voice is that one of a kind storyteller whispering in your ear. A snowflake with the truest heart of all. You just have to listen and most of all trust it!

    Here is an excerpt from Wicked in His Arms (my Jane Austen meets the Addams Family WIP) which I hope shows my voice a bit.

    Hightower set his candelabra on the table on the other side of the bed. “Shan’t be able to sleep a wink with that damned thing on the wall. It’ll give me nightmares.”

    “No, it won’t.” Dylan thrust his hands into his gloves and slipped his watch into the pocket of his greatcoat. “You’re not sleeping here. I don’t care if Salome and her seven veils are under your bed.”

    “I’m not going back into that chamber and I’m not sleeping alone. Someone in this house wants to kill me.”

    “That makes two of us.” Any sensation in his toes, whether chill or pain, had vanished. Still Dylan stalked around the bed, slapped the candelabra into Hightower’s hand and dragged him by the elbow toward the door.

    “It will be warmer if we sleep together,” Hightower whined, stumbling along in his wake.

    “I won’t be that cold when I’m dead. And why in God’s name do you smell like a dockside privy?” He didn’t mean to shout, but he wasn’t cold now. His temper burned so hot he was ready to shrug out of his greatcoat and thrash Hightower if he could do it without touching him. The damned ninny refused to move. Dylan rounded on him, ready to lift his cowardly carcass and fling him out into the corridor – candelabra, fireplace poker and all.

    The man’s face went white. He pointed a palsied finger over Dylan’s left shoulder. Something scurried past the doorway. A large something having trouble finding purchase on the stone floors of this ancient wing of the house.

    Dylan spun on his heel and stormed into the hallway. He stopped and peered into the negligibly lit gloom. “What in the name of seven hells is that?”

    Hightower scrambled out behind him, let loose a string of profanity, and plastered himself to the back of Dylan’s greatcoat, banging him in the leg with the poker as he did so. Dylan shrugged him off and strode toward the apparition. The closer he drew the greater his incredulity. What else could this family, this house throw at him? Incoherent whimpers interspersed with hissed questions darted from behind him and finally ceased.

    Dylan stared at the creature hunched on the flagstones beneath the sporadic light thrown off by an archaic looking lantern attached to a ring pounded into the wall. He squinted and took another decisive stride toward it. The thing moved. And raised its head. Where in God’s name did they find this?

    “Is it the tiger?”

    So much for his hope a dead faint had accounted for Hightower’s silence. “Not exactly.”

    “Not exactly? What the devil does that mean? Crosby?”

    The thing shook like a dog. Black and orange stripes slithered to the floor. A thick, leathery cudgel whipped out with a loud shush. The hall table crashed to the floor, spilling water and a bizarre array of flowers into the light. In the midst of the wreckage he saw it.

    For a moment he was a boy of eight, huddled under a stack of counterpanes and Scottish plaids, listening to Gran spin a tale of knights and maidens, swords and fire-breathing beasties – trying her best to convince a lonely boy he was brave and strong enough to vanquish whatever fate tossed his way – even his family’s rejection. Too bad he’d left his claymore there after his last visit.

    “Hightower.”

    “Yes?”

    “Run.”

    “Is it a tiger?”

    “No.” Dylan slid one booted foot back, then the other. He glanced to either side. Nothing, just more darkness. Thunk. A few sharp skitters and it charged out of the shadows. He waited until the last minute and side-stepped out of the way. “It’s a dragon. Hightower, move your arse.”

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