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A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. An editor’s perspective.

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Finding Your Voice (Part 1)

I firmly believe that finding one’s fictive voice is among the most important—yet nebulous—foundations of crafting a successful novel. Those of us who dare presume how to instruct writers usually have a vague interpretation of what establishes any specific voice. I’ve heard such sage wisdom range from the technically ambiguous; “It’s an individual writing style, one of diction, syntax, punctuation and dialogue…” to the similarly oblique; “It’s uniquely your own writing.”

So, yes—one’s voice can be an imprecise stew of indeterminable ingredients. My best guess (and this isn’t a rule, merely an intuition) is: Voice = the writer’s style (personality) + character personality. Voice is that delicate balance of your wordplay, your wit, your clarity, combined with your characters’ various personas—their wordplay (e.g.; dialog), their wit, their clarity.

Meaning that most great writers don’t write alone. (See Finding Your Voice Part 2: Do Your Characters Speak to You?)

Although for the moment, let’s concentrate on your perceptions.

One’s writing’s style might be construed as a blending of those ‘left-brain’ (mechanical) attributes, such as a conversational sentence structure, engaging vocabulary, practiced cadence and word flow, coupled with ‘right-brain’ (creative) linguistic skills that ensures the reader understands and interprets exactly the vision you’ve intended. Every word you choose to include in a novel—and every word you choose to omit—every thought, every perception, every nuance, will be unlike any other writers’. Think of your style as your literary fingerprint.

Equally as important, you must be able to preserve that singular style; a similar cadence, syntax, and cohesive ambient integrity, throughout the entire story. Stylistically speaking, if you begin your literary journey poised on the back of a snarling lion, you don’t want to end on the back of a bleating lamb. Maintaining your stylistic integrity from the first page to the last is integral.

Perhaps there is a rule at play here, at least about a writer’s stylistic intent. So Rule #9: A great novel is not so much what you tell, but how you tell it. That’s a writer’s style.

Still unsure as to what might constitute your own personal style? I don’t believe a writer chooses a style so much as it chooses you. Where to start? Sit down and begin writing with no particular destination in mind. No plot or direction or goal. You’re not starting a novel or a short story; don’t concern yourself with a beginning or end. You’re writing an abstract, a throw-away, and with no other purpose than to vomit words on paper for the sheer pleasure of doing so. You’re not worried about an audience or criticism or feedback—you’re simply attempting to please, even bedazzle, yourself. And when you begin to do so, maybe you’ve also found the beginnings of your style.

There is, within each of us, a deep and secret place where plots are bred and characters born. I’m not sure where it lingers—but I do know that when it wants me, it finds me. It exists in every writer. And as soon as your characters peek out from this hidden place, you’ll know it. You’ll soon begin to trust those voices and… ah, but that’s what Finding Your Voice (Part 2) is all about.

But first, a secret. Most editors, agents, publishers and thinking readers are able to determine a novel’s worth in the first four or five pages. Sometimes in the first four or five lines. When I read a manuscript, these are the fundamental, stylistic attributes I hope to discover in a book. (And, yes, I look in this particular order):

1. Great dialogue.
2. Clearly defined yet sufficiently complex characters (those who are uttering such insanely great dialog*).
3. Continuity and sequencing from paragraph to paragraph. Meaning that each new paragraph is a puzzle piece that fits seamlessly with the last. Your segues are properly energized (not summarized) and information flows without the slightest confusion (unless intentional) to the reader.
4. Continuity and sequencing from scene to scene. Each new scene—whether a continuation of the previous scene or an entirely new environment—is properly developed. Meaning sufficient scene/character setting is necessary: Where am I? Who’s nearby? How do I feel? What’s happening or about to happen? Yes, all a part of a writer’s style.
5. Plot.

Yup. When delving into a new manuscript, your plot is the least of my concerns. Some structure must exist, of course. Getting the reader here-to-there in a cohesive, entertaining, electrifying manner is important. But during those first few pages, electrify me (and subsequent readers) with your joie de vie, with a total awareness of your characters’ complexities, cognizant of how they speak and engage and energetically carry themselves from page to page. That’s how you get me to read your book. I’d vastly prefer two amazing characters, speaking dazzling dialog in a dark room for 300 pages than all the zombies, vampires and rogue Vultarian robots gathered together in a single book to annihilate mankind. (And lose, of course.)

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* Please do not confuse Shakespearean eloquence or elocution as a substitute for “great” dialogue. To me, great dialog is real dialogue. If “Huh?” is the quintessential response to a poignantly asked question, relevant to the character and to the moment at hand, that’s what I want to hear.
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A blog for fiction writers and impending writers. An editor’s perspective.

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What’s Your Intention?

Each chapter (or individual scene) that we write must have a specific intention. Sometimes in frenetic scenes, we might suggest multiple intentions, but one in particular, the scene’s major premise, should dominate. Writing is a linear process, so each intention should have a specific, chronological time and place. And why outlining scenes can be so important. We must give ourselves (or at least visualize) a logical roadmap and an eventual exit strategy for each scene you write.

Our goal, of course, is to propel the story rationally forward in terms of: scene-setting, character-setting and/or plot development. (Refer to Rule #5.) Each scene has, to some degree, a beginning, a middle and a conclusion—or if not a definitive conclusion, a consequence. A predicament. Each scene moves the reader from here to there (or to almost there) with both precision and passion.

Even truncated scenes, brief interludes and segues—often the most difficult scenes to write—have an intention, if only to kill time (The icy grip of winter passed slowly while Martin languished in prison.) or to change a location (The next morning, Wendy took Flight 857 to Zurich.) or to shift POV and/or the reader’s attention (“But enough about me, Bernard. How was your summer?“) Thus, each chapter—each scene,  paragraph and every line within—must be lovingly manipulated to best accomplish that task at hand, and then provide a smooth and believable transition to the next task at hand. Which would be writing the subsequent scene. When we’ve finished writing a scene, it’s probably a good idea to double-check both it’s clarity and its intended purpose: Have I sufficiently clarified the scene’s purpose? Have I whittled away unintended and extraneous prose? How has this scene advanced my story? Does this scene’s conclusion aptly set up the next scene or chapter? Or, should you be writing a cliff-hanger, does the scene snap at just the appropriate moment, creating urgency or uncertainly or sufficient dramatic impact? If we can’t mentally validate those objectives, we probably need to rethink the purpose, or the construction, of that scene.

Remember, whatever a scene’s intention, our underlying stylistic and mechanical approach must remain sacrosanct: clear and concise sentence construction, told dramatically and passionately.

For instance, while editing, I’ll sometimes come across a scene containing a character who is confused or muddled (or an amnesiac or drugged or dreaming) and the writer had decided to mirror the character’s vague and perplexed state by writing vague and perplexing prose. Absolutely not! Rule #29: Your characters may be elusive or distracted, but your prose must remain clear and concise. The writer must always maintain clarity, and in solid communication with the reader.

This excerpt from Mind Games (written by me, so I’m free to plagiarize):

Meaning that my intention had been to introduce a character in some sort of mental anguish, perhaps on the verge of emotional collapse. And yet told —one might hope—with a lucidity that hints of both a specific setting and the character’s state-of-mind. Once established, it’s time to move the plot forward.

Hollywood’s directors are often screaming at struggling actors; “What’s your motivation?!” In fiction writing, that relentless director inside your head should be screaming those same words. What are my intentions on this page! What am I trying to achieve here? If you’re writing a visually intense scene, (a battle, two lovers embracing, hoards of blood-thirsty zombies) are you providing sufficient clarity, grounding the reader in sights, sounds and textural richness? In an action scene, are you including only what’s necessary; excluding elements that slow pacing; e.g.; eliminating passive voice and avoiding unnecessary inner monologue?

From On The Edge—again, one of mine—and deep in the midst of an action sequence:

Keep the pacing taut, not bogged down (my first draft prose in red) with extraneous or irrelevant—at the moment—information.

In other words, in action scenes, our intention is to embroil readers in a rush of adrenaline. The verbiage above, in red, may indeed be integral to the story—but not here. No flashbacks. No philosophical rhetoric. No irrelevant supposition. This is a literary inhale (action!) after all. The extraneous facts are the exhale (Refer to Rule #8 again, if need be)… and belong elsewhere, when the action is complete, or before it begins.

Or, should two characters fall in love, are we clearly identifying those essential characteristics—two young, confused lovers pondering their next move as a couple? Even if our lovers are doomed to ultimately fail, are we clearly elucidating only those first tender moments—and not telegraphing the heartache that will appear 200 pages later? Because revealing too much is as erroneous as revealing too little. Our intention—in this particular scene—is to delve into their burgeoning passion. What comes before and what occurs next—well, everything in its own sweet time. (See Rule #16: Focus on the now.)
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A blog for fiction writers and impending writers. An editor’s perspective.

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Readers don’t want an encyclopedic
rendition of what you know about vampires,
A reader wants to feel those fangs
sinking into that poor woman’s naked flesh.
(Also: Exploring E-Prime Writing.)

Show, don’t tell. Most writers are at least vaguely aware of the adage. Yet some of us continue to persist in taking shortcuts that strip the passion from our creative intentions.

However, since the phrase show, don’t tell is bandied about so often, it’s not always easy to glimpse that archetypal forest through the proverbial trees. Perhaps the time has come to dissect its meaning, splatter some metaphoric blood, and see what makes the damn thing tick.

A writer I know once elucidated, rather ineloquently; “It means make love to me with your prose; don’t just fuck me with words.”

Or, as Wikipedia states: ‘Show, don’t tell’ is a technique often employed…to enable the reader to experience the story through action, thoughts, senses, and feelings rather than through the author’s exposition and summation.

Simply stated, some writers are so busy telling us a bare-bones story¹ that they forget to show us the underlying excitement: John came home. He went upstairs. He found his wife lying in a pool of blood. John ran screaming out the door, and then he called the police. An hour later, an old sergeant named O’Malley said; “It looks like murder, Mr. Smith. And you’re our only suspect.”

That’s plot driven, but little else—simply a “shopping list” of chronological events. We might see John, but we certainly don’t know John. But by showing readers who John is, and not directly telling us, the writer can break open John’s soul while still gradually revealing John’s story, allowing us a long, honest, revealing peek inside John’s mind. (We can know John’s personality, ponder his motivations, even if we don’t know for sue whether or not John murdered his wife. That John isn’t telling the reader (yet) isn’t a stylistic problem…it’s suspense.)

There’s been a recent influx of fiction writers who strictly adhere to the principle of E-Prime (short for English Prime) story telling, and that is to avoid the use of the often bland or inexpressive ‘to be’ verbs. (He was unhappy. They were hungry.) E-Prime verbs also exclude language (such as wanted, thought, believed, hoped, felt, loved or hated, bad or good…) that can lead to passive, uninspired voice. Or, in other words, lazy writing.

I do equate showing with Active Voice and telling with Passive Voice. Not that sensory details and voice structure are synonymous, but they are compatible. I usually find that a writer plugged into the showing/not telling psychology is likely more aware of the importance of exciting, passionate writing. To me, a good novel is one that continually imparts basic grammar and story-telling mechanics (Subject-Verb-Object)² with a powerful, dramatic voice.

I consider the above-mentioned exposition and summation to be lazy writing. Or at least tired writing. (Certain stylistic machinations can effectively work, if properly orchestrated.) But let’s face it, even Hemingway used active voice only marginally—imho—and often slipped into a dispassionate “telling”. Would Hemingway be published today? Good question.

Because if you find yourself constantly beginning sentences with: “It was…” or “He was…” or “They were…” you’re pretty much writing in a passive, superficial voice that most readers will discover devoid of feeling. I guarantee that 9 times from 10, a writer can easily find a more passionate resonance.

Consider: Jayden overslept. Or, Jayden was late for work.

With little effort, one can concoct a variety of active, far more visual solutions to stimulate excitement:

The alarm bell’s shrill scream sliced through Jayden’s sleeping brain like a hot knife.

Jayden hated mornings. He hated the sunlight playing peek-a-boo through his blinds, tormenting his eyelids with brain-numbing brightness.

Jayden hazily recalled having closed Wiley’s Tavern the previous night with a final whiskey sour, and grinding out his last cigarette an hour later. He dreaded the encroaching dawn with a mental anguish that bordered on physical pain.

Thus, even the ordinary can become an unexpected and pleasurable experience for the reader. Plots are finite. Imagination is not.

Passion should be—must be—a staple constant in your novel. If you find yourself writing dispassionately, ask yourself whether the content belongs in your book. Often, you’ll discover the material extraneous, or redundant, or not fully refined, and your brain’s sending you signals. If your brain doesn’t want to be here… a reader probably won’t want to be either.

Writing is passion. If you don’t consider a novel as you would a jealous lover with expensive tastes—one requiring the diligence, the selflessness, the patience and the isolation (from all your other friends)—think again. And if you’re not ready for the commitment, perhaps its time to find a new lover.

Because simple, coherent prose is the yin to creativity’s yang. So, yes—free the reader’s senses to run wild, but do so in basic, uncomplicated sentence structure: Cogent thoughts, simply told, in precise chronology.

² Subject + Verb + Object (SVO); otherwise known as Active voice. Conversely, OVS is often viewed as Passive voice. Consider—once again, because it’s important—the Jumping Cow Rule:

Active: The cow jumped over the moon. (SVO)
Passive: The moon was jumped over by the cow. (OVS)

Bad passive: It was the moon that was jumped over by the cow. (O,OVS)

‘It’ being an abstract representation of the object (and also a repetition of that object): Basically a clunky sentence structure… although the rare exception exists when you might find this phraseology perfect for your needs. If so, by all means use it:

“It was beauty that killed the beast.” (Fictional Carl Denim in King Kong.) And how could that line have been spoken any other way?

Rules can be broken…but sparingly, please.
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