Category: Writing tips

5 fantastic examples of voice

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Photo by Anna Gutermuth

Photo by Anna Gutermuth

Following last week’s post on how to find your voice, here are the first 100-ish words from five books with unique and strong voices; a mix of first and third person, and of new and classic authors.

Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge Signed it. And Scrooge’s name was good upon ‘Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a doornail.

Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a doornail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a doornail.

Unnecessary words like “of my own knowledge,” “myself,” and “emphatically.” Beginning sentences with articles and ending them with prepositions! And of course his completely pointless rabbit trail about the door nail. Yet none of it is truly pointless. By breaking these rules in the way he did, Mr. Dickens makes the story conversational. We’re not simply reading a story; we’re hearing it told by a charming, if slightly wordy, English gentleman.

First the colors.

Then the humans.

That’s usually how I see things.

Or at least, how I try.

***Here is a small fact***

You are going to die.

I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that’s only the A’s. Just don’t ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

***Reaction to the aforementioned fact***

Does this worry you? I urge you—don’t be afraid. I’m nothing if not fair.

You can tell at a glance that Mr. Zusak is different. His bold interruptions to his own prose are a fascinating quirk all by themselves. Add the narrator’s somewhat depressed sense of humor and subtle conveyance of authority, and you become hooked. Notice the things he says and doesn’t say. He doesn’t say who or what he is, but we can infer from what he does say (“Then the humans.”) that he is not human and (“I’m nothing if not fair.”) that he has some control over whether we live or die.

 

Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.

Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-eight million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.

This planet has—or rather had—a problem. Which was this: most of the people living on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper, which is odd because on the whole it wasn’t the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy.

Note the intentional wordiness, the amusing use of adverbs, how quickly he zeroes in from the hugeness of the universe to the ordinariness of digital watches. Mr. Adams has a unique way of looking at life, the universe, and everything—it is all absurd to him, and he enjoys the simple pleasure of sharing that absurdity with the rest of us.

You don’t know about me, without you have read a book by the name of “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer,” but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied, one time or another, without it was Aunty Polly—Tom’s Aunt Polly, she is—and Mary, and the Widow Douglas, is all told about in that book—which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before.

Breaking rules left and right here. Note the atrocious grammar and the way he interrupts and repeats himself. Mr. Twain puts us right in the room with Huck Finn. Simply the way it is worded helps us to both hear the accent and see the boy—before ever being told what he sounds or looks like.

 

All my life I’ve wanted to go to Earth. Not to live, of course—just to see it. As everybody knows, Terra is a wonderful place to visit but not to live. Not truly suited to human habitation.

Personally, I’m not convinced that the human race originated on Earth. I mean to say, how much reliance should you place on the evidence of a few pounds of old bones plus the opinions of anthropologists who usually contradict each other anyhow when what you are being asked to swallow so obviously flies in the face of all common sense?

Look at how long that last sentence is, with only one comma, and how it makes you read straight through it without breathing—and how subtly it conveys the talkative teenage girl. Mr. Heinlein achieves the ultimate victory in turning himself into an underage female.

 

Which of your favorite books have unique voices? Post an excerpt in the comments, or on your blog and link it back here!

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WANT HELP FINDING YOUR VOICE? Join us for Voice Week 2014, September 22-26

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5 ways to find your voice…in 5 voices

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  1. Understand what voice is

Voice is the personality behind your writing, the thing that makes readers recognize your work even when they don’t recognize the byline. Many things contribute to voice: sentence structure, word choice, mood, tone, and more—so by definition, all books have voice. But not all of them have really standout voices; the writing may be clean, but it lacks personality. But a unique and strong voice is priceless; it can make a book un-put-down-able regardless of plot.

  1. Train yourself to recognize a strong voice

This is easy, like if you read a lot or whatever. I mean, anybody can tell the difference between Ray Bradbury and Doug Adams and Earny Heming-whats-it, even if you throw out the plots. You just gotta know how to listen. Like, Bradbury is real poetic and descriptive and stuff. He can take you right back to summer vacation even if you’re freezing your toes off in December. Adams just thinks the whole universe is a joke, which makes him kind of depressing and really funny at the same time. And Heming…the Old Man and the Sea guy? He cuts out all the fancy words and just tells a simple story, but it’s pretty deep and stuff. I’ll post some little word clippy things next week so you can see what I mean.

  1. Remember, your narrator is a character, too

If you are behooved to write in the first person—telling the tale through, for instance, the eyes of your protagonist—you have certainly delved into that character’s innermost thoughts. But have you skewed every line of narrative with a unique, stylistic flourish?

Worse, a third-person writer may not have dreamed there was another character waiting to be tended to. But even a narrator who never steps upon the threshold of a single scene, is as vital as your hero—nay, perhaps more so. He is the voice within the reader’s ear. The eye peeking over their shoulder. Wouldst thou really let him wallow in commonplace prose?

Naturally, he must come from within you, and thus must start out as a part of you. Mayhaps he is an uttermost extreme version of a one side of yourself. Or mayhaps he is the darkest corner of your mind. Mayhaps he is the wit you wish you were. Ask yourself why he is telling the story. To entertain? To teach? To confront? To rant? Why does he bother himself to write it all down?

You may write in his voice all the time, or you may change narrators, as you would shoes, for each story you write. But whatever you do, do not let him (or, as it may be, her) become a bore.

  1. Experiment

When write long piece, piece like novel, you maybe accidentally write different voices. Maybe you read this book when you write chapter one, make you write one way. Maybe you listen to this song when you write chapter two, make you write another way. Then you go back, you read different voices, you see one you like, you write again to make all sound like voice you like. But you should try do more.

Take paragraph, write five different ways. Like a different person write each one. Maybe one a scared little child. Maybe one a drama queen. Maybe one a angry man. Or a alien. Or Death.

Find voice you like? Write more. Write whole scene.

We go deeper in voice experimentation in two weeks.

  1. Rewrite!

Come on people. You should have guessed this one. Did you not read the title of this website? What is wrong with you? Finding your voice isn’t as easy as changing a word or two. Oh-ho, of course you wish it was. But we can’t all have what we wish for, now can we? You’re going to have to go over that baby a few times, maybe alotta times, before it sounds peachy-keen. You should already know this. Why are you still reading?

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How terrible writers get on the bestseller list

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We love to deride them. The Stephanie Meyers-es and Dean Koontz-es of the world, who, despite lacking unique voices, characters, and descriptions, not to mention decent editing, are rolling in big piles of cash while the rest of us—real writers—are still flipping burgers at the Happy Clown. Indignant, we make fun of poorly-worded sentences, point out every typo with visceral satisfaction, and mock-gag at cheesy dialogue. It is the sheer magnitude of their success that makes them at once a mystery and an easy target.

Today I seek to solve that mystery—and to shrink the target.

My Theory.

There are writers who tell stories, and there are storytellers who write. The commercially-successful yet grammatically-challenged authors like Meyers and Koontz are storytellers who write. And while writers like myself have an awful tendency to insult them whenever possible, storytellers do have talent. In fact, there is a lot both types can learn from each other.

The Differences.

Storytellers are big-picture people. They are good at identifying major plot points and conveying those points simply and clearly. They are good at pacing, and using every scene to push the story forward. Their work is mostly composed of action and dialogue. But they have trouble with the details, with the close-up shots like character development, voice, theme, and setting. Grammar and punctuation are often just an afterthought.

Writers are detail people. They’re good at finding new ways to describe scenery, at creating unique characters, at using metaphor and analogy. Their work is thick with narration, description, and introspection. But they struggle with discerning the important parts of the story from the unimportant parts. They can write whole paragraphs that sound beautiful but put a drag on the story’s pace. They have trouble simply telling people what their books are about, and some of them have trouble coming up with a plot to begin with.

My advice to the storytellers: Many storytellers seem to be successful whether or not they put the extra effort into the writing, but don’t let that become an excuse. If you have completed a book in less than six months, don’t call it finished. Spend some more time on it—a year, at least—focusing on the writerly side of your craft. Dig deep into your characters and the poetry of the narration. Seek to create something not just entertaining, but beautiful.

My advice to the writers: Don’t attack the commercially successful storytellers; try to learn from what talents they have. Study the way they handle the movements of the story. What scenes do they play up? What scenes do they skim over? What makes it interesting?

As long as there is more to learn—which is always—it is our duty to do so. That’s what makes us professionals. That’s what makes us worthy of being read.

Are you more a writer or a storyteller? What do you struggle with?

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How to make your book read like a movie

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I have two pieces of advice today:

1. Don’t write your book as if it were a movie.

2. Do write your book as if it were a movie.

I love movies – and have spent considerable time daydreaming about my books as movies. There’s something magical about the scenery and the characters coming to life in front of you – with background music, no less! But some writers fall into trouble when they try to achieve that effect in the book itself.

For instance:

Against the left-hand wall were boxes of restaurant provisions, primarily paper towels for the rest rooms, candles for the tables, and janitorial supplies purchased in bulk. The right-hand wall, which faced the beach and the ocean beyond, featured two doors and a series of large windows, but the coast was not visible because the glass was protected by metal Rolladen shutters. The banquet room felt like a bunker.

            Sole Survivor, Dean Koontz, p. 239

What happened here? Koontz seems to think he has to  describe every feature of every scene down to the minutest detail for the scene to be vivid in the reader’s mind. But would the hero – who is about to find out whether his daughter is alive or dead – even notice janitorial supplies purchased in bulk? When you watch a movie, do you note the size, shape, color, and texture of every object in sight, or do you subconsciously register a general idea, and go on taking in the action?

The last sentence in this sample sums up, in seven words, what the preceding sixty-one words drag out. All Koontz needed to do was make some passing remarks about his hero squinting in the dim light of the mostly obstructed windows, or about the irony of the ordinariness of the restaurant supplies contrasted with the life-changing revelation he knows he is about to have.

Take the less-is-more approach. One or two details can go a long way into showing your readers where they are, but it will only hurt your writing if you describe everything. You’re the writer, not the set designer. You’re also not the fight choreographer. Don’t describe every single move in a fight scene. Your readers will get lost if they have to imagine each strike according to your exact specifications. A scene in a movie requires extensive choreography, but the viewer only perceives lots of movement and tension and clanging blades or flashing bullets, and that’s all you need to convey in your book. Not “a cut down across the left, followed by a two-handed thrust and a sweeping kick” for sentence after sentence after sentence.

The Takeaway:

Writing a book and making a movie require different methods to produce similar results. Give your readers a sense of scenery and action, but don’t get bogged down in details. Get back to the story!

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Read my other post on how to “show, don’t tell” by writing with the screen in mind. 

Sex in writing: where do you draw the line?

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Parental Advisory: This subject is unavoidably adult, but I have included nothing gratuitous or obscene. I aim to be frank but discreet. Those old enough to benefit from the rest of this blog are old enough to read this post.

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Without it, none of us would be here. It causes people to do crazy things, like throw away huge amounts of money, make idiots of themselves, occasionally kill other people, and of course, get married and have children. So can writers completely ignore sex? Obviously, no. The subject is going to come up. Not always, but sometimes. And anyway, we’re writers! We’re daring! We’re edgy! We push the limits of polite society!

But you wouldn’t show up to a book signing in a bikini.

In fact, you would consider it beneath you to do so. Why? Because although sex sells, there are a variety of words for people who sell it, and none of them are complimentary. Think about that. At what point does it become nothing but literary pornography? It doesn’t take writing talent to “turn on” readers. The crudest sentence (both technically and socially crude) can arouse anyone.

But sex isn’t just physical; it’s emotional, psychological, spiritual even.

And therein lies the key. The emotional side—that sacred bond shared between two people—that’s what you want to capture. But despite the great power of fiction, it has its limitations: while it is extremely easy to arouse your readers, it is extremely difficult to forge an emotional connection with them. One is a mechanical, hormonal reaction. The other is spiritual. You can try to use the mechanical to access the spiritual, but in this case, (be honest) it will only serve as a distraction. The physical side takes off—and blinds all other feeling. The moment you arouse your reader is the moment you cease to be relevant to their soul.

So what are we supposed to do?

Focus on the emotion. If you have to mention something physical, start with a kiss, a caress here or there, but focus on what that kiss means to your characters. What are they saying to each other in that kiss? Is the kiss a lie, or the truest thing they have ever expressed? What does it mean? Why is it important?

There is no need to go into great detail about where hands and legs and whatever else is; you will only undercut your attempts to connect, just as a guy would undercut his attempts to get a girl’s phone number if he kept making lewd suggestions to her, no matter how poetic his conversation was in between.  It’s the difference between lust and love; both are powerful, but only one means anything. So write about it, if you insist (assuming, of course, you are not writing a children’s book). But treat it as the sacred, private thing it is.

After all, you want your readers to respect you in the morning.

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You may have noticed I didn’t even mention erotica; this is chiefly because I deny its legitimacy as literature. I doubt any erotica writers would be hanging around this blog, but in case one happens to come across this post, well, I’m not going to apologize. And if I did, the word would be dripping with sarcasm.

 I welcome discussion in the comments – but please be sure it conforms to the parental advisory above.