Finding Your Own Unique Voice

Finding Your Own Unique Voice

Guest Post From: Nikolas Baron

Attending conferences, reading about writing, and perusing writer’s market guides, writers often run across advice to “develop a unique voice”. It is some of the most valuable, and frustrating, advice a writer can receive. In addition to doing a thorough spelling and grammar check, revising and editing for clarity, continuity, characterization, and a solid plot, writers are told that they must have a “fresh voice”. What do editors mean by “voice”?

One mistake that many writers make is confusing voice with style. A style of writing refers to the way the material is presented. Sentence length, word choice, and structure of the writing all contribute to style. You can copy another writer’s style with impunity, but your voice must be your own, unique mode of expression that no one else shares. Your voice must stand out from the crowd, if your work is to be noticed. It is well understood that developing one’s voice is critical to success as a writer, but what is voice, exactly?

The precise definition of voice is difficult to pin down. Voice is a combination of style, and the unique perspective each writer brings to their work. Finding one’s voice is really a matter of finding the deeper motivation and purpose for writing, and allowing the depths of honesty to flow out onto the page. Finding a unique voice means writing not what you know, but rather what you are passionate about. Diction, sentence structure, and the choice of literary devices, as well as the tone of the piece, come together to determine voice.

Discovering and developing one’s own unique voice is a process that takes place over the course of learning craft and developing one’s writing experience and ability. To help hasten the process, try writing in a journal or blog, or even free writing. When unfettered from the rules and regulations of writing for an audience, the voice is freed.

Piers Anthony is a British writer who is well known for incorporating puns and word play into his fantasy stories. Milkweed pods, in his books, replace cows as a source of refreshing nourishment. Sugar sand is sweet, and ant lions are a dangerous hybrid of insect and large feline. Tolkien, by contrast, takes a far more serious and poetic approach to creating an equally elaborate fantasy world, relying on descriptive passages and elegant imagery to draw the reader in to Middle Earth. When reading, it’s easy to tell the two authors apart, because each has a unique voice.

Finding one’s own voice is a lifelong endeavor for most writers. Writing well is a matter of learning the craft, of studying grammar, spelling, and word choice. Studying craft is important, but in the pursuit of effective writing, many writers allow their voice to be buried in a sea of advice. By avoiding certain types of words, like adverbs, or certain types of sentence structure, like dangling participles, a writer limits himself or herself, fencing them in. Learning the rules is important. Without the rules of good writing, clear expression is impossible. Once the rules are learned, they can be effectively bent and broken.

William Faulkner didn’t seem to understand the concept of a run-on sentence. His sentences are sometimes several paragraphs long. Yet, his prose is known as iconic American literature, and his books have informed a generation of writers.  Mark Twain was perfectly capable of using correct grammar, yet his most effective characterization was created using broken dialect. Each word he laid onto the page was specifically chosen for its impact and power. He once said; “The difference in the right word and the almost-right word, is the difference between the lightening, and the lightening bug.”

Finding one’s voice is a matter of deciding upon the type of personality to bring to one’s work, and the tone that best fits the audience, and purpose of the writing. Word choice and sentence structure are less formal and more simplistic, for example, when writing for children, than writing for a professional journal. The personality projected when writing for a boss will be different from what is expressed when writing a love letter. Voice is as much a matter of tone as of style. Once a writer finds their unique voice, they will find success.

By Nikolas Baron

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Bio:

Nikolas discovered his love for the written word in Elementary School, where he started spending his afternoons sprawled across the living room floor devouring one Marc Brown children’s’ novel after the other and writing short stories about daring pirate adventures. After acquiring some experience in various marketing, business development, and hiring roles at internet startups in a few different countries, he decided to re-unite his professional life with his childhood passions by joining Grammarly’s marketing team in San Francisco. He has the pleasure of being tasked with talking to writers, bloggers, teachers, and others about how they use Grammarly’s online proofreading application to improve their writing. His free time is spent biking, travelling, and reading.

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Waiting: A Letter to my Aunt Susie Lynn Hubbard

Dear Aunt Susie,

One of my earliest memories of you, you weren’t there at all. You were 18 years old, very sick and in the hospital. I was too young to go in your room, so every time my family visited, I and my sister received a new comic book to read while we waited.

The waiting rooms were stark white, not colorful as they are today. I was about 6 and my sister, Lisa, was eight. Things were different back then, safer I guess. So we were left in the waiting room, alone with our Archie comic books, to read and pass the time. We would get a new one from the gift shop each time we visited. My sister and I would trade off, and read each other’s when we finished our own. I still recall the full page ad on the back, Sea Monkeys. I always wanted to clip out that coupon and send it in.

After loads of tests, you were diagnosed with a rare kidney disease. They gave you lots of medicine to treat it and you got better. You were back to yourself in no time.

You were always our favorite babysitter; you and my Aunt Patty would let us do anything we wanted. I can vividly recall sliding down the stairs in our snowmobile outfits. I hated winter and was quite happy when we moved from Michigan to Tennessee.

You moved as well with our grandparents, so we still saw you often. I remember our parents taking us to visit you at the restaurant you worked at-Jerry’s. You would buy us drinks from the fountain with your tip money. I always wanted to grow up to be like you. To work and make my own money to do whatever I wanted to do.

Then you got married, to some guy I didn’t know. It didn’t last though, and you were soon back home, with a baby on the way. You didn’t seem to miss him much. Why should you when you had us?

I had a ball while shopping for tiny baby clothes. Being the youngest, I wasn’t around babies much. I recall driving hours, it seemed like, to Nashville for your doctor appointments. The baby was a strain on your kidneys, so you had to be monitored often.

I was ten when he was born by Cesarean section at Vanderbilt. He was a big boy! I was still too young to visit legally, but I was more cunning then. My sister and I kept watch until the hallway was empty, and made our way to your room.

You were doing great, but your roommate was very sad. Her twins came too early, they were in intensive care. We normally weren’t allowed, but she okayed us to go back and visit them. I have never seen anything so tiny. I remember one weighed 12 ounces, the size of a can of pop. The other was about two pounds. I always wondered if they had survived. I hope they did.

Well Jeremy Nevle, named after his grandfather, was a strong, healthy boy. He had curly blonde hair and blue eyes. He was about three years old when we moved to New Jersey.

You moved too. Back to Michigan, with my grandparents and Jeremy. Not sure why you moved back. After living in Tennessee, I hated snow. And New Jersey had its share.

You came to visit us once, all of you flew over. We visited New York City and the Delaware River. My Grandmother loved flowers and had a green thumb that apparently skipped me. At one of the Botanical Gardens they had beautiful flowers, and signs clearly marked to not pick them.
Well, my Grandmother didn’t pick them. She dug them up by the roots to take home. You don’t mess with women who lived during the Great Depression. Of course she said they were always so poor in Kentucky, they didn’t know about any recession. Poor was a way of life.
We visited the Jersey Boardwalk. Atlantic City is like a life size monopoly board! And they had the craziest shops! I was a teenager then, and I remember wanting a pack of naughty playing cards.

Being my favorite Aunt, you bought them for me and snuck them out of the store. My parents were VERY upset at both of us when they found them in my room. Sorry Aunt Susie.

Eventually we ended up in Michigan too. One of the best nights of my life is when you took me, my sister Lisa, my cousin Renee, and Jeremy to a haunted house. Lisa lost her shoe, Renee peed on herself, and Jeremy was scarred for life. But it was a night I will always remember.
One good thing about Michigan was Halloween, your favorite holiday. Michigan is flat as a board, and the houses are about an inch apart, so you can hit fifty or sixty in a single night! You always took us trick or treating and would even dress up as well. We would get pillow cases full of treats, go home to unload, and out for more. Halloween is just not the same anymore.
Sometimes life moves too quickly, before I knew it, Jeremy was a teenager. And I had married and ended up with two boys of my own.
You moved to Georgia, where we now lived and even watched my boys from time to time. I was blessed by a divorce and as adults, we somehow grew even closer.

You had been fighting your kidney disease for twenty years now and it was taking its toll. You were unable to work. Having had hundreds of kidney stones over the years, you were in much pain and very frail. But, still in good spirits.
Jeremy grew up, got married and had a child. All of the goals you had set for your life were being checked off. Then your kidneys started to fail. You needed to start dialysis.

I went to the hospital with you to have your fistula surgery, to make dialysis easier. I stayed with you during set up and you told me: you were glad I was there, that you were scared to die alone. I assured you, that you would be just fine and left to sit in the finely decorated waiting room. I was alone this time, not even an Archie to read. It grew dark outside, American Idol came on, and finally a doctor arrived, it was tougher than they expected. Your veins were so weak. But the surgery was done. You started dialysis, choosing the first morning session before dawn, so it wouldn’t ruin your day. You woke up and drove yourself several times a week.

They suggested a kidney transplant but they wanted to remove your bad kidneys first. You see with Renal Tubular Acidosis your kidneys made stones, so they had to remove them. Once you healed, they would put a good kidney back in, if any became available. Your siblings went down to get tested for matches, but you refused. You just couldn’t part with a piece of yourself. Or perhaps, you were just tired of fighting. You had been through so much. On some dark days; you even spoke of ending it all. But I was there for you. And if I could have taken away your pain, I would have.
Spring was here and one day in my mother’s kitchen you told me what had happened at your last dialysis session. An air bubble had gotten into the tube and you’re your limbs contracted horribly, you were in so much pain. It passed with time but you vowed to me that you would not live like that. That you would never go through that again. And I believed you. You had already made your wishes clear and had filled out the forms stating them. You didn’t want to be kept alive on machines.

And the next day while I was at work, you were rushed to the hospital. You couldn’t breathe. A blood clot broke loose and entered your lung. You were too ill to do surgery. And the family came, but I was the first. And then my mom.

They were doing tests so we couldn’t see you. Again, I was waiting at the hospital. Older now, and wiser to things I wish I never knew.
We heard your voice in the hallway. Your unmistakable high pitched sound, you were talking to someone. My mother and I looked at each other and we went up and down the hallways looking for you. There was nobody there.

When you were wheeled down the hall minutes later, you were not conscious and an oxygen mask was helping you breath. My sister arrived as did Jeremy and his family. We took turns visiting with you.

As a lifetime asthmatic, I know about breathing, your oxygen level kept dropping lower and lower. Jeremy couldn’t take it and left the building. His only parent was leaving him.

Against your wishes you were put on a breathing machine to help sustain your life. It helped for a little while as we stood around your bed watching your body lift up off the mattress with the force of each breathe.

This is not what you wanted. And as much as I selfishly wanted you to live. I knew that you did not want to live like this. Jeremy came back and regretfully signed the paperwork. He went to be with his family as his heart broke.

And for once, I was not in the waiting room. I stood next to your side across from my mother and sister and I held your hand as the breathing machine was removed. You took several labored breaths, and we told you it was okay. You seemed to calm and a smile graced your lips. Then you passed from this earth.

At the age of 47, you were gone and I was glad that I was able to be with you. That you were not alone.

My heart ached so badly, I cried for a month. I had been blessed, and had never lost anyone close before. Jeremy, took it the worst. To this day he still blames himself. Maybe this letter will help him understand. It was not his choice, but your own.

And I know that you are not truly gone. I know that you visit from time to time. I have seen you in my dreams and while I was awake.
So I do what we all must do, I go on. But I try to spend more time doing what I enjoy and less time worrying.

Life is just too short.

With Love Always,
Lynn



This is one of the letters from the book, Lost Love Letters: An Indie Chicks Anthology available now from Amazon

www.lynnhubbard.com

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Pantyno's

As a Western Romance author, I spend a lot of time in Cowboy World. I was invited by a friend to join them in their yearly Cowboy Limo ride for the Holidays.

 I was so excited!

 I had seen previous pictures of everyone dressed up in finery for a night on the town. I asked about the dress code and was told it would be less dressy than last year, more semi-formal.

 Great! I love wearing skirts, and since it is winter it would give me a chance to wear the tights I had bought years ago. I hate pantyhose and have maybe worn them once in the last twenty years. However, this was a special occasion. Plus, it is fun to dress up once in a while. 

 So I sandblast my feet so I won’t rip a hole in them with my heels and carefully rip open the new package.
 
There must be some mistake. 

These pantyhose are four inches wide. I look at the package and double check the size. Size is correct. And I notice the “Tummy Control” lettering highlighted as well.

 I guess they will stretch, a lot. I proceed to get into my Yoga pose and carefully insert my foot. The first one is fine. The second foot was more trying, and I wondered if Harry Houdini could pull off this trick. I start the slow painful process and watch my legs disappear.

 I grasp the waist for the final hoist and rippppppppp, my thumb goes through the control top waste. But they are on, and even with the added hernia, they aren’t moving. The package lies, these are not tummy control, it is more of a butt corset. 

Nonetheless, I am thrilled by my accomplishment. I finish dressing and head off to meet the limo.

 I arrive full of good cheer! 

 Then I notice...everyone else is wearing jeans. 

 May everyone have a Happy and Joyful New Year! And hugs for Cindy and Beverly for taking me a long on their magical journey!

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Santa: Do You Believe?

I grew up believing in Santa Claus. And I still do. I tried to share this with my children. My oldest welcomed Santa with open arms, and had a LONG list of requests every year. When his brother was born he dutifully informed Santa of Michael’s wishes as well as his own.
Michael was not appreciative of Santa’s generosity and getting a picture with the Head Elf became harder and harder. Lots of tears and kicking. About the age of five I finally gave up on the perfect Christmas Card picture.
In fact, getting both of my children in a picture together while smiling was becoming a great challenge. So much for the wonderful dreams I once had. My world shifted from happy pictures of toothless babies to grumpy teens. Time certainly does change, but Santa is still the same.
And that awkward moment when I was questioned if he was real or not?
Well, Santa only brings presents to those who believe.
So Santa still visits my house every year.
I was even fortunate to recently meet the real Santa. (I have been advised, I am on the nice list.)
Imagine my surprise when I found out he rides a motorcycle and does volunteer work with the Patriot Guard Riders (PGR) for our Veterans. I was fortunate to be able to work with him on a charity project. And we would like to share it with you.
Because the most important thing about the Holidays isn’t found under a tree.
It is in our hearts.
Patriot Guard Riders Tribute

I'm Smell Blind

Several weeks ago, I realized I couldn’t smell. It wasn’t something I really noticed until I visited a fudge shop in Helen Ga. Helen is a quaint German town nestled in the GA mountains, where else would you go for Oktoberfest?

I was very excited to visit with my family and as always, our first stop: the fudge shop. The small shop was lined with people and we squished our way in. My sons wife, Tamara, grabbed my arm and says “Oh my God! It smells so good in here!”

I sniffed.

“I don’t smell anything.”

She looks at me like I’m crazy. “You can’t smell the cocoa?”

“I can’t smell anything.”

And for the first time, I bought no fudge. Not even a sample, I didn’t have the craving for it.

Since then, I began to ponder when I had stopped smelling. Everything smells like normal. All the time.

How long has this been going on? All the times I had sniffed my laundry, or previously worn clothing and came away satisfied. Now I wonder. Did they stink? Do I stink?

Showering has become an obsession for me, as well as doing laundry.

Cooking is a challenge. I have to constantly watch the stove because I can’t smell when the food is close to being done or burning.  

Walking the dog has been a pleasure. Picking up poop is no problem without the odor.

The hardest part I guess is my family, they are constantly “testing” me.

From holding fresh bags of coffee under my nose, to steaming cups of herbal tea. No. I don’t smell it.

No fresh baked cookies, or bacon, or the gift on the floor the dog left.

My helpful friends: “You know that’s a sign of Alzheimers.” If I didn’t have sinus problems, I would be more worried. Even after sinus surgery several years ago, I am still snotty.

One side effect is I have no cravings for food. I don’t smell the awesomeness of food, so I am eating less and only when I am hungry. Best diet ever.

The downfall, walking through the mall looking for Christmas gifts. Choosing scented candles by color or description. My son likes cologne and I can’t smell them. I can still picture the blank stare I have received from the sales clerk armed with a spray bottle when I informed her I was smell blind.

The term smell blind is not my own, it is a quote from the movie “Walk Hard.” My son declared me smell blind when I relayed my odd symptoms to him. In a crazy sort of way, it fits.

Is this permanent? Too soon to tell, but apparently, many people have this problem. Some have never been able to smell.

Maybe we should start a club.