Hearing My Own Voice

In writing, as in most things we do, people tend to settle into patterns. We develop habits, both good and bad. The more we write, the more we start to take ownership of the language. There are grammar rules we honor above others (different for each writer, of course) and cringe at the transgressions when we see them in others' work. We form attachments to certain words or phrases and use them time and again in our writing. Yet we also get quirky with language as it becomes a familiar friend. We break rules where we choose and cobble together new words where the old ones just don't seem to fit. These choices become distinctly ours. The style and the rhythm of our words repeats unconsciously in each new story. Though the content may differ, the pattern is familiar. It's the trellis beneath the vines, a comfortable structure for ideas to grow on. Without realizing it, all of these habits gradually develop into a recognizable voice.

In a similar way, most writers have a comfort zone with regard to the length of their work. The natural timing of their storytelling leads them toward novels or short stories, poems or epics. We rarely diverge from our usual format. Yet, I have known short story writers who lament that they're not novelists and others who wish they were better poets. We admire the skills we haven't mastered.

So, does reflection on our own natural tendency in writing inevitably lead to feelings of inadequacy? Must a writer possess and practice every skill? Must he produce the wide variety of literary forms, or is there one supreme level of the art to which we should all aspire? Initially, recognizing the patterns in my own work made me uneasy. My natural inclination is toward variety, so discovering the comfortable repetition of style in my storytelling could only mean limitations to me. There were limits on the ways I could tell a tale, even limits on what tales I could tell. There were limits to my imagination or my vocabulary. In short, I had doubts that I could be the writer I wanted to be. But widening my view, I started to recognize that there were patterns in others' work, too. Every writer, every artist or musician expresses himself when they create their art, and patterns as individual as each artist will inevitably appear. We are who we are, and we do what we do. That said, recognizing the comfort zone in your writing can be an opportunity to explore what lies beyond it.

As I became familiar with my own tendencies, I started to pick out the ones that got in the way of the story. I've worked at breaking some bad habits. When I've found myself reading another style with a certain longing, I set out to practice the things I admired. Over the years, the self-reflection has served to help me hone my art. Though I may return to my usual voice, I occasionally like to stray a while in foreign territory, and I have found I'm more comfortable now matching a style to a subject.

Such excursions can refresh your mind and help develop skills that will improve your regular writing. For example, if you find your stories build slowly and include detailed descriptions, try distilling one to its essence by limiting yourself to a page. For another exercise in finding the soul of a story, you could attempt a "six-word memoir" as seen in Smith Magazine . If your usual style is short, consciously adjust your timing to lengthen one. Both elaborate and condensed forms of storytelling are equally valid art and powerful in their own ways. These challenges won't necessarily produce perfection at the first try, but what they will do is exercise muscles you rarely use in your usual form.

Similarly, you can make an effort to change the style of the writing. If you usually write an omniscient point of view or third person, try limiting yourself to one character's eyes. If your writing tends toward simple action and dialog, try more description. If description is your strength, experiment with ways to imply it rather than saying it. Stepping away from what comes easily can be scary, clumsy and frustrating, but it can also provide perspective and new ideas on what you do normally.

It's important to remember that there is no one right way to write. Anyone who tells you differently is only trying to validate their own style or venerate a master they've put on a pedestal. We all have ways we like to do things and our own unique styles of communication. By playing with new possibilities, we learn what we can do. Then, even when we fall into a comfortable pattern, we know we have truly found our own voice.