Finding Your Own Voice

On my dashboard is the lovely Miss Piggy, a mascot and friend propped up close to my steering wheel. She is a finger puppet poised to watch over my verbal restraints (or lack thereof) during the usual traffic stress encountered on the highways and byways of America, and I trust her to defend me against all road gremlins. She is decked out in the faux pearls, satin gloves, and the elegant couture that has made her famous. She is my hero, because despite being a cob roller, she is able to go after what she wants, (Kermie, food, fashion) without fear or apology. Simply put: she has style.

Style is not so easy to come by in the world of writing. Many authors when starting out are very nervous about how they appear to the reader. They read a sentence with the same critical eye as a designer checking out the hemline . . . is it too short, too long, too revealing? Each component of a piece of fiction from plot elements to dialogue all contribute to the style of the writer, and often, the finished product works to win over the editor in a way that is as visual as an any evening gown. It is the gestalt effect.

We get so wrapped up in trying to break down each part of our writing, that we lose the real bones of what it means to tell a story or share an idea. We want to sound literary, or philisophical, or maybe brilliant as we try to copy our favorite writers. We want to write with their style, not seeing that each writer's life experiences, the type of environment or speech patterns they learned as children all contribute to that wonderful way they turn a phrase, so unique to their perspective.

And when we try to write like Hemmingway, Mark Twain, or Stephen King, we miss all the charm of being just plain 'ol Ralph or Mary from Pocatello, Idaho. For who else can describe two old codgers playing checkers in small town life with the same insight? Who else can see the aunt sneaking sips of gin from her over-sized purse with the same affection at the family reunion, or notice the run-down shoes of the town's biggest braggart the way you can? It's all these hundreds--even thousands of experiences from the mundane to the conjured fantasies of a daydream that create the writer's style. Style is the the fingerprint of the writer's soul.

Entire books and seminars will address style much more thoroughly than I could ever hope to do in this little, back water blog, but I just wanted to touch on it, because I know what it feels like to doubt the finished story, when it does not resemble anything like the latest bestseller. I would read a novel and then return to my own work thinking, "This doesn't sound as powerful (or fill in your own adjective.) as so-and-so." Such thinking would lead to further self-doubt about ever being publishable.

Now it's true that this difficult task of grooming oneself to write well requires looking closely at syntax, story elements and grammar, but what about the more intuitive aspects? Our style develops and changes throughout our lives, and many writers can switch genres with the same ease as Miss Piggy does her earrings. If we can learn to trust the process of writing after all our busy work and analysis, then perhaps the art that is inside us will manifest with all the spontanaity and magic that drove us to write in the first place!

Many great teachers of writing advise the writer to create first and edit later. This is absolutely necessary if we want to find our own style whether out specialty is writing restaurant reviews or spy thrillers. I have a couple of other quick suggestions.

• Read two or three books from the same author. First novels are fun to compare with the ones five or six books later. How has the writing changed? How does the author's voice settle in to the story over time?
• Read what you wrote to hear the rhythm of your writing and record it. Does it feel natural to who you are and what you want to say through your story or essay?
• Read aloud and record your favorite writers. This will develop an ear for why you like their particular style of writing.
• Create three characters. Have them attend an event. Each one gets to submit a diary entry of event. Now pretend you are in their world and write your own reaction. Then write it as the "author". How does each one differ? If they are all too similar, then you are letting your own style dominate the story.

There is a lot more to explore on this very elusive thing called style. It is what makes us wonderfully unique in a world where The Group Mind is trying to suck us into the vortex of conformity. But YOU would never fall for that. Afterall, you wouldn't be a writer in the first place if you didn't feel the need to express your own individuality. I like your style . . . almost as much as Miss Piggy.

Life Is Like an Upsidedown Cake

If you have tried to come back and see my latest entry, only to find the meager two essays posted so far, I offer my apologies. In the last three weeks my life as been turned inside out an contorted more than any circus performer. I was just diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

All the little tummy aches and fatigue were more than too many junk food meals gone bad. They were all indicative of a more serious condition.

The interesting thing, is though my mind raced with all the changes to come . . . surgery, lack of work and income, my sobbing daughter in the corner of the room . . . my deepest grief was in thinking that all those writing projects and partial novels would never know the light of day.

This morbid thinking put me in a near comatose state as I went home and lay down for hours (not much energy to do anything else) to look up information on chemo, natural healing, raw food diet, etc. I was planning to research for my classes all the many books I need to peruse, but the mind can get shut down when anxiety rules.

I thought about words like "cancer", "death", and "debt", all the while knowing that I was a coward for many years because they were always brushed aside. I was too busy. Not to say that I never contemplated my mortality. God, family, writing, mortality, and the ever-waning thoughts about sex, were always a given. I just thought I had a few more decades to get serious.

I do not plan to be depressed. I have those damn novels to write. I have monsters to face in my closet, and many truths to learn about things that were only philosophical musings.

My characters who face death in my work will be wiser. They will have less bravado. I will not make them shrug off danger as though they were in a Saturday morning cartoon with capes flying. They will be linked to a woman who is learning how precious life is, and who must not forget that each day is a new story unfolding. . .

I Am a Writer . . . I Think

This is a topic that will be addressed often, as one of the great dilemmas in this whole writing gig is knowing when you are worthy to say, “I am a writer”. How do you respond after someone asks you what you do for a living? The “for a living” cut off from the query would make it easy not to hedge. Otherwise one has to resort to answers such as:


Yeah, I chip bubblegum off hospitality tables, a highly demanded skill, but I really am a poet.


I’m a security guard at night, but my 600-page book on How to Read Your Future in Your Feces, is being considered by several editors as we speak.


Or, as in my case, “I am a professional domestic drudge during the day, but I think about dragons and fairies for my novel every minute I can.”


Those minutes are stolen during my commute where I use my digital recorder to rack up story ideas, and kitchen duties are less boring if I listen to audible books. It works out well, because it keeps me in a constant state of creative brain fog. I am able to be slow-witted and maintain a vacuous expression when my boss comes into the room. In my mind I am thinking of plot twists and the villain’s big line, “I’ll-lance-you-with-my sword’ you. Come closer, and I’ll feed your gizzard to my pet harpy.”


What the boss sees in response to a simple question like, “Have you seen my slippers?” is “Slippers? What?” Long pause to translate to my mind how the heck I would know where he took off his slippers, then trying to picture forty-two possible places they could be . . . but before I can shout for joy that I remembered what “slippers” look like, he is gone and thinking me the female version of Forest Gump.


So the question remains, are we truly writers when we are validated by professional publication; when we are able to buy our coffee and bagel that very first time from a royalty check; or the most tried and true confirmation, when a favorite aunt squeals our name at family gatherings, “Oh, there you are, the Famous Author, how I missed you!”?


Each one of these qualifiers will no doubt require a blog separately, that is why I am going to cut to the chase and give you my top five ways to determine if you are truly a writer (be it fiction or nonfiction):


1. Are you into revision? You write a grocery list . . . eggs, broccoli, green beans, cheese, toothpaste, and apples. Do you rewrite the list to properly group the produce, dairy, and non-food items? Wait a minute . . . it could use the ol’ alphabetical order, or maybe you should visualize the aisles and put them in order of display? What if you gave this list to your friend or significant other and they didn’t know you wanted organic green beans. Hell, you better put down the company you trust, as not all farms are the same. And don’t forget, if someone ran into you at the store, knocking you senseless into the condiment aisle, they should not find you clutching your notepad without the special dialogue that spices up the blandness of the list, “Purchase only the succulent green beans from American Organic Farms, as they will grace tonight’s dinner beside the savory pot roast.” Er, you get the idea.

2. Do you eavesdrop on conversations? The Post Office clerk sounds of f her monotone, “Any liquids, flammable items, or hate mail to your mother-in-law?” You ignore the last question because you know that it was all in your head. The next customer comes up and turns out to be a friend. You move to the side to lick and paste stamps to hear, “Bernice, you look so fabulous . . . with only one chin.”
Ah, they are enemies, a cat fight could ensue. How will my clerk answer?
“Thanks, Gabby. Lost a lot of weight after you tossed over your old boyfriend. He’s better than chocolate.”

The women sneer, rather than laugh. The insulting Gabby moves off and you have to think of a reason for the three stamps you glued to the counter, as your clerk gives you an evil glare.

3. “I can use this.” When sick, you try to remember every physical reaction, allowing your senses to capture each grueling moment as you plunge your head into the toilet. (At least after the first few times. The first couple dives are spent deep in prayer.) Or in the middle of getting your heart ripped out by the Great Argument that promises an indeterminable amount of leftovers in your future, do you stop in the middle of your defensive pleas to say, “Wow. This really sucks. I wonder if I can use this in chapter three when Dominic leaves Mariah to get a sex change.”

4. You have fantasies of tropical beaches. Oh, not the kind where oiled, firm bodies, are absorbing UV rays that will haunt them at forty . . . no, on your beach, you are free to set up a large umbrella chair and sit with your laptop properly shaded for the finishing touches on the third book, soon to be a movie. You sigh, “It is done. I thirst.” And your personal assistant, forced to wear a three-piece suit rushes forward with your Mango Smoothie to say, “I will have this off to the publisher before your next foot rub, Oh Great One.” (Okay, maybe your fantasy is better than mine, but I am middle-aged and need to watch out for too much excitement.)

5. You actually write things. I saved this one for last, because it is the hardest. When you’re done dreaming, plotting, and researching, do you actually write things? Scribbled on lunch sacks, old notebooks, and shadowed by obscure file names, are there real stories or essays piling up in boxes and on your hard drive? Do you whisper sweet promises to your characters that, “Someday, your story will be told.” If so, then you are a writer.

Maiden Voyage

At last I have decided to commit to the wonderful world of blogging to rant or wonder in prose about the meaning of life, the fickle minds of editors, and whether I need to give up chocolate.

By way of introduction, I am a middle-aged lady in graduate school, pursuing little initials and dots to frolic with my name upon completion of the program. I want to document the process of grooming myself to be a writer . . . more likely self-published . . . and to freely express my views on any subject I wish, er, until the Paddy Wagon pulls up to my door. No longer will I need to mumble under my breath about injustices done, nor scribble snatches of wisdom on the backs of grocery lists. Thanks to the internet anyone can shred the English language into little bits for strangers to read, and reveal openly their psychic frailties. I promise that this will be a place to find original stupidity and maybe a laugh or two.


The topics I am interested may click with you as well, such as: writing, self-publishing, sending off work to kids just out of college who read 50,000 words a minute and in seconds decide if your work is worthy to leave the slush pile, UFOs and the mystique of people who hang out with bulbous-headed creatures that prod them with turkey basters, (or was that licorice whips?), graduate school blues, comedy writing, fantasy writing, 2012 and the best place to grow produce in an Ice Age if the prophets are right, etc.


Once my website is up, those interested in gafawing or marvelling (only marvellers desired) at my first three chaps of some books I have self-published are invited to wander over.


Lastly, for those who just love to contemplate their creativity in the arts, be it writing or licking balloons in public while dancing to Dean Martin's greatest hits, I ask you to visit often. We might have things in common . . . sans balloon-licking.

This is the first push from the Shores of Aspiration. Good writing to all.

Let the ship leave the harbour . . .