by Unknown
Finding Your Voice
David B. Coe
Recently Catie also wrote an essay about "voice," so potentially there is going to be some overlap between us. Catie and I might reinforce each other’s points. We might disagree. That’s okay. Getting more than one perspective on any of these writing issues can be a good thing.
I have long believed that "voice" is something that works on several levels. Let me offer my definition. Basically voice is the distinctive tone, mood, and style that makes any book unique. For me voice exists on four levels, and I like to distinguish between 1) Authorial Voice, 2) Genre Voice; 3) Book Voice, and 4) Narrative Voice. What do I mean by each of these? Let’s take each one in turn.
Catie offered this definition: "Voice is the distinctive style that tells you who wrote the book you’re reading." That is a perfect description of Authorial Voice. Every author writes differently. Clearly. You can read Raymond Chandler and Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner, and identify stylistic quirks and tendencies that set each one of them apart. You can do the same with fantasy authors. An Anne McCaffrey book is going to read differently from a novel by Guy Gavriel Kay. They can write high fantasy, contemporary fantasy, YA fantasy, and you’ll still be able to tell one from another. (Yes, I know, McCaffrey has always said that she writes science fiction and not fantasy; work with me here . . .)
An author who is just starting out might have a harder time establishing a unique Authorial Voice, for the simple reason that he or she is new at this. When we first start writing we tend to mimic others. I know I did it as I was working on short fiction and early drafts of my first couple of books. I admired Kay, and so I wanted to write like him. But I also admired the simpler, more direct style of Ursula LeGuin, and so at times I imitated her. I had read a good deal of McCaffrey and Donaldson, Card and Herbert, and I’m sure I brought elements of their writing to my own. I also had things that I liked to do that were more idiosyncratic—they were mine. And with time, what began as an amalgam of stylistic mimicry became something entirely my own. I don’t think I’m unusual in this regard. Writers are readers. We learn what we like and dislike; and inevitably the styles that emerge as our own are actually alloys of individual preferences and chosen influences.
Like Authorial Voice, Genre Voice is an outside influence of a sort. Lets go back to the example I used earlier. Guy Kay and Anne McCaffrey have individual styles. But they also are guided in part by what they write. If they’re both working on high fantasy, their books are going to reflect what I would call the "received culture" of that subgenre. The prose and dialogue might be somewhat more ornate than it would be for, say, a contemporary urban fantasy. The pacing might be somewhat slower. There might be more threads to the plotting. If for their next books, Kay and McCaffrey wrote urban fantasies, their books, while still distinctive, would reflect that subgenre: tight prose; terse dialogue; fast pacing. Just as an epic movie feels different from a "noir," different types of books read in certain ways. This is Genre Voice. As beginning authors move into one subgenre or another, they should familiarize themselves not only with tropes and trends of that field, but also with its voice, so that their work reads as it should. It’s not that you want your work to sound like everyone else’s, but rather that you want your stylistic choices to reinforce your pacing and plotting.
Book Voice might be the hardest of my four voice levels to explain. I find that every project I work on has a different feel, a different mood. Usually the Book Voice is a blend of plotting and character and worldbuilding; put another way, it is the sum of all the storytelling elements that I draw upon to write the book. I’ve often found that the first 50-75 pages of my own books are the ones that need to be reworked most extensively in rewrites. And I think this is because it takes me several chapters to find the right voice for the book. With time, I grow more comfortable with the characters, I start to see exactly how the plot is unfolding, what themes are developing. If the book is one of a series, I get a better sense of how this volume fits into the larger work. And so, by page 100, I have found the right tone for my writing; I have established my Book Voice for this particular novel. If I was smart, I would stop there and go back to rewrite those first fifty pages. But usually I save that for revisions.
For me, the importance of Book Voice is greatest in a series. Every series has its own style and mood (I suppose I could have created a fifth level: Series Voice). Book Voice ensures that you don’t write the same book three times in a trilogy. Each book within a series should stand apart from the others. Yes, the characters and the world are the same—it might even be one extended story line—but each book should be unique. Book Voice makes that happen. One way to establish Book Voice early on is to write short fiction about characters or situations that are going to appear in the book. They don’t have to be stories you send out for publication, though it’s great if they are. But simply writing character studies and vignettes can help you establish that Book Voice, so that you don’t have the 50-page lag I describe above.
Finally, we have Character Voice. If you’re writing a book from a single point of view, then Character Voice is going to be quite similar to Book Voice. Your point of view character—your narrator—is going to establish the mood of the novel with her personality, her humanity. And yet, if you’re writing a series of books all with the same POV Character, you will still have to distinguish between Book Voice and Character Voice. You want your narrator’s style to be distinctive, but you don’t want it to be static. Remember, every book should be different from the previous one; otherwise readers have no reason to keep reading.
It’s in books with multiple point-of-view characters that Character Voice really takes on importance. If you’re switching narrators, your goal as a writer should be to make each Character Voice distinctive enough that your readers don’t need to be told whose point of view they’re in. Again, writing short fiction about your characters can be enormously helpful in establishing Character Voice. So can taking the time to learn as much as you can about your character’s background.
Finally, I find it helpful to give some of my characters (definitely not all of them) distinctive ways of speaking—a verbal tick ("ya know?"), a speech impediment (I have one character with a lisp and another who has a nervous habit of clearing his throat quite often), or even something weirder. One of my characters in my urban fantasy always talks about himself in the third person, and sometimes, for no reason, he speaks in verse. These are things that can help establish unique Character Voice. Ultimately, though, Character Voice is made by the character him or herself. It’s not verbal tics, but established attributes that make a character, and his or her Voice, unique.
Getting Started: First Lines
Misty Massey
First lines in a novel are a lot like the first words you say to an attractive person at a party. You want to get it right, say the words that will make those eyes light up. If you’re dull, you’ve lost his attention. If you’re obnoxious, you’ve chased her away. You want that in-between spot, the phrase that’s just right to draw in your reader and keep him around for the next line and the next. But how?
Alas, I can’t tell you. I can’t, because there’s no one answer. There are suggestions, certainly. But the perfect first line is as individual as the person writing it. If you take a class or attend a workshop or conference, you’ll probably be told never to begin with a phone call. Or a dream, or weather. They tell you this because amateur writers tend to choose those devices so often that editors have seen them a hundred times in every search through the slush pile. The last thing you as a writer want to do is bore the prospective buyer of your work.
When I was a kid, my mom would make baked chicken every Sunday for lunch. Every Sunday. After a long while of this, we finally begged her to make something else. Anything would do, just not the same thing we were used to. Baked chicken had become dull and uninteresting. The same thing happens to editors with story openings. If they’ve seen forty stories b
eginning with a dream this week, they aren’t going to pay attention to yours. Yes, the big names can get away with it, but they’ve already proved to an editor that they can produce a story worth reading. Until you’ve done that, it’s better to stick with the rules.
So no phone calls, no dreams, no weather. What’s left? Well, a lot of things. When I’m beginning a story, I sit down for a while, close my eyes and envision the opening as if it’s a movie. Who shows up first? Where is he? What is he holding? Who’s with him? I’m fond of opening with dialogue. Think about it . . . people talking is always an attention-draw in the real world, isn’t it? But dialogue can fall into that phone call category if the writer’s not careful, so be sure it’s the right way for your story. One of the best pieces of advice I ever received came from a rejection letter after I submitted to Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine. "Always start your story where things begin to go wrong." If your protagonist’s life turns upside down because of a car accident, try beginning with the accident. The best first lines have a hint of what’s to come, even if it’s the tiniest hint of all. That hint has to make me curious. It’s like people whispering over the water cooler—you hear just enough to know that you want to know more. That’s the job of the first line. Let’s look at a few.
"With almost ludicrous care, the old man carried the pitcher of beer across the sunlit room toward the older man who reclined propped up in a bed by the window."
—Tim Powers, The Drawing of the Dark
This one’s easy. Why is one man giving an invalid beer? I’m already curious on that alone. The Dark in the title refers to dark beer, and as one reads further, it becomes clear that the beer was being honored more than either of the men in the scene. It’s subtle, but it’s there.
"Dion Welch read auguries in rock-and-roll like some people read Tarot cards, and in very much the same manner."
—Tom Deitz, Soulsmith
Using songs on the radio to tell the future? How nifty was that? I was hooked, because I wanted to know how that worked. The story is about a young man destined to become the magical leader of a contemporary county in Georgia. The magic and the setting are displayed in the first line, in an easy way that gets the reader’s attention.
"She wondered what it would have been like to be perfect."
—Robin Hobb, Ship of Destiny
Who hasn’t wondered this? This time we’re attracted because we can all relate to this feeling. If she’s wondering how perfection would feel, what is it that makes her less? Is it the same thing that makes me imperfect? I’ll keep reading just to find out what’s wrong.
So now that we’ve talked about it a little, and maybe we’re feeling brave . . . tell me your first lines. Don’t share anything else about the story than that. See what people think might be going on, whether we can guess the tale from the hint of the line. Ready?
Go.
§§§
David B. Coe
My best first line is probably the opening of my most recent book, The Horsemen’s Gambit. The story begins in the middle of a battle tournament, so it was a natural:
First blood, the rules said. Beyond that, they didn’t specify. A nick of the skin, the severing of a limb, a fatal strike to the breast; any of these would do. First blood.
Charles E. Dunkley
Well, the opening line of my WIP is one I’ve shared here before. It’s internal dialogue:
Cast! I’m bleeding.
However, I’ve been thinking for a while now that the novel might actually benefit from having a "pre-scene" as Faith once mentioned her editor had requested. And for similar reasons: worldbuilding among them.
At the moment, here is the first line of this pre-scene:
The prince watched, eyes widening in growing horror, as the prow of his glorious war ship was slowly swallowed in mist.
Kim Harrison
Okay, I’ll play!
First line in my WIP Madison Avery III:
The hot fall sun seemed to go right through me, bouncing up from the aluminum bleachers to warm me from my feet up as I stood beside Nakita and cheered Josh on.
Not magical at all, so my editor and I agreed that we ought to stick our neck out and have a two paragraph prologue, so the very first words a reader will see are: "I’m Madison Avery, dark timekeeper in charge of heaven’s hit squad . . . and fighting it all the way." Last sentence in the prologue to keep them reading: "It would be a lot easier if my own people weren’t working against me."
The Opening Pages
David B. Coe
I often refer to myself as "an inertial writer." [Inertia: a body at rest will remain at rest, and a body in motion will remain in motion, unless acted upon by an outside force.] I write very slowly at the beginning of a new book or story—sometimes even at the start of a new chapter. The first day of actually writing a new book, I might only get a paragraph or two. On the second day, I’ll be lucky to get two pages. The third day is a little better, and by the end of the first week, I’m usually writing at close to my normal daily pace of eight pages, or about 2,000 words. It’s like getting a big rock rolling—it takes a while to kick my creativity into motion, but once it gets going, it moves along pretty well.
I have no secrets or tips for overcoming this initial inertia; if I did, I’d use them myself. I’ve come to see it as a natural part of my creative process. I don’t fight it anymore. And I’d suggest the same approach if you find that your first few days of writing are equally slow, or even if you encounter the same problem as you start a new chapter or part of your book. Creativity is not linear, it’s not always logical or consistent. Sometimes we have to be patient with ourselves and accept that some parts of writing a book are harder than others. If, after a couple of weeks, your output hasn’t improved, then you might want to consider a different approach. But for those first pages, even the first chapter or two, give yourself room to grow accustomed to your new project.
What about content? I want my opening lines to reach out and grab my reader by the collar. A novel, as opposed to a short story, can move at a leisurely pace. It doesn’t necessarily have to be nonstop action. Like a piece of music—be it a symphony or your favorite rock album—a good book (in my opinion) will have varying dynamics and rhythms: Vivace for some sections; adagio for others. Forte and then pianissimo. At times a book should leave a reader breathless with excitement and suspense. It should shock and frighten and arouse. But at other times, a reader should have a chance to catch his breath and regroup a little. There should be humor and quiet romance and time for a character (and the reader) to reflect. That said, I don’t believe that the opening pages are a time for reflection and calm. Like the first notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, they should smack you in the forehead.
I try to come up with opening sentences and graphs that will catch a reader’s attention. Sometimes this means putting in action or at least suspense. Sometimes this means trying something unusual, unexpected, even strange. In my second book, I wrote of the interaction between two societies: one without technology, one with. I wanted to convey immediately the sense among those without technology that they were out of their depth. And I imagined what it would be like to know only parchment and then encounter a written message from a society like ours. My opening:
The paper itself was a message. Immaculately white, its edges were as straight as sunbeams, its corners so sharp that they seemed capable of drawing blood.
It’s a bit odd to speak of a piece of paper in those terms, but "odd" was exactly what I was going for. Another example: In one of the Forelands books, I opened in the point of view of my villain:
What did it mean to be a God? Was it simply immortality that separated the great ones from those who lived on Elined’s earth? Was it their power to bend others to their will, their ability to shape the future and remake the world as they desired? Did he not possess those powers as well? Had he not made himself a god?
In this case, I wanted his voice to be the first that my r
eaders encountered, because he was the character who was going to drive the story throughout the book.
Which leads us to this: in composing your opening, you need to decide a few things. First, who is your point of view character for this first passage? If you only have one for the book, that’s easy. If you have several, whose is the most compelling voice? Which character is most likely to intrigue and seduce your reader? For the purposes of the story, who is the most logical choice? Sometimes this will be the lead character. Sometimes it might be a secondary character who doesn’t even survive the chapter. I often start my books with a killing. I establish a point of view character and then promptly kill him off. Why? Because murders can be intriguing and exciting. And also because this quickly establishes in my reader’s mind that no character is safe. Even a POV character can die. When I threaten a character it might not be for effect; it might be for keeps.
Second, where in the narrative do you begin your story? This probably seems like a pretty basic question, but it’s more complicated than you might think. At times I like to jump right in to the action that drives the plot. Other times I like to introduce a character, and so will place him or her in a situation that’s only tangentially related to the main story line, but that establishes certain talents or abilities he/she might have that are essential to the story. And at still other times, I like to play with time and chronology.