Voice Lessons

By David Corbett

First, a couple workshop notices:

Starting January 23rd, I’m teaching an eight-week course on crime-writing both in-person at San Francisco’s The Grotto and online for Chuck Pahalniuk’s LitReactor. If you or someone you know is interested, act fast, because classroom slots are disappearing pretty quickly.

Also, I’m teaching one of my favorite classes at Book Passage the weekend of February 4^th-5^th. This one’s titled Integrating Arcs & Acts, and I do scene-by-scene breakdowns of five iconic films—Vertigo, The Godfather, Chinatown, Silence of the Lambs and Michael Clayton—and analyze them in terms of character arc, proof of premise, theme, subplot development and suspense, then use what we learn to discuss student work. Seriously, it’s the most fun you’ll have in a classroom ever, promise.

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Most of you know by now I often play the contrarian—call me Captain Cranky—hoping to ignite a fire or at least stir things up a bit, keep the discussion lively.

It’s something I tell my students about their stories: When in doubt, pick a fight. Terrible advice for a marriage, I realize, but that's a discussion for another day.

An example of my all-too-typical cranky contrarian method was my most recent post, where I staked out a somewhat extreme perimeter on the future of narrative, hoping to flag the flames of debate concerning where storytelling is headed.

I suggested that the eBook revolution may well introduce not just the possibility but a necessity to embed audio and video perks, making narrative a more fully multimedia mindmeld—perhaps, in the case of sophisticated role-playing games, even an interactive dance or duel—all of which most likely means a more communal, demanding and costly enterprise for writers.

A lot of the response this verbal shot across the bow engendered was to the effect that storytelling will never die—the delivery system may evolve, but the fundamental human craving for story will remain.

I don’t dispute this. (I may be cranky, but I’m not an idiot.) But I don’t think that’s why the book cum book will survive.

What is it about the book specifically that makes it both unique and indispensable? Here’s my potentially contentious, contrarian, cranky stand of the day, except it isn’t an extreme position; it’s what I truly believe.

We don’t read books for story. We read books for voice.

Or, put less contentiously: What books and especially novels provide that no other form can is voice, not story.

The book is a deeply personal meeting of minds, writer and reader, and its access to inner life offers a particular type of intimacy unlike any other. It provides access to a whispering or wisecracking confidant in a world of bellowing shills, feverish opinionators, thundering dullards. And the way the singular intimacy between writer and reader takes form is in the unique way the writer’s fictive universe takes form in words.

Voice is more than style, i.e., diction and rhythm, structural boldness, innovative conceit. It incorporates worldview and attitude, the embers of passion, the cool surfaces of reason. It’s the embodiment of the writer’s creative spirit in language. It’s the writer’s presence in words as we engage with her story in our own imaginations—and the written word does require engagement.

There is always an element of passivity to hearing a story, but the degree of that passivity is less in reading than in more visual media. Writers who understand this tend to rein in the special effects, but that doesn’t mean squelching every speck of individuality whatsoever—assuming such a thing is even possible.

The basic power of less-is-more resides in its respect for the reader, its understanding of not just the willingness but the need of the reader to share in the shaping of the story, not just sit there and get pampered with prose. This often leads to a belief that the best writing is always that in which the author disappears, and lets his characters and story command the stage.

And yet I wonder—is this really true? Does that describe the books we really admire and crave and return to? Or is there something subtler going on—enough individual distinctness to remind us we’re not alone with the words, not so much we wish the writer would just buzz off.

Even the sparest prose—Hemingway, Hammett, Simenon—conveys far more than just what the eye and ear take in. A uniquely rendered world takes form, but not just that. We feel what matters in that world, feel the ghosts in the shadows and hear the murmuring beyond the door. Strangely, so much is revealed in what’s missing, because somehow we sense what was chosen and why, and wonder at the omissions. That too is voice, for we know someone did the choosing, the leaving out, and can feel it in both the cut of the words and the gaping silences.

But whether the prose is spare or Proustian, we want not just Once upon a time, we want the smell of our grandfather’s cigarettes and after-shave and the freshly cut grass, we want the whispery hum of the dragonflies hovering near the rose blossoms just beyond the screen and the creak of the old man’s rocker on the porch as, after much shameless begging on our part, he tells us what happened to him all those years ago, when he was a wild young man back in Stillwater ... or Acapulco ... or Inchon.

From a writer, we want that presence in words on the page:

            You could not tell if you were a bird descending (and there was a bird descending, a vulture) if the naked man was dead or alive. The man didn’t know himself and the bird was tentative when he reached the ground and made a croaking sideward approach, askance and looking off down the chaparral in the arroyo as if expecting company from the coyotes. Carrion was shared not by the sharer’s design but by a pattern set before anyone knew there were patterns.

—Jim Harrison, “Revenge”

            From the beginning, we were sisters more than mother and daughter. Joanna Shaw rescued me in her way, and I tried to return the favor. I do not say this boastfully, but ironies are the way of the world, and now that I am an old woman I tell you with certainty that those who presume to lift another are most often in need of being raised themselves.

—Aimee Liu, Flash House

             The girls look like ghosts.

            Coming out of the early-morning mist, their silver forms emerge from a thin line of trees and the girls pad through the wet grass that edges the field. The dampness muffles their footsteps, so they approach silently, and the mist that wraps around their legs makes them look as if they’re floating.

            Like spirits who died as children.

—Don Winslow, The Dawn Patrol

            Three Indians were standing out in front of the post office that hot summer morning when the motorcycle blazed down Walnut Street and caused Mel Weatherwax to back his pickup truck over the cowboy who was loading sacks of lime. The man and woman on the motorcycle probably didn’t even see the accident they had caused, they went by so fast. Both of them were wearing heavy-rimmed goggles, and all Mel saw was the red motorcycle, the goggles, and two heads of hair, black for him and blond for her. But everybody forgot about them; the cowboy was badly hurt, lying there in the reddish dirt cursing, his face gone white from pain. The Indians stayed up on the board sidewalk and watched while Mel Weatherwax and one of his hands carried the cowboy into the shade of the alley beside the store.

—Don Carpenter, Hard Rain Falling

            She ached. As if her spine were a zipper and someone had come up behind her and unzipped it and pushed his hands into her organs and squeezed, as if they were butter or dough, or grapes to be smashed for wine. At other times it was something sharp like diamonds or shards of glass engraving her bones. Teresa explained these sensations to the doctor—the zipper, the grapes, the diamonds, and the glass—while he sat on his little stool and wrote in a notebook. He continued to write after she’d stopped speaking, his head cocked and still like a dog listening to a sound that was distinct, but far off. It was late afternoon, the end of a long day of tests, and he was the final doctor, the real doctor, the one who would tell her at last what was wrong.

—Cheryl Strayed, Torch

            Ree Dolly stood at break of day on her cold front steps and smelled coming flurries and saw meat. Meat hung from trees across the creek. The carcasses hung pale of flesh with a fatty gleam from low limbs of saplings in the side yards. Three halt haggard houses formed a kneeling rank on the far creekside and each had two or more skinned torsos dangling by rope from sagged limbs, venison left to the weather for two nights and three days so the early blossoming of decay might round the flavor, sweeten that meat to the bone.

—Daniel Woodrell, Winter’s Bone

In each of these excerpts, we get not just the beginning of the story but the entrance of the storyteller. This can be done badly, of course, and fan dancing won’t do. But neither will the timidity of those who use story like a crutch. It’s not flash we’re after but the sense of someone real speaking to us directly and honestly, and for that a certain confidence is not just called for but expected and deeply wanted. In some cases, even a fire-eyed bravado. Or just the intimate whisper of someone with a secret we feel almost certain we dare not believe, but will.

The writer who too obsessively vanishes leaves us at the altar alone. This is the ceremony of fiction on the page, the thing film and TV and games can’t do (or at least not so well), the thrill of it, the thing that makes the written word crackle and sing, that makes it sumptuous and sensual and gives us gooseflesh, the kind we get when someone important, someone we want to know better, perhaps even someone we want to love, is suddenly standing very near, and with a brief glance first one direction then the other leans close, very close, to tell us something.

So Murderateros—which writers do you read for voice? Which writers do you read for story alone, despite a lack of any distinctive individual voice? Are there any writers you admire whose voice is so subtle—Patricia Highsmith, is my example—it almost seems at first like no voice at all, until the tale gathers momentum and you hear it unmistakably in your mind?

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Jukebox Hero of the Week: Long ago in a universe far away, aka the 1970s in the Midwest, I did the solo coffeehouse bit, and I know how naked it can feel up there with just a guitar and a song. No one did it better than Townes Van Zandt, truly one of my heroes, and someone who can teach us all a bit about presence and voice and a slice of life rendered full in words.

(This particular song has a very special meaning for me, which I won’t get into, but should the one who knows what I’m talking about read these words and listen to this clip, know I’m grateful. For everything. Even when I’m cranky.):

That elusive voice

by Alexandra Sokoloff

I accidentally agreed to read some first chapter submissions for an upcoming conference (or the conference organizer figured out I’m a Pisces and just pretended I agreed to it so I’d have to do it, which actually would work like a charm.  Hmm… and that would be just like him, too.)

This is not something I ordinarily do because I’m so much more comfortable teaching plotting and structure – and rewriting! – than I am teaching more basic writing writing, which I tend to believe can only be self-taught.  I know how to write because I spent however many dozens of years journaling, starting at age four (my mother was a teacher and insisted that my siblings and I write every day.  First a sentence, then a paragraph, then a page.   Let me tell you – it worked.).  That’s not something you can recreate in a workshop, any more than you can teach someone to play the piano in a workshop or teach someone to dance or paint in a workshop.  The authors I know ARE writers; they may just have gotten around to writing a first book, but inevitably, in whatever way, they have been writers for dozens of years.

So I am reading these first chapters, and realizing that I am absolutely right – I cannot teach these people to write.   Some of them can write already, and some of them can’t.   I can make suggestions to all of them to improve what they have handed in to me.   And actually the suggestions would pretty much be along the same lines to all of them.  But the ones who can write will take my suggestions and end up with better first chapters – or they’ll ignore me completely and their chapters will still be good, possibly better than they would be if they tried to rewrite them.

And the ones who can’t write can take those suggestions and incorporate them until the cows come home and – I’m afraid – they are still never going to have chapters that would be of any interest to any editor.

These are not terrible writers I’m talking about, either.  The writing is not uneducated, or laughable.  That’s sort of what makes this kind of thing so painful to see.

And it occurs to me that this is mainly what editors are talking about when they talk about VOICE.  I think there’s some confusion on this issue because a lot of times when people talk about voice they’re talking about how a character narrates a story – especially those first-person narrations.   If they’re clever and witty and self-deprecating or use a lot of hip words, then a lot of people call that “voice”.    I also hear “voice” used to describe an author’s unique storytelling –I mean the author’s character, or persona, as it comes through the story.

But there’s a more important voice that makes a book – and I mean literally MAKES a book.  And that is the way an author puts a bunch of images, actions, thoughts, emotions and sensations into an order, in words, that puts a reader into the action and makes a reader have the exact experience that the characters are having – just like being inside a dream or a movie.

That is the real and completely elusive magic of storytelling – that an author can make all those disparate elements play as an engaging, unbroken whole – that literally becomes more important to the reader than their own consciousness.   Because it’s true, isn’t it?  When we read, we give up our own consciousness, our ego awareness, to the book, to the story.

I don’t know if this makes any sense at all, but voice is like the unspoken narrative that makes a dream seem to make sense at the time that you dream it.  It gives the action cohesion.

Okay, here's another analogy.  I was a theater director, mostly musical theater, and I've sat through many an audition.  This is always an excruciatingly tense thing in the first couple of seconds of a song, because you do not know if the person in front of you is actually going to be able to sing or not.  You are bracing yourself - physically bracing yourself, for the very real possibility that this person will not be able to pull off a song at all, which is actually very sad and painful.

Most of us now get to have this special experience with televised American Idol tryouts, right?

And when that person starts the song, and they really can sing, there is first a relief, and then a relaxation, a giving over into that person's hands, because you know they're not going to drop you. You can commit to that song, that performance, because of the singer's confidence.  They're going to do the work and make it not seem like work, and carry you along.

Same with writing.  The first page, the first chapter, has to convey that confidence in storytelling that will make the reader relax and give themself over to you.  They are putting themselves in your hands. But the thing that makes them have that trust is VOICE.

I would not exactly say that ALL published authors have this skill, or gift… not as far as I’m concerned. But they obviously have that gift enough to make other people (agents, editors, readers) give their consciousness up to their stories.   And most of the time, annoying as I find these authors, I would have to reluctantly concede that they have at least that much skill – compared to unpublished authors.

I’ve taught enough now to know that some things about writing CAN be taught successfully, so I find this question of voice very interesting, and, like most unknowns - scary.  

Is there a way to teach it, I wonder?   Or is it like perfect pitch – you can fine-tune it, but if you don’t have it, you don’t?

Now, there are obvious, easily definable problems with some of these first chapters I'm reading.   I think a first chapter carries the whole weight of the book with it.  It has to convey mood, tone, genre, foreshadowing, stakes, urgency  main character need and desire, setting, theme (especially, especially, ESPECIALLY theme) – and a dozen other things I’m not awake enough to list - and the absolute sense that this is a journey that we want to take. (Note I didn't mention "a great first line".  I am not one of the cult of the first line). 

And a first chapter doesn’t have to be explosive or perfect to convey those things, either.  If an author has written a book worth reading, the first chapter will communicate that (partly because if it hasn’t, the author will have rewritten the chapter or started over with a new chapter that introduces the book convincingly.)

So I can tell these writers that they need to be conveying mood, tone, genre, foreshadowing, stakes, urgency, main character need and desire, setting, THEME, etc.,  in their first chapters.   And I can make very concrete suggestions about how to bring those things out.   And I think I’ll make that my next blog post, as a matter of fact.

The problem is, I don’t think that’s going to do a thing to improve the voice of a book.

And – I’m not sure if I’ve ranted about this before, here, but I think contests put far, far, far too much emphasis on endlessly rewriting the first three chapters when there’s no book there to begin with.

Maybe the only advice to give people who haven’t discovered voice is – keep writing.  Write whole books.  And find a critique group that will let you read your work aloud, where it becomes immediately evident if voice is there or not.

Except that even in that situation,  if a writer doesn’t have voice, it doesn’t seem evident to them at all.

Sigh.

So here’s the question and discussion for the day.   Authors, can you actually tell us how you learned voice?   Have you ever encountered a teacher who was able to teach voice (or even adequately explain it)?    How do you define voice?    Readers, do you read for voice, and how would you define or explain it?

And Rati, if you have posts on voice that I can link to here, I think it would be great to have a compilation on the subject.    I was able to find Allison’s here:

Discovering Voice

- Alex

(Oh, and remember we have Captcha enabled now because of recent deluges of spam... sorry about that, but you have to enter the letters to post comments.) 

Moonlight & Magnolia's Keynote Speech: Master Your Voice

By Allison Brennan

Below is the speech I actually gave (mostly) to the George Romance Writers last Saturday night. I did go off on a couple or four tangents telling stories that popped into my head, but I did actually give the whole speech with some minor changes I'd written on my hard copy. I was definitely surprised I stuck to it!

First, can I just say that if you write in any genre of romance and live within a couple hundred miles of Atlanta, that this conference is one of the best? The chapter is amazing, gracious, and full of Southern hospitality. While I presented my own workshop on Friday afternoon, as well as the keynote speech, I also sat in on an incredible workshop put on by Michael Hauge, a screenwriter and story consultant. And while everything he said I knew, either from Vogler or our own Alex, the way he said it and the examples he gave had me looking at my stories from a slightly different angle.

For example, Michael talked about the tools for creating a subconscious connection to our hero. I'm not going to go into his workshop in detail, because no one would understand my notes, but when he said we must create empathy with our hero--we have to know where they start--so that when something bad happens the reader is already emotional invested in the hero. 

I had a problem in my current WIP because while I had Lucy Kincaid prove she was competent and smart and yada yada, I hadn't created empathy for her character for new readers. This is book two, and I just made the assumption that everyone would have already read book one. So the key emotional turning point happened far later in the book than it should have, and I gave no reason for the reader to be invested until that point.

Ironically, in my very first draft that I showed no one, I had the big emotional turning point in chapter one, but felt that it was a poor place to start the story because I couldn't assume that readers would understand that the news Lucy receives is truly devastating for her.

So, when Michael talked about empathy, then talked about showing your hero as powerful (one of the "subconscious connections"), he used the example of a surgeon saving a child's life . We're introduced to someone we know can get the job done, and therefore are willing to follow her on her journey, already invested in her because of her skill and dedication.

Suddenly, I knew exactly what was wrong with Act One. In my first draft, I'd subconsciously known that I had to give Lucy the bad news early. But I convinced myself Chapter One was too early (and it was) and kept pushing it back and back until my semi-final draft had it at Chapter Sixteen. By that point, it slowed the plot and didn't really create the empathy that it should have. 

I emailed my editor from the workshop and told her what I wanted to do--and she completely agreed. Now, this pivotal emotional turning point is in Chapter Three--after Lucy proves she's skilled and capable, she gets devastating news. Sure, this means a little more of revisions that I had hoped, but it's working so much better.

While nothing Michael Hauge said was a huge revelation, looking at something familiar from a different angle will completely change your perception and understanding. For me, it was about Act One--which is always the hardest part of my book to write.  

This whole experience reminded me to trust my instincts and stop second guessing myself. I should get it tattooed to the back of my hand.

Speech to the Georgia Romance Writers

Moonlight & Magnolias Conference

October 2, 2010

I have a confession to make.

Okay, it’s not much of a confession—it’s not like I’ve kept it a big secret. I don’t plot. I don’t outline. I barely write a synopsis. In fact, I only write the bare minimum required for only two reasons: when it results in a check (some contracts pay part on proposal) or when I have to get something to the copy department so they can, you know, write the back cover copy.

Plotting is like speaking.  I don’t plot, I don’t write speeches. Because writing the speech is like planning what I’m going to say days—or weeks—before I say it. What’s the fun in that? And it’s written—the written word doesn’t always translate well to the spoken word. If you doubt me, go buy my audiobooks. I listened to one chapter of SUDDEN DEATH and scared myself—and realized maybe the audio book deal wasn’t the best idea on the planet.

As Stephen King said, “I don’t think my books would’ve been as successful as they are if the readers didn’t think they were in the hands of a true crazy person. When I start a story, I don’t know where it’s going.”

I get that.

When I was first asked to give a keynote, I didn’t think twice about saying yes. I love giving workshops and I like talking (after all, I was voted “Most Likely to Succeed” and “Most Talkative” in school.) I didn’t think about writing the damn speech. But other people—people I adore and love and who mean well—thought I was insane.

“What do you mean you’re going to wing it? You can’t wing it,” said my friend Roxanne St. Claire. “You have to write the speech. Edit the speech. Rehearse the speech. Give the speech six hundred times to your dog until you know it by heart, but still print it out in twenty-four point font double spaced and put it in front of you in case you forget.”

I laughed. But she was serious.

Then Margie Lawson—you all know Margie Lawson, the woman who helped make the guy who invented highlighters a billionaire?—told me that not only did I have to write the speech, I needed a theme.

Theme? What theme? I don’t do themes.

Of course you do, she informed me.

No I don’t, I insisted.

She then told me that all my books had themes and I stared at her like she’d grown horns and she laughed at me (again) and wouldn’t tell me what the themes of my books were after I informed her I had no themes.

Bitch.

I didn’t need to write a speech—I’d simply jot down some bullet points and all would be good.

But between two little demons--Rocki on one shoulder and Margie on the other (where was my angel, dammit?) I began to panic. On the plane, I wrote a speech on my laptop.

I hated it. I can’t even remember what I wrote, but I revised the so-called speech all weekend until Sunday morning when I had to give it and realized it sounded like crap, and it wasn’t in a conversational order, and I didn’t put down half the stuff I wanted to talk about and it was, ahem, kind of short I realized after beginning, so I winged it, but kept referring to his miserable excuse for a written speech and kept losing my train of thought.

After that dismal failure, I said never again. I would never agree to speak to another group EVER.

The second time I agreed to give a keynote, I wrote a speech much like this one—in fact, the opening is pretty much the same. But at one point about three or four pages in, I went off on a tangent . . . and never did give that speech.

(In hindsight, I could have recycled it, because I didn’t really give it, right? Damn. Why didn’t I think of that earlier before I stressed about writing this speech?)

See, I have a speech! I figured, writing a speech wasn’t really plotting, because it’s not fiction. It’s like having a conversation with a couple hundred friends, right?

But I still needed a theme. Margie told me I needed a theme. What is a damn theme, anyway? I write to entertain people, not to educate them.

Well, I have one! And I didn’t even have to come up with it. The fabulous and gracious organizers of this conference did it for me. It’s your theme. Master Your Story, Master Your Destiny.

Of course, I then had to ponder what that actually means. Going backwards, isn’t destiny something like fate? Are we talking about controlling fate? Or sort of an H.G. Wells kind of time travel where if we didn’t do something right five years ago we can travel back in time and fix it?

I wish. I’d go back twenty-five years and not quit soccer because if I didn’t quit soccer, I’d still be in good shape.

I can pretend, anyway.

Or I’d go back fifteen years and start seriously writing earlier. Or five years ago tell myself that no matter how much I know about the business, I don’t know ten times as much and never will.

Ignorance is sometimes bliss.

On December 28^th, my fifteenth book will be released on the five-year anniversary of my debut novel. When I realized this, I was stunned, because I still feel like a debut author. I still feel like I know nothing about this business, until I talk to someone who knows less. J

There is one certain truth that you can take to the bank. Well, you might not get any money for it, but it’s the one constant truth in publishing.

You control nothing—nothing—in this business except for your book. Your story. What you put on the page. That is yours. Even if you accept editor revisions or critique partner advice or your husband’s insistence that you name every hero after him (ahem), it is your book with your name and your blood, sweat, and tears on each and every page.

Think about that. Your Story.

It’s all you control.

You don’t control marketing, advertising, reviews, or covers. You can’t substantively affect whether Walmart orders a hundred thousand copies or ten thousand copies or no copies of your book. You have no say if your publisher fires your editor or your editor changes houses.

Sometimes, you have some control over some parts of some books. But you’ll never know when or why or how much.

You control one thing. The story.

The theme “Master Your Story” might on the surface seem like a positive affirmation you chant at night to keep you motivated, but there is a deeper truth to it that few writers really understand.

You can’t be anyone but YOU.

If you imitate, you’ll be a pale imitation. If you innovate, you’ll rise to the top. (Someone other than me said something like this, but I honestly can’t remember who.)

Oh, but what about the market? I hear your worried minds ponder. What about Facebook? Twitter? Publicists? The high concept? The logline? The pitch?

Forget the market.

The market is constantly changing. Yes, you need to consider the market but only after you write the damn book. Because what’s hot now may not be hot two years from now. Or it might be hotter. Or publishers will be so over-inventoried that they buy your trending up vampire-werewolf historical time travel, but it won’t be out for three years and in three years just where will the market be?

If you don’t have a book, you have nothing to market.

Write your book with passion. Be bold. Be unique. Write in your voice, and make it the strongest voice you can.

When you’re done, when you have mastered your story, then you can look at the market. The question you should ask is:

How can I position this story to fit into the market the day I pitch it?

Sure, you might need to revise the book a bit, but it’s still your book.

Good stories can find a home. Sometimes it takes awhile. But one thing writers sometimes forget is that once you sell, you now have Expectations. With a capital E.

You have Expectations from your editor and publisher and agent. You have reader Expectations. You have your own Expectations. If you sell a story you’re not passionate about just to sell a book (though I would argue that it will be a harder sell if you haven’t put your heart into it,) you may be wed to that genre for years. It is hard to write something completely different without getting a pen name, and then that means building two careers.

It can be done. It has been done. But it makes your life difficult and even more complicated.

Soooooo much easier to love what you write.

Be the best YOU. No one has your voice. No one has your stories. If I gave everyone in this room the same one-line premise and told you to write a story, we would have as many different stories—unique in voice and tone and genre and execution—as there are people.

I call this discovering your voice. Your voice is unique and amazing. When you write with YOUR voice you have passion and heart in the story, no matter what you’re writing. Don’t be like everyone else. Don’t try to be the next Nora Roberts or the next Stephen King. Be the first you.

At my last sit down meeting with my publisher over the summer, someone asked me where did I see my writing going? This was a valid question, as I had just changed agents and that in and of itself was making a statement. I had to think about it, and then was prompted, do you want to be like X author or Y author? And I said no, I want to be Allison Brennan. I know that sounds cheesy, but it’s true. But if I’m going to be pigeon-holed, I want to write the types of stories like Tess Gerritsen’s THE APPRENTICE and Lisa Gardner’s THE PERFECT HUSBAND and THE THIRD VICTIM and Tami Hoag’s A THIN, RED LINE but . . . not exactly. They wanted an answer because they need it for marketing and planning and covers and all that stuff. I get that. Genre is about marketing and reader expectations. They need to know where I fit; or, rather, because this is genre fiction, if I fit the suit.

But I don’t want to be the next Tess Gerritsen or the next Lisa Gardner because I will never be as good a Tess or Lisa as they are.

That is what I mean about voice. It’s all yours. You need to develop and nurture and grow and protect it with all your heart and soul. 

When you do that, mastering your story isn’t far behind.

Some people say that you need three things to get published: talent, perseverance, and luck. You only control two of them. Talent—some writers are naturally talented, some have to learn more about the craft and practice, practice, practice.

Stephen King said, “While it is impossible to make a great writer out of a good one, it is possible, with lots of hard work, dedication, and timely help, to make a good writer out of a merely competent one.”

Perseverance—the hard work and dedication that King speaks of--that’s all you. Whether you have the inner strength to write and learn and submit and be rejected—over and over and over for years--that’s on you. You have to want it bad enough to make sacrifices, to learn from critiques, to not be destroyed by rejection.

Then there’s luck. Well, you have no control over that. But you can help luck find you. Go to conferences. Meet people. Enter contests. Submit your manuscripts. But more than anything, keeping writing and keep persevering. The longer you write, the greater the chances your book be on the right desk at the right time.

If I can impart any advice, it would be this:

Write. And write some more. No one is so good that they can’t learn. I still take classes, I still edit and revise, I still take editor input, and I hope that I always will. And even now, though I know my voice, I’m comfortable with my voice, I can do better.

Write for yourself first. As Stephen King says, write with the doors closed and edit with the windows open. Or something like that . . . essentially, don’t listen to everyone when you’re writing your rough draft. It needs to be you, all you, warts and all. Then you edit and revise and send it out to your trusted critique partners, you trusted editor or agent or ideal reader. Someone or several someone’s who will give you quality advice based on your voice and not theirs, your vision and not their dreams.

Don’t write to the market. Write with passion in your voice, with your vision, and only then, when it’s done, when it’s you, then look to the market and see where it fits or how you can position it to fit. The market isn’t evil—it’s there because of readers. But it’s changing all the time. And honestly? Good books that transcend the market sell all the time. The passion that comes through when you discover and hone your voice will make your work shine, whether you’re writing what’s currently popular or not.

Anne Lamott said, “We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longer which is one reason why they write so little.”

Don’t be sheep lice. Go forth and write!

Bleeding on the Page and Other Epiphanies

JT Ellison

As promised, I’m going to talk about the epiphany I had during the Donald Maass lecture at RWA a few weeks ago. And with apologies in advance to Mr. Maass, if I get some of what he said wrong, it’s not because of his teaching – he’s a fantastic teacher, and I’d attend anything he wanted to talk about. Some teachers are like that, they can make you look at a grocery list a new way. No, if I get it wrong it’s because I had my wild epiphany during his lecture, one that affected both the real me and the JT me, and I had to stop and really give it some thought.

Ready?

Let’s go.

Maass’s workshop focused on the turning point of a scene. Now, I hate writing exercises. Really, truly, I rolled my eyes when he said we were going to do one. But I was already so rocked by my first day at RWA that I decided to quit being a snot about it and at least try to play along. So here are my notes.

Donald Maass RWA July 30

The topic is how to make a flat scene come to life. The block quotes are direction from Maass.

What makes a scene transitory and profound? Something changes from the beginning of the scene to the end – what’s the moment of actual change?

Action, words, emotions that identifies the shift.

Think about the Scene’s turning point ten minutes prior:

What’s happening?

Ask the character:

How, Who, What are you right now?

Stop and find out who the character is.

Then go to a moment 10 minutes ahead – ask the same questions:

What is up with you?

How are things?

How has what happened 10 minutes ago changed how you feel?

Do you know you’ve changed?

Do you feel any different?

Is there something you can identify that feels different?

What was the exact moment you knew something had altered in your landscape.

This creates an inner turning point for the scene

TRANSFORMATION

Unfolding journey of the character. Reader’s emotional journey – what does it mean for the character?

What is voice?

Sudden epiphany, a shout from inside my head that actually made me tremble. Our Alex was sitting next to me, she probably felt the earth shift.

VOICE IS YOUR SOUL COMING THROUGH ON THE PAGE

Soul=passion=truth=reality

What is voice? he asks again.

Elusive, we all know that. Sought after, as prized as diamonds. Somewhat like pornography, a little different for everyone, but you know it when you see it. When a story is told is a unique way, when the words sing, the pages turn themselves, and you’re taken to a completely new world, that’s when voice is working.

It’s what we all dream of creating, and how we can look back at our own work a few weeks, months, ever years later and recognize that yes, it’s us, but we don’t remember the exact moment we wrote this. We transcend. We go to another place, into a piece of our brains that not everyone can find, and bleed out onto the page. We tune out the naysayers, the resistance, the blackbirds, and bleed onto the page.

Bleed. Lifesblood. Heartsblood. Soulsblood.

Because what is voice, really? Why is it so elusive? Why do publishing houses pay millions of dollars when they find it?

Voice is simple. It’s your soul. It’s that innermost place, your most private thoughts, fears, joys and loves. It’s the place no one wants to go, consciously at least. But to make a good story great, to make a mediocre character come alive, you have to tap into your soul. You must be honest, and good and true. You must allow your sacrosanct thoughts to leave their writhing nests and spill onto the page.

It’s dangerous, I know. The idea that a stranger could sit down with your book and find a link directly into your greatest shame, or your deepest fear, or your most expectant hope. Your soul is what makes you unique, different from every other creature. Soul is why you can give ten writers the same picture and they’ll all weave you a different tale. Soul is what separates great writers from brilliant ones.

Then I drifted off for a bit, staring at what I wrote, thinking that perhaps, I’ve just cured cancer. Or at least finally, finally figured out how to explain to people why some artists are artists and some people try to be an artist and can’t be.

So I finally tuned back in, and Maass had moved to another exercise. I’m a bit of a convert at this point, so I decide to participate. He asks us to think about a scene we’re working on. I don’t know if y’all recall that I mentioned I’d started my new book a few weeks ago and came to a screeching halt because my opening line came out in first person? Anyway, I’ve finally figured out why that is, and in the construct of Maass’s class, used that opening as my example. Forgive me if this is a bit murky, I’m trying to explain without giving anything away.

The book opens with an email between my main character, Taylor Jackson, and her best friend, Dr. Sam Loughley. For the moment, email is the only way Taylor can truly communicate with the outside world. It’s her lifeline, and she hates that. The email is a reflection of her true self. The words that she and Sam write are much deeper, more meaningful, than she can truly express herself. She’s so good at hiding her emotions, so this incident has forced her to take a trip through her emotions: sorrow, fear, loss, love and remembrance. She can only write about what she’s experiencing at the time, can only write her feelings – obsession, the madness of her words as the emails go out. At the beginning, I can use this to show she’s having doubts about the decision she’s made…

Maass’s voice interrupts my thought process.

When should she throw gasoline on those feelings and light a match?

Voice is more than soul – it’s also intention, and vision. Taylor is afraid, and the readers will see that openly for the first time.

Maass again, his voice a hypnotic lull - and now I’m annoyed with him because he’s interrupting my really cool train of thought, but I stop and listen.

In the world of the story, ask yourself:

What makes me angry?

What are the rest of us not seeing?

What must they understand or see?

What is the question no one is asking?

What’s the puzzle/issue with no solution?

What’s the most dangerous thing?

And now?

Powerless, she’s powerless, and that creates a great conflict.

What pisses you off? What is not right?

Indignation! But does that work for Taylor?

Where is the unexpected grace?

That’s easy, the grounds she’s inhabiting, the setting. The colors, the weather, the animals, the walks, the farm, the garden, the deer – but the comfort is the antagonist as well.

What needs saving? Appreciated? Loved?

Daisies on the grass…Taylor’s peace is an escape from her prison

When can this be expressed the most dramatically?

At this I stop and giggle, pulled from my lull. Why, on page 150, of course, because we’ve hit the mid-point. I rub Alex’s elbow to share my cleverness and we share a knowing laugh. Every Murderati knows what the midpoint is by now…

Who can feel the opposite and challenge?

That’s Sam. Hurt by Taylor.

What about a bad day at the keyboard?

Fear. Self-loathing. Fear. But what exactly is the fear?

Can you experience what they’re experiencing?

And that’s when I’m yanked from my story and into my own head. Fear is what I face every day when I sit down to write. Fear, and I’m not good at allowing myself to experience it. And for this book to work I’m going to have to drop some of MY walls to allow Taylor to experience what she needs to in order for the story to unfold properly.

Cue a moment of sheer, unadulterated REAL fear – will I be able to do that? I don’t like experiencing extreme emotions. I must, must, must not let that stop me.

I have a feeling this book might be cathartic. It better be, or I’ll end up drooling in a corner because I’ve let in all the worry and scary stuff.

We’re done now, and I’m sorry to see the class end. I imagine a week at Donald Maass’s hands would be enlightening. Frightening. And so, so helpful.

Go through the block quotes above. Imagine a scene you’re having trouble with. Hear a soft, gentle voice asking you these questions, and see if you can have an epiphany of your own.

This may be second nature to many of you already, and I know I already do many of the pieces of this exercise unconsciously, but having the ideas presented in this way did result in a new way of thinking for me. I’m going to have to put Donald Maass in my acknowledgments, because he allowed me to see what I had to do to make my story work.

What about you? Am I even close? Or does this all sound nutso? And have you had any good epiphanies, internal or external, lately?

Wine of the Week: Cantina Calpantena Corvina Torre del Falasco 2008 (Super yummy, thick and meaty)

On a very happy side note, ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS releases in the UK today! Click here for more info.

You're Not Normal: Speech to the New Jersey Romance Writers

By Allison Brennan

Below is the speech I didn't give to the New Jersey Romance Writers last night. Sure, I started the speech as it's written. I gave parts of the speech verbatim (cough cough--sort of--cough cough) but I ended up going off on tangents and sharing stories that came to me as I started speaking. For example, my story about my morgue tour? I elaborated far beyond what I wrote. But what happened was that I ended up skipping chunks of the speech because the wise and wonderful Madeline Hunter kept making strange hand signals to me and I realized that she was telling me TIME'S UP! It took me awhile to get it :/ . . . but then the light bulb hit: that's why Roxanne St. Claire told me to practice the speech and time it! So I wouldn't go over my allotted time.

Though, if I didn't go off on tangents (that related to the speech) I would have been under time. But honestly? I couldn't have done it any other way. I was just being me. Which was the theme of my speech.

Warning: There are typos and probably some non-sequiturs and I didn't actually read this speech in its entirity after I wrote it because I wanted to be conversational and I was nervous that if I edited it too much, it would be stiff and formal. Forgive me. It's been a busy week.

But not half as busy as Alex driving cross-country with her cats.

Speech to the New Jersey Romance Writers

October 24, 2009

You’re Not Normal

I have a confession to make.

Okay, it’s not much of a confession—it’s not like I’ve kept it a big secret. I don’t plot. I don’t outline. I barely write a synopsis. In fact, I only write the bare minimum required for only two reasons: when it results in a check (some contracts pay part on proposal) or when I have to get something to the copy department so they can, you know, write the back cover copy. Copy that I inevitable have to change because (cough, cough) I only wrote the copy because I had to and never looked at it again and whoops, didn’t I tell you that I changed the heroine’s name to Beatrix and the hero has only one leg? And the story takes place in Denver, not D.C., and it’s not a mass murderer but an identity theft ring?

Plotting is like speaking.  I don’t plot, I don’t write speeches. Because writing the speech is like planning what I’m going to say days—or weeks—before I say it. What’s the fun in that? And it’s written—the written word doesn’t always translate well to the spoken word. If you doubt me, go buy my audiobooks. I listened to one chapter on SUDDEN DEATH and scared myself—and realized maybe the audio book deal wasn’t the best idea on the planet.

As Stephen King said, “I don’t think my books would’ve been as successful as they are if the readers didn’t think they were in the hands of a true crazy person. When I start a story, I don’t know where it’s going.”

I get that.

Last year, I was asked to give a speech to the Emerald City Writers Conference. I didn’t think twice about saying yes—this was in Washington, and I love Washington and have been trying to get my husband to agree that fog and gray skies are a good thing, but he thinks I’m insane because I like the rain more than the sun. Anyway, I agreed and didn’t think about writing a damn speech, because what’s the fun in that? But other people—people I adore and love and who mean well—thought I was insane.

“What do you mean you’re going to wing it? You can’t wing it,” said my friend Roxanne St. Claire. “You have to write the speech. Edit the speech. Rehearse the speech. Give the speech six hundred times to your dog until you know it by heart, but still print it out in twenty-four point font double spaced and put it in front of you in case you forget.”

I laughed. But she was serious.

Then Margie Lawson—you all know Margie Lawson, the woman who helped make the guy who invented highlighters a billionaire?—told me that not only did I have to write the speech, I needed a theme.

Theme? What theme? I don’t do themes.

Of course you do, she informed me.

No I don’t, I insisted.

She then told me that all my books had themes and I stared at her like she’d grown horns and she laughed at me (again) and wouldn’t tell me what the themes of my books were after I informed her I had no themes.

Bitch.

I didn’t need to write a speech—I’d simply jot down some bullet points and all would be good.

But between two little demons--Rocki on one shoulder and Margie on the other (where was my angel, dammit?) I began to panic. On the flight to Seattle, I wrote a damn speech on my laptop.

I hated it. I can’t even remember what I wrote, but I revised the so-called speech all weekend until Sunday morning when I had to give it and realized it sounded like crap, and it wasn’t in a conversational order, and I didn’t put down half the stuff I wanted to talk about and it was, ahem, kind of short I realized after beginning, so I winged it, but kept referring to his miserable excuse for a written speech and kept getting lost and forgetting my train of thought.

After that dismal failure, I said never again. I would never agree to speak to another group EVER.

Except . . . I’d already committed to speak here. And there are more people. And my mentor, the brilliant and talented and wise Mariah Stewart is in this chapter. And I hate failure.

So I wrote a speech. See? I figured, writing a speech wasn’t really plotting, because it’s not fiction. It’s like having a conversation with a couple hundred friends, right?

But I still needed a theme. Margie told me I needed a theme. What is a damn theme, anyway? I write to entertain people, not to educate them.

But before a theme, I needed an idea of what to talk about, right? Something smart and witty and motivational.

Right.

When all hope was lost and I thought bullet points might still be a good idea, I read a message from someone on one of the RWA loops that said something like:

“I’m so glad to find people who think like me, who also hear voices in their heads. I’m normal after all.”

Hmmm. Normal. Right.

I have news for you. For that woman and every person in this room.

You’re not normal.

And why in the world would you want to be normal anyway?

Suddenly, there was my theme! “You’re Not Normal!”

Do not tell me that this isn’t a theme, because it’s the backbone of my entire speech and Margie said I had to have a theme. So it’s my theme and I’m sticking to it.

This woman who unwittingly gave me the entire idea for this speech is not the first writer I’ve heard who said something equally stupid. Ok, maybe stupid is harsh. How about immature? Really, you think it’s normal to hear voices? I’m sure that if we were all in the psych word together we’d think it’s normal too.

But honestly, why would any of us want to be normal? Normal is boring. And who decides what normal is anyway? Some government agency? No thank you. I’m not normal. And neither are you.

As they sing in my church, “Rejoice and be glad!”

Alleluia. Rejoice and be glad that you are different! That you stand out! That you’re strange and beautiful and unique.

I realized how . . . . um, unique . . . I was when I went to dinner with my husband about a year ago.

It was a private dinner, with his boss and bosses wife and a couple other people. Nine of us I think. Lori, the boss’s wife, is a fan of mine and we’ve chatted on line a couple times. She asked about my research, and I’d recently toured the morgue. So I told her about the autopsy I viewed, and then about the bodies lined up in the crypt—and about why maintaining good pedicures is so important because when you’re lying, dead, in that cold room the only thing anyone can see is your feet—and all the feet there were ugly as sin. I know, that’s mean to say, but it’s true.

I also shared what a body looks like when it’s been underwater for twenty-four hours. It’s not pretty.

I think my husband kicked me under the table a couple times before I realized that maybe my trip to the morgue wasn’t appropriate dinner table conversation.

But she’d asked.

Maybe it was more like the question, “How are you?” No one really wants all the details, more a general, “I’m fine, took the kids to the park yesterday and we had fun.”

When they ask, “So, what did you do today honey?” They don’t really want to know how you sat in Starbucks for two hours discreetly watching men and women who met online having their first “date.” I swear, I stopped going to one of my favorite Starbucks because it became a meeting place for MySpace dates and I was so distracted watching the body language and trying to figure out their backstories.

Being unique—i.e. not normal—runs in families. One late afternoon, I’d picked my oldest daughter up from practice. We were driving along a country highway and spotted a large dark green garbage bag in the gulley next to the vineyards. The way it was lying, with the shadows of the vines and trees that formed a windbreak, I thought, That looks like a body.

Just then, my daughter says, “Mom, did you see that garbage bag? It looks like dead body.” Then she adds, “Do you want to go check?”

Writers will often say they hear voices in their heads. Okay, there is something just not right about that. I don’t hear voices, and I’m sticking to that story.

I read an anonymous quote that hit home: “Many people hear voices when no one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up in rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they pretty much do the same thing.”

On the other hand, I’m a talker. When I’m in the shower or the car I verbally run through scenarios and plot points and sometimes I forget when someone’s in the car. My son has been known to say, “Mom, stop talking to yourself.” Just the other week, my oldest daughter asked, “Are you talking to yourself again?” And ironically . . . I wasn’t. Not really. I was sort of thinking out loud about stupid drivers. But the fact that she mentioned it like it was commonplace had me wondering how much I talk to myself and don’t notice . . .

Thank God for hands free phones. Other drivers will just think I’m talking to a friend!

And who are our characters anyway? We know them, right? Sometimes I talk out plot problems with my two older daughters. One of them will suggest a solution, and I’ll say, “But Moira wouldn’t do that.” Or, “Well, Robin is scared of the dark. She wouldn’t check it out.” My daughter tells me I talk like my characters are real people. Well, I know they’re not. I don’t expect them to walk down the street and say hello. Most of them wouldn’t anyway, they’re too busy J . . . but I do feel like I know them. I know how they’ll react in different situations. I know how they think. I get into their heads, walk in their shoes, and so when my daughter suggests something I have to consider not what I would do, but what they would do. And as I verbalize it, I use shorthand so yeah, it sounds like I think they’re real.

And sometimes I even run dialogue outloud. Now that’s fun!

Embrace what’s unique about you. Because you don’t want to be normal. Like a friend of mine, a bestselling author, tried to quit smoking, but quitting destroyed her creativity. Maybe it’s subliminal that she doesn’t think she can write without a cigarette, therefore she can’t write without a cigarette, but I totally get why she didn’t end up quitting. Your creativity is what makes you unique. Special. Not normal. It makes you shine. It doesn’t matter whether you’re published or not, whether you have twenty million books in print or ten thousand, whether you’re a mega-bestseller or a debut author or a struggling midlist author. Your creativity is different than every other writer on the planet. The way you look at the world—from big brush strokes of color and feelings and human interaction to the fine details of  individual motivation and personality traits.

Ok, who in this room HASN’T had someone tell them, “If I only had the time, I too could write a book.”

I swear, I want to shoot the next person who tells me that. I’ll bet it’ll happen by the end of the week. I hear it all the time, and I’m tired of being gracious and saying something like, “I’m sure you could,” or even something a little snide like, “Well, you have to make the time.” Because honestly? They can’t write a book. If they could they would have already tried. Because that’s what writers do—we write. We can’t not write. That makes us different in the eyes of the world, those who think they can, but really can’t. Those who don’t understand the fun of the “What if” game. Those who look at a man with a briefcase and see a man with a briefcase, instead of what we see. A terrorist with a bomb. An undercover cop with a wire waiting to pay a ransom. A lawyer with divorce papers in the briefcase on his way to get his client’s wife to sign, only to realize when he gets there that he was the other man who caused the break-up in the first place. An unemployed salesman on his way to a job interview, desperate because his sister is dying and he has agreed to provide for her three children, but he has no job . . .

So when people tell me they, too could write a book, if only they had the time, I just give a half-smile and nod and mentally think, what a dumbass.

I didn’t promise I wouldn’t swear in this speech. Apologies. Ok, I’m not really sorry. When I wrote this speech I wrote it stream of consciousness. It was a good compromise—no plotting, just write out a speech as if I was talking to a small group of people and let it just come out.

For writers, we are different from everyone else out there, but we’re also different from each other. When we see a man with a briefcase, we all come up with different scenarios for him. We play it through in our head. We tell different stories with different voices.

If we all had the same voice, books would be boring. If every story sounded the same, why not just figure out the formula and have a computer write it?

Your writing voice is truly unique, and you should celebrate it.

Henry Miller said writers have antennas who are tuned into the cosmos and draw out ideas. Natalie Goldberg said our bodies are garbage heaps: we collect experience and make stories from the decomposition of food. Claude Bristol said undoubtedly, we become what we envisage.

Does that make Henry a space alien or Natalie a pile of decomposing trash? What are you?

I sold my fifth complete manuscript. I had hundreds I’d begun and never finished, but I did type THE END five times before I sold. The first four books will never see the light of day, and that’s a good thing. But I needed to write them. I was discovering my voice.

Few of us write our first book and sell. Oh, yeah, sure, some of you out there have sold or will sell your first book. Well, blech. Most of us aren’t that good out of the gate. I sure as hell wasn’t. I needed to practice. I learned something with each of those stories, things I couldn’t really put into words, except one: voice. I was finding my voice. Strengthening it.

Some of us start writing what we think we should, only to discover that our natural voice is lighter or darker; we write a historical but realize we shine in the contemporary world. We write romantic suspense but discover we’re actually funnier on paper than we are in real life and end up with a romantic comedy.

Too often our voice is stifled by well-meaning people who want to mold us into what they think we should be. Parents, spouses, children may tell us what we want to hear, or be passive-aggressive, or downright ornery about  what we write. Crit groups can be jewels that help you find your weaknesses and fix them; sometimes they can be stumbling blocks.

But honestly? We—you and me—are our worst enemy in discovering voice. We tell ourselves we have to write this—and we have a long list of reasons to justify it. We tell ourselves we can’t do something, or shouldn’t, or should. We limit ourselves, we reign in our creativity because we don’t want to go over the top or too far.

But when you’re discovering your voice, that’s the time you should never stifle your exuberance. You should let the story run away with you and take you places you’d never go on your own. Does it matter if that particular book gets published? Or does it matter more that you discover what works and doesn’t work for YOU?

Editing is your friend. But that first draft—as Morpheus said to Neo, “Free your mind.” Let go. Let the story pour out naturally, and then you will find your voice. Then your talent will help you hone it, shape it into an enjoyable story.

Your voice is unique to you. Being unique is good—if you write like everyone else, what’s going to make your story stand out when an agent is rushing through the fifty-seven partials she had that month? What’s going to make an editor sit up and read more? Yes, you need talent. That’s a given. You need to know how to write. But lots of people know how to write. Not everyone has discovered their voice.

It’s not easy. Who said it would be? Honestly, anything worth having isn’t easily achieved. You need to work for it, want it, sacrifice for it. Look into your muse and figure out what you really should be writing. Free your mind. Let the story flow. Don’t worry about the damn rules that someone else made up—you can address the ones you want to in editing. Too many times we second guess ourselves as we write.

Stephen King once said, “No, it’s not a very good story. Its author was too busy listening to other voices to listen as closely as he should have to the one coming from inside.”

You have to listen to your voice, your own voice, because that’s the only way you’ll know for certain that what you write is YOU. When you die deep, write with the doors closed, listen to yourself, and write your passion, you will have discovered your voice.

But it’s not easy. There are times I sit there and doubt myself. Okay, every day I sit down at the computer I doubt myself. But when the muse hits, when I’m in the zone, I don’t think about whether the word is right, the sentence make sense, the scene is ultimately necessary. I simply write what I see and hear and feel in my head. I put myself in a characters shoes and become part of the story. I put aside the doubts temporarily. They never leave forever, but I can bury them enough to let the story tell itself.

Doubts are bad news—doubts make us do stupid things. For example, writing to the market. Yeah, I know, you always hear: don’t write to the market. Don’t do this, don’t do that, you have to do this, whatever. But the market thing kinda sticks with us because we’re thinking, well, maybe we’re doing something wrong, maybe we’re not writing what will sell, so we have one eye on the market and the other on our manuscript and honestly? You can’t write like that.

Case in point: me. I write pretty dark. Even my humor is on the dark side, and that’s my voice. It took me five books before I discovered my voice—practice is important, and I’m a slow learner. But I honestly believe that no one can tell you how to write or what to write, that the only way you can write what’s in your heart, write your passion, is through trial and error.

But that dang market—remember 2003? Chick lit. It was big. It was hot. It was selling. And here I was, writing romantic suspense and I thought, well, maybe I should write a chick lit mystery. My voice . . . mystery . . . with chick lit. Think: first person, humor, murder. I liked the story. My critique partners liked it. Then, I found an agent with my romantic suspense—my fifth book—and after we sold I asked if she’d read some of my other material. Sure, she says. I sent her what I had of Fish or Cut Bait about 200 pages—about a slightly overweight teacher who had a doctor husband and as they celebrated their five year anniversary on a cruise ship, Gemma, my heroine, doesn’t tell her husband that if he doesn’t rekindle their romance, she’s getting a divorce that she doesn’t want. She’s insecure and thinks he’s flirting with a blonde bimbo and then the blonde turns up dead, and Charlie is on the run as her killer—but he didn’t do it. Gemma is almost positive. That’s where my 200 pages ended . . . my agent emails me a couple weeks later and essentially says, while she really liked my heroine, I wasn’t funny and stick to suspense.

Voice is something that is unique. It’s not normal—it’s special. It’s all you. You can’t fake it, though some people think you can. When you discover your voice, the angels sing and you dance around the computer or pour yourself a glass of champagne. But discovering it isn’t easy. Would you want it to be? If it was easy, everyone would do it. If it were easy, you’d be bored. Achievement, the sense of accomplishment, comes because you’ve done something you couldn’t before, something you weren’t positive you could do. Discovering your voice, honing your voice, making it stronger, comes from practice and it’s all you.

If I can impart any advice, it would be this:

Write. And write some more. No one is so good that they can’t learn. I still take classes when I have time, I still edit and revise, and even now, though I know my voice, I’m comfortable with my voice, I know I can do better.

Write for yourself first. As Stephen King says, write with the doors closed and edit with the windows open. Or something like that J . . . essentially, don’t listen to everyone when you’re writing your rough draft. It needs to be you, all you, warts and all. Then you edit and revise and send it out to your trusted critique partners, you trusted editor or agent or ideal reader. Someone or several someone’s who will give you quality advice based on your voice and not theirs, your vision and not their dreams.

Don’t write to the market. Write with passion what fits your voice and your vision and then, and only then, when it’s done, when it’s you, then look to the market and see where it fits or how you can position it to fit. The market isn’t evil—it’s there! But it’s changing all the time. And honestly? Good books that transcend the market sell all the time. The passion that comes through when you discover and hone your voice will make your work shine, whether you’re writing what’s currently popular or not.

Anne Lamott said, “We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longer which is one reason why they write so little.”

Don’t be sheep lice. Go forth and write!