One of the things I hear a lot in my degree program is that I should spend time developing my “writing voice” because that is what will distinguish me from other writers. That’s true, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. Voice is not the same thing as style. Voice is style blended with my personality, vocabulary, syntax, tone, and unique life experiences. It’s what I care about, how I view the world, what my value system tells me is good or bad – my mind, heart, and soul. So, when my professor says “develop your voice,” what I hear is “become yourself.”
Gosh, it’s never occurred to me in my 40+ years of life to become me instead of being other people. I’ll get right on that.
To me, voice is something that must develop organically. There are things I can work on to strengthen it – practice conveying tone, pay attention to my unique way of putting words together – but my personality is what it is, my value system is pretty much locked in, and expanding my unique life experiences isn’t something that can be rushed.
In trying to define my voice, I’ve noticed a few things that carry over from project to project:
- My style is informal and conversational
- I use stream-of-consciousness sentence fragments
- If I’m not careful, I’ll unintentionally insert my emotional state into the tone of a scene
- My humor is understated and relies on surprise
- Common themes that have spanned multiple projects, regardless of genre, include the injustices women face in patriarchal systems, the intrinsic power of self-determination we all possess in spite of factors that sometimes limit our choices, and the value of interpersonal connections (romantic or platonic)
Excerpts from the Kingdom of Kelde project (high fantasy romance)
I pass The Golden Chalice, its lights beaming like miniature suns. In its overflowing taproom, the wealthiest war program graduates are spending their families’ money on top-shelf mead they don’t have the palate to appreciate and bragging about grand plans to earn a long name during their upcoming service term. Like me, they’re war program graduates; unlike me, most of them have below-average combat skills. I doubt most of them will last the full six years. Honestly, I’ll be surprised if the worst among them lasts a full six months.
“Wen!” Brax’s voice cuts above the noise, bright and loud.
The very next moment, I’m enveloped in a pair strong, tan arms and lifted into the air. I’m always surprised by the strength contained within his slender build. Regardless, I return the hug and inhale the calming scent of healing herbs that follows him everywhere. Tension I didn’t know I carried releases on the next breath, and I take a moment to listen to his heart beat a steady rhythm under my ear.
“If it isn’t Tanwen the ‘Top Graduate’ herself, finally gracing us with her presence!”
I look up into happy blue eyes. Their color reminds me of the sky just after sunset when the bright blue of daytime starts to deepen toward night.
“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” I say. “The weaponsmith caught me on my way out.”
“Did you get your spike-chain?”
“I got my spike-chain!” I can’t contain the grin that stretches across my face. I was late not just because the weaponsmith had delivered the spike-chain but because I’d spent entirely too long admiring the wicked glint of the curved spikes jutting from the top third of the chain’s length. I had to get the chain altered to fit my shorter than average height, but the cost will be worth it — the highly specialized and rarely mastered weapon is the key to my future.
Excerpts from the Faerwald project (urban fantasy romance)
842 CE – KINGDOM OF MERCIA
They leap forward, snarls erupting from their sneering mouths. Their fists fall upon her like stones, and their claws shred her skin. Estrid tries to run, but they come from all directions and there is no escape. She sees a brief flash of her father watching from the sidelines, silent and still.
She is three, and her father is tossing her into the air while her mother laughs. A vicious blow breaks her jaw and knocks her to the ground. She is fourteen, and her father is kissing her forehead as he gives her to the kind man he chose for her husband. Someone’s claws open her stomach from navel to ribs. She is twenty-three, and her father is holding her as she grieves her husband’s death. At last, the assault stops, but she knows it’s too late; her breath rattles in her chest, thick and wet. She is thirty-two, and her father is watching her die instead of helping her.
“Kill her and redeem yourself,” one says.
“Or be shamed within the tribe,” another says.
“It is the only way,” a third says.
She thinks she might see a hint of regret in her father’s eyes right before he slits her throat.
She wakes in a shallow grave, crusted with blood and unaware of how much time has passed. Her wounds have disappeared; her skin is unmarred; she is ravenously hungry. Horrified, she runs and doesn’t look back.
PRESENT DAY – NEW YORK
“They paid me no mind, but they are intimidated by you. How curious.” His voice is light but the authority in it sends shivers dancing across her skin.
She turns to him. He is no human youth to be rescued from drunken men; he is shádikin, and he is ancient. Possibly the oldest being she’s ever met.
“You are much older than you appear.”
“Yes,” he confirms with a twitch of his lips. His head tilts slightly to the side as he studies her.
He’s an attractive male, she can admit. Athletic body, tousled bronze hair, a disarmingly cute smattering of freckles that fall across high cheekbones, and intense hazel eyes that haven’t looked away from her. Yes, he’s attractive, but he’s also dangerous.
“What is your name, young one?”
“Essie,” she replies. “It’s short for Estrid.” It’s never wise to try to lie to an Ancient – they can hear falsehood in an elevated heart rate and smell anxiety as it rises from the skin. Truth is safer.
“Estrid,” he repeats. “An old name, no longer popular. It means ‘beautiful goddess’ in the original Norse. It suits you.”
Is he flirting? She gapes at him, speechless. His lips stretch into a slow smile, like he’s aware of how he affects her and likes it. The masculine confidence in that smile leaves her even more flustered.
“Would you sit with me?” he asks.
“I really should be going,” Essie says as she backs away. She doesn’t want to offend an Ancient, but she has places to be, things to do, no time for sinfully attractive Ancients messing with her equilibrium.
A sudden breeze ruffles her hair.
“Please, I would speak with you tonight,” he says from behind her.
She whirls around and lets out an undignified squeak when she finds herself nose-to-chest with the man who’d been sitting on a bench just a second ago; he was so fast she didn’t see him move. Strength and power radiate from him like heat from a furnace — teasing her, tempting her. She’s thankful his fangs are still tucked away; she’s already intimidated just by being so close to him.
With barely any space between them, she’s enveloped by his scent. It’s an unusual mix of leather, old world forests, flowing rivers and a coppery hint of blood. It’s both danger and safety, mystery and answers to unasked questions, an undercurrent of violence and centuries of restraint. She’s never smelled anything quite like it, and she barely suppresses the urge to press herself against him. Why is he so appealing?
She takes a step back from him and he advances, herding her back toward the bench and sending her heart racing. What does he want from me?
It’s been a long time since she’s not been the biggest thing to go bump in the night. She’s older than most of the shádikin she encounters, but nowhere near a match for the age and power that radiate from this Ancient. Her safety is literally in his hands and subject to his continued good will.
Essie opens her mouth to demand that he state his intentions, but she’s so off-balance that what comes out instead is a shaky whisper of, “Please don’t hurt me.”
Excerpts from the Malibu project (literary fiction)
TESSA – TENNESSEE
Tessa glanced at the house photos and wondered which one her husband would like. The one with the cute porch, or the one with the sprawling oak tree in the front yard? Maybe the one just uphill from the creek? They were all within her budget, and she could make any of them their home.
A knock interrupted her thoughts. Her husband was a little late getting in from work, but he wouldn’t have needed to knock and it was too late in the day for any of their neighbors to be stopping by. She peeked through the window — Edward Darcy, the town cop, was standing on her porch. She opened the door, presuming she would be hearing a pitch for the yearly fundraiser.
“Mrs. McDonald?” Ed’s usual smile was missing.
“Ed, you’ve known me for the better part of a decade and you’ve never called me by my last name. What’s goin’ on?” Was she being arrested? Had her husband been arrested?
He cleared his throat. “Tessa. Can I come inside? I have some bad news.”
She stepped aside and let him lead her over to the couch. Her heart picked up speed ‘til it was tryin’ to escape her chest and her shoulders jerked with every beat. Cops didn’t do home visits for ‘bad news’ unless it was very, very bad.
Rather than sit beside her, Ed knelt and took her hands in his. “Tessa, your husband was involved in a crash this afternoon and he didn’t make it. He died on impact. I’m very sorry.”
Do what?
Ed felt like the only stable thing in the room and Tessa clung to him, hoping she was about to wake from some sort of messed up dream. It couldn’t be real. Her husband was on his way home from work. They were going to look at houses. She was going to plant a vegetable garden next spring. They were going to enjoy the peace and quiet of a home away from the gossip train. It must have been a mistake. Her husband was on his way home from work.
“Are you sure?” Her voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from a long way off, and she wondered it if sounded the same to Ed.
“Yeah,” he said. “I responded to the call and when I recognized the vehicle, I checked for the fish.”
The fish. That awful tattoo her husband got in college on a drunken dare that he always teased was sexier than socks on a rooster. It looked like a blob with a tail and there wasn’t another one like it in the whole world.
There was no avoiding it, no rationalizing it away, no holding on to hope that it was some sort of awful mistake. Her husband was dead. He wasn’t coming home from work.
Her body didn’t remember how to breathe. A gaping hole had opened in her chest; she rubbed it, but it didn’t help. Ed was still talking but no sound was making its way to her brain. All she could think was that everyone who’d ever loved her had gone and left her all by herself.
She’d never felt so alone.
RHYS – FRANCE
Rhys looks out over the sea of screaming fans and wonders how he’ll make it through the remaining few shows.
The last month had been hell. The others think he’s contractually obligated to finish the tour, and while that’s somewhat true it’s honestly his dedication to the fans that’s prompted him to keep working. They’ve paid money for tickets, some of them have been looking forward to attending these concerts for months. He’s not going to let them down by disappearing before the Berlin show, which is the last one of the tour.
If not for that, he would pay whatever fine the label would want to charge him for breach of contract and he’d walk.
Being on stage used to be a joyful experience. Now, it’s like putting on scratchy clothes. He hates sharing the stage with people who betrayed his trust. He doesn’t even know what all he’s feeling – it’s a sick mess of hurt, anger, betrayal, disbelief and a tangle of other emotions he can’t even name.
He wants to spend as little time as possible with the band. He can’t bring himself to share a suite with them, so he insisted on having an entirely separate room for the remainder of the tour. To keep what little peace is possible, their manager agreed. But to disguise the rift, he changed everyone to separate rooms to make it look like it was just a change of preference.
The manager also also prohibited Rhys’s ex-girlfriend from traveling with the band for the rest of this tour. Rhys can’t find it within himself to be grateful for that considering the manager knew about the situation and had been part of the decision to hide it from him.
Turns out, nearly everyone knew about it: the whole band; their manager; the security team; half the stage crew. Rhys isn’t sure how they managed to keep it out of the media. They said they were going to tell him after the tour, and he thinks they made that decision due to money. They were afraid if she broke up with Rhys and started dating his band mate that he’d not be able to perform.
Seeing his band mate send texts to her after each show is a painful reminder that they’d been cheating behind his back for nearly the entire tour; each time feels like his heart is breaking all over again. He spent a year of his life being lied to by people he’d known for 20 years, people he’d trusted to have his back.
What else had they lied about over the years?
MALIBU
Rhys would be surprised if there’s anyone in the world who hasn’t heard about it, but Tessa had said she’d been on the road for over a year, so he wants to be sure. “I’m sure you heard I left the band…”
“Heard it on the radio, yeah.”
“Well, I thought they were my friends but some stuff happened that made me question that assumption, so now I’m wondering if I’ve even had a proper friend as an adult or if it was all just proximity.”
“Like the difference between a friend and a friendly co-worker?”
“Exactly!”
“I can see where that would be difficult – it’s hard enough for adults to build friendships, but add in celebrity status and bein’ on the road so much… it seems more natural to try to find friends among people on your level instead of scopin’ out the public at large and not knowin’ if they like you for you or if they just want to be close to you for the braggin’ rights, but the people in your industry that you spend the most time around are your version of co-workers. That makes it even harder, doesn’t it?”
Something within Rhys relaxes when he realizes someone understands without him having to explain it further. He’d been so young when his music career started that all of his acquaintances were connected to it. But then he’d met Tessa this morning, and they had so much in common that conversation had flowed easily. Is this what it’s like to have a friendship outside of the industry?
