Writers Don’t Sing, But Their Stories Do
Voice: singers depend on it, speechmakers too. And so do writers. But voice is probably one of the trickiest concepts to explain when it comes to writing.
I’ve been thinking about voice a bit lately because I’ve just finished writing a first draft of a new book. Initially—which is usual for me—the story felt voiceless, like a string of words lacking personality. But then, suddenly, the voice “happened”. I say happened because it’s a bit like that—suddenly it was there, when the day before it wasn’t.
But behind the “happening” lies a whole lot of things that I’m going to try to explain in this post. Because voice is crucial for a writer; you can have an intriguing character, a great plot, a fresh setting, but without voice, none of the rest of matters. I know you’ve felt this as a reader, perhaps without being able to put a finger on why a book didn’t grab hold of you. And I’m pretty sure most writers have felt it too—that sometimes there’s no magic in a piece of writing and you just can’t seem to lift it up out of the ordinary.
When the Story Sings
I’ve been to countless writing conferences where agents and publishers have sat on the stage and said that the one thing they look for in a novel is a compelling voice. And all the writers in the audience simultaneously nod, because they’ve heard this before, and look worried too because—what does that actually mean?
You know it when you find it. Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver has a distinctive, compelling voice. So does Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, Emily Henry’s Book Lovers, Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus, Amor Towles’s Rules of Civility, Shankari Chandran’s Chai Time at Cinnamon Gardens.
Voice is what lures us into these stories; it’s what makes us feel instantly as though we’re in the hands of a master. We can surrender ourselves to the pages, confident we’re going to be swept away. I once heard an agent say about voice: voice is where the story sings and the page falls away. Yes, that’s it exactly.