What Is A Voice In Writing Novels & Stories

She was dressed so nice, she looked like an office lady and with the long weave, she was stunning. “Tell me about your passion, how you see the art of being a writer”. He posed, had his espresso that he had ordered and waited for an answer. “Uhhhm wow what a question… there’s so much about writing sir, things that people don’t know and not notice. Writing is simply a gift like all other gifts. A writer is a voice of every soul that can’t express themselves, a writer is a voice that puts people’s feeling down on paper. It’s being an ear of the deaf, a mouth and voice for the dump and feet for those who can’t reach the expected destination.

"Why didn't you tell me about your problem on day one? I would have spoken louder. I wou-" She shook her head. "That's not n-necessary." "Why isn't it?" "T-t-there's something in y-your voice," she stammered nervously as she gently tugged at her fingers. "In my voice?" She nodded again. "It's h-hard to ignore." "I don't understand where you're going with this." "Your voice," she looked down as a light blush stained her cheeks, "is the only voice that I can hear perfectly."

The real voice comes back so fast it scares me – three paragraphs pouring out of my fingers with the velocity of words that have been locked in a room and just found the door open, raw and honest and entirely devoid of the curated warmth that Victoria’s guidelines trained me to produce. I write about the jersey that doesn’t smell like him anymore and the twelve-minute counter sex and the dream about time and the guilt of wanting attention from a man who’s trying to give it but can’t because the world is standing between his hands and my body with a schedule and a camera and a woman in an emerald dress. Three paragraphs that feel like breathing after being held underwater and my chest expandi

The wind in the pines, erased. It wasn't an editing. It was a silencing. And then, a voice spoke. It didn't come from the sky or the land. It came from the absence the snowflakes created. It was a voice woven from the void between heartbeats, from the silence at the end of all songs. "A compelling narrative. Truly. So vibrant. So… loud." The voice was neither male nor female, young nor old. It was the sound of a star going cold. "But every story needs its final punctuation. Every symphony, its resolving rest. You have gathered the notes. You have defended the cacophony. Now, I shall provide the period. The quiet. The beautiful, everlasting… silence."

“Since you love writing so much, I will write a word and let you recognize it!” A white light suddenly flashed, and a word gently flew out of the void where the voice passed through. At a glance, one could tell that it was a woman’s writing. It was light, ethereal, and elegant! It seemed to be weightless! However, that word turned out to be “suppress.”

I have been waiting for so long I am not certain I know how to be anything else. I sat with that for a long time. Then I kept reading. The voice changed slowly, the way voices change when the circumstances around them change, not dramatically and not all at once but in small accumulated ways that were invisible week by week and unmistakable across months. The entries got longer. The sentences loosened. The specific, coiled quality of someone constantly bracing began to ease out of the writing the way tension eases out of a muscle that has finally been allowed to rest. Around the fortieth entry, somewhere in the weeks after the summit, the voice started to sound like mine.

Monday came with the specific quality of a beginning that had been earned. Elian was at his desk at 6:43 AM, which was four minutes earlier than usual, which told Dante — passing the study doorway with his coffee — that the novel was pulling him forward rather than requiring him to push toward it. The difference was audible. When Elian had to push, his writing-voice was lower, more interrogative. When the material was pulling, the voice had a different cadence — faster, more certain, occasionally stopping mid-sentence not from difficulty but from the need to catch up with what was happening on the page.

The place where the prose was doing something slightly different from what it thought it was doing. She had a particular gift — and Anya recognized this as a gift because it was rare, she’d known many intelligent people in her life but this specific intelligence was unusual — for hearing the difference between a writer’s true voice and a writer’s performed voice. The difference, in prose, between the sound of someone who is saying what they know and the sound of someone who is saying what they’ve decided is safe to say. The two sounded almost identical from outside. Clara heard the difference.

Theo handed in his Fitzgerald essay. It was the best thing he had written all year, not because the argument was perfect — it wasn’t, he had overcomplicated the middle section the way he always did when he was excited about an idea and did not trust the reader to keep up — but because the voice in it was fully his, no hedging, no apologising for the opinion before he stated it. I wrote at the bottom: You found your voice, don’t lose it trying to sound more academic. This is better.

### Find Your Unique Voice In a world brimming with stories, your voice is your most potent asset. Embrace your uniqueness, and let your individuality shine through in your writing. Don't succumb to the pressure of conforming to trends or imitating others. Your perspective, experiences, and voice are unparalleled—celebrate them. Authenticity resonates with readers and leaves an indelible mark on the literary landscape. ### Connect with the Writing Community