Back in junior high I learned that matter can neither be created or destroyed. I believe it to a certain extent. That's why I don't stand near someone who's dieting. I figure when I'm not looking, the dieter's fat cells will gasify and seep into to my thighs. However, I don't believe this particular theory when it comes to writing. In writing, matter won't come to you as gasified fat cells. Not usually anyway. It has to be created. Or plagiarized. Since plagiarism is frowned upon, a writer eventually has to create. What makes this whole process unique is that mysterious, elusive thing called writer's voice.
All writers have a voice. Some are just quieter and more normal than others. My voice has a name, Lovee Lorraine, and she's far from quiet or normal. She's a foul-mouth chain smoker who has a bad dye job, buys blue eyeshadow by the kilo and melts below the waist when she hears Sean Connery talk. When I first started writing,I didn't listen much to Lovee. I thought people would snicker behind my back if I wrote the way she wanted. Lovee, however, would have no part of my provincial attitude. If I tried to label some guy a jerk in my book, Lovee would call me on it.
"Reek-alert!" she would shout. "That guy's no jerk. He's deep-crevice navel lint and should be circumcised the hard way."
Lovee didn't stop there with the tacky metaphors either. Put some muscle into it, she said, but baby it like your first born. Give the story a brain, a heart and a soul. A plot. Conflict. Give it private parts. And use them. Frequently.
All right. Whatever.
Lovee taunted me to take chances. To push and lick the envelope. She wanted my real feelings, my real emotions. My sweat. My tears. My laugher. And very often, she wanted Almond Joy bars. She even forced me to remember how awful I felt when Jeff Larson broke up with me in high school so he could date the anorexic head cheerleader with a bimbo name. Only by remembering that, Lovee said, would I know the true meaning of deep-crevice navel lint. Only then would I truly want a man to be circumcised the hard way.
Okay. So, what was supposed to happen after I remembered all this heart-wrenching emotion? Did that mean all I had to do was put this down on paper, and I'd have an award winning novel written in my own voice? Apparently not. According to Lovee, this was just the beginning. This was the necessary evil that writers often call the first draft. Once I had the first draft, then it was time to get to work and put my voice to good use. How? By editing, of course. Edit, Lovee said, but don't efface. Polish but don't buff away the uniqueness of the story. Choose words wisely because words with voice can be the difference between a memorable book and just another installment from what's-her-name.
All of this sounded good on paper, but would it actually work--on paper, that is? I tried some of the things Lovee suggested, but nothing seemed to satisfy her. She wanted more flavor. More attitude. Always more, more, more! I soon discovered she had a bossy streak that could bully Martha Stewart into serving Lean Cuisine and Kool-Aid at a ritzy party. Then, came the day when Lovee actually laughed when I opened a vein and started to write.
"Any writer can open a vein," Lovee insisted. "Nora Roberts opens two per book. Give them something Nora can't."
I gasped. This was sacrilege. Heresy. And it couldn't possibly meet with RWA approval. "What could I give a reader that Nora can't?"
Lovee smiled knowingly. "Give them a piece of (insert evil laugh) the real you."
The real me? What kind of stupid voice was she anyway? And was there any chance she was right? To test Lovee's ideas, I tried some of her recommendations with my third book which was supposed to be a sweet romance. It didn't turn out sweet at all. It sounded, God forbid, a lot like the way I talk and think. It sounded, a second God forbid, like me. I sent it to my editor and held my breath. Weeks later, I wanted to phone her and tell her it'd all been a horrible mistake. I wanted to shout that Lovee made me do it! Then, something strange happened. My editor called and said she loved the book. She gushed about how my writing had blossomed. And she (insert drum roll) congratulated me on finding my voice.
Excuse me? My voice? That was my voice? I read through the manuscript again certain that I had missed something. It was an odd mixture of my Grandma Lide's Choctaw wisdom, Aunt Verdee's bi-polar Cajun-isms and some stuff I learned in college. It was dotted with a life experience or two, my feelings and my opinions. It was little parts of me, of who I am. A woman, wife, mother, sister, friend, daughter, writer. Each word dripped of ME.
Finally, I understood what Lovee meant. Nora couldn't see things through my eyes. Nor could she hear through my ears. And she couldn't process the world through my unique (albeit strange) mind. Only I could do that. In my writing world, I was a goddess, and my voice was a supreme being. I'd found my voice and bonded with it. I was so happy that I started dancing the mambo around my laptop.
Lovee took a drag off her unfiltered Camel and blew smoke in my face. "Hey, before you write your acceptance speech for the Rita, there's something else you should know about Nora."
I stopped dancing and lowered my victory-waggling hands. "What about her?"
Another drag off the Camel. More smoke. A bite of an Almond Joy bar. "When Nora opens a vein, gold comes out. Pure fricking-A, twenty-four karat gold. Top that, Wise One."
Oh.
Gold, huh? So, perhaps I still had some work to do. More lessons to learn. Maybe I still had to bond more with my voice. Right after I strangled her, that is. Then, I'd get to work on that next book. This one would no doubt be a best seller. And I would write it in my voice. (Insert even louder evil laugh) Mine. All mine.
Delores Fossen is the author of Unbridled, a western-romance and winner of the Review Choice Award. Delores has sold two other books to LionHearted Publishing and is also the author of dozens of short stories. Her current project is a romantic comedy.
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