A Story for the Telling (Part 2)...

(Part One can be found at yesterday's post)

The Master Storyteller nodded his head. "You have plot, characterization, and your craft has improved."

The little girl chewed her lip. She wanted to pump her fist in the air, but restrained herself in front of the Master Storyteller. She was sure he could see her heart hammering in her chest.
He drummed his fingers once more, then pushed the sparkly binder toward her. "But your story lacks voice." And he flicked his wrist in dismissal.

She blinked, aware that she was to retrieve her story and leave the presence of the Master. But she couldn’t move. "Voice?" While she waited for some kind of clue as to what that meant, she racked her brain for knowledge of the concept.

"Voice." And he called for the next appointment.

With her binder once more clasped to her chest, the little girl moved toward the door. She hesitated, but this time the doorman only shrugged his shoulders and offered her a sad smile. At the entrance to the palace, she glanced around the courtyard unwilling to leave the city. She had come too far to walk away from her dream and with a renewed resolve decided she was in the perfect place to discover more about ‘voice’.

It was only mid day, too early for all the storytellers to be sharing their tales, but there were still plenty for the little girl to listen to. She stopped at the first fabler and focused on his words and the small crowd gathered around. When he had finished, and the audience had shown their appreciation with a smattering of applause, she stepped forward to ask him about voice.

"You must read extensively. The stories you enjoy the most should be the ones you write. I read every day."

She thanked him and moved further into the city. Another storyteller in the midst of entertaining an even larger crowd drew her attention. His story made her laugh along with the audience and she juggled her binder in order to applaud his efforts when he finished. As before, she approached him once the lingering fans had left.

"Write. Write as much as you can and for other reasons than just to tell your story. My journey here included a stint at limerick poetry and couplets in the Land of Rhyme."

With a heartfelt thanks the little girl continued her quest. So far the storytellers who were good enough to work in the City of Tales had alluded to reading and writing. But she did read and write and obviously that was not enough to give her story the uniqueness the Master Storyteller required.

She passed a few more minstrels as she contemplated her voice. A noise to her left pulled her from her reverie. A tremendous group of people was gathered around what the little girl could only surmise to be a fabulous storyteller. She nudged her way through the crowd until she stood at the front and stared in wonder at the tiniest man she had ever seen. He sat upon an upended apple crate, engaging the audience in a story of epic proportions.

By the time he had spun his tale, she and the crowd behind her were entranced. Moments passed in complete silence until the tiny man stood up and bowed his head, breaking the spell and inciting a rousing cheer, thunderous applause, and loud whistles of appreciation. While the crowd slowly dispersed, many going up to the storyteller and offering personal thanks, the little girl took the time to dry her eyes. The beautiful words had moved her to tears.

She waited until the stragglers had left and asked the storyteller about voice, sharing what she had learned from the others. He gestured toward her binder and asked if she had written a story. She said she had and waited to hear his wise words on finding her voice. She was surprised when he asked another question.

"But is it a story for the telling? Have you told your story aloud?"

Of course she had read her story aloud finding the practice helped in perfecting her craft.

"Not the words on paper. Not the way you have written them. Have you read your story from your heart?"

"No."

He gestured for her to sit, then he paced before her. "Do not dismiss what the others have told you for reading and writing are very important in learning who you are as a storyteller. But how you tell a story, from your heart, is the key to defining your voice. Anyone can put words upon paper, but each of us has a heart that beats differently. Speaking your story bypasses the mechanics and lets your uniqueness as a storyteller shine through."

Her mind whirled at the storyteller’s insight. Finally she understood why the Master Storyteller dismissed her. She had a story, but it lacked heart. No, it lacked her heart. She jumped up from her seat and thanked the tiny man profusely. He nodded his head and wished her luck.

As she ran through the city, her heart hammering in her chest, she passed the doorman on his way home. He called to her, "Where are you going?"

She slowed only enough to shout back at him over her shoulder, "I must go home and get to work."

"Will you return?"

"Oh, yes. And this time with a story for the telling."

The End

OMG - I just finished rereading this and had an 'aha' moment! From my own writing I find the advice I've been looking for - discovering your voice, speaking from the heart, your style! I must rush home...wait, I'm at home! I need to retell Lady Bells, not rewrite Lady Bells!

And, of course, you know this is not the last you'll hear from me about voice.

So, People of Blogland, what say you about voice? Have you had an 'aha' moment recently with regards to voice? Do you think it's as important as everyone leads you to believe?

Voice - It's All About the Clothes...

OK, stay with me here. I've been giving much thought to voice since our last conversation (here) and am still mulling over some of the final comments about the struggle some authors have with finding, admitting, being comfortable with their natural voice (and letting go of the fear that it's different - see, thinking and mulling with more to come next week on that scary subtopic of voice). And, as usual, I've been people watching.

So - the two together has brought this analogy. Voice is like the clothes you wear - your signature look. Now I'm not talking about the designer labels or the department store buys, but more about your style. Here's some examples:

My friend Pat wears black. She likes black and I associate Pat with black. I would never walk into a store with Pat and see a bright purple and teal top and exclaim that she must buy it because it would look fab on her. Never! That's not Pat. It's not her style.

My other friend Anna loves to wear funky, flowy garb - very tribal. I think of her as a earthy person - she loves the rusts, browns, oranges, some burgundies. She can wear a caftan and look marvelous (me, not so much) or a pair of leggings worn with a flowy tunic or a long skirt with a simple t-shirt and a casual vest. Would I suggest a purple and teal top if we were shopping together? Nope, not her style.

Another lady I know has amazing style. Tall, thin and always elegantly put together whether she's going to a party or just up to the neighbor's for a morning of tea/coffee and sewing. A simple soft pink long sleeved t-shirt paired with a brown crochet super long vest caught my eye a while back and I wondered why I couldn't pull something like that off. She wouldn't do with the purple and teal, either - but shopping with her would be a much different experience than shopping with Pat or Anna.

What did I say there? I wondered why I couldn't pull something like that off...because that's not my style. I don't think you're born with a 'style', but your personality shapes how you dress. Just as your personality shapes your natural voice. As you grow, mature, live life, your style flourishes. Just as the countless hours of writing, writing, writing helps to enhance and deepen your natural voice.

Am I making sense?

My style? Jeans, running shoes, t-shirts (preferably long Henley-style), sweatshirts. And if I'm getting dressed up? Casual pants that look a lot like jeans, comfortable loafer-style shoes (although I'd prefer running shoes), dressy t-shirts, casual sweaters. I have been known to wear fancier clothes, but my comfort level at that point goes out the door and I'm pretty sure everyone can sense my unease. Ooh, just like when I try to write outside my natural voice. Ooh, another little light bulb flash.

What's your style, People of Blogland? And do you think the analogy works? As always, would love to hear your opinion, comments, issues, insight into voice - the discussion is far from over.

Anyone want a purple and teal top?

Voice...

I posted a link the other day to Nathan Bransford's blogpost on Voice (here). I found the article to be very helpful as I have struggled with 'voice' for as long as I've been pursuing this writing career. I understand the concept, get that agents and editors are looking for writers who have a unique voice, but have struggled with discovering and accepting my own voice in writing. Somedays I thought it was elusive and something I had to learn, just as I had to learn not to head hop with point of views.

This phrase in Mr. Bransford's article - ...a personality and style that is recognizable even out of context. - jumped off the page. I think of those authors who I love to read, and who (I believe) I could pick out from a pile of anonymous manuscripts: Jennifer Crusie, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Linda Ford, Diana Gabeldon.

I love the word personality. Since I've been blogging (first over on The Prairies once a week and now, here, on The Journal daily), I've discovered my personality shining through my words. My writing, in response, has taken on a more unique personality - a more unique voice - since those first attempts with Lady Bells. G.P Ching and Roland D. Yeomans' comments on Friday made my heart sing - new readers to the blog, they heard my voice, and liked it!!

This was interesting: A good voice is never lost when the plot shifts. The authors I've mentioned never stray from the tone and inclination of their voice even if the tone of the story changes from funny to sad, or light-hearted to intense. And as I write those serious scenes in Mickey Spencer, AC, I try to remember the overall tone I'm attempting to produce - so my voice, even without me fully realizing it, stays consistant.

And I've come to the conclusion that the constant revisions and changes to a manuscript strip away an author's natural voice. Reworking something over and over again - focusing on the technical aspect or following the rules, can play havoc with 'voice', especially with a new author who's keen on pleasing people and wanting to get it 'right'. Don't get me wrong - revisions are necessary, but I've learned with Mickey's Story that the phrasing, style, humor, and tone aren't the things I should be 'fixing'. When I revise, I need to keep the 'voice', but make the story better. (I am in awe of Karyn - who is revising like a mad woman, but has kept her 'voice' throughout the procedure - and she has a great 'voice')

Well, People of Blogland, what do you have to say about 'Voice'? Do you think that new writers get caught up in revisions and perfection that they strip away their natural voice? Who are some authors who have unique voices that constantly and consistantly pull you into their stories? Do you believe 'Voice' is a personality or is it something that can be learned?

I'm looking forward to your answers and anything else you wish to bring to the conversation. The subject of 'voice' fascinates me to no end - and my brain, now that I have a better understanding of my own 'voice', constantly begs me to write Lady Bells with that twisted, humorous, Chick-Lit feel to it (medieval Chick-Lit - might work). I'm hoping a few of you will jump in for a lively discussion.

(I apologize if this post is more rambling than my usual - Blogger went haywire when I was trying to upload my picture, notice I don't have one today, and began erasing all of my post. ACK!)

"No More Spiders", said the tiny voice...

Last Thursday I passed the 40 day mark of my second Lent of the year. The first, and original, saw me giving up wine for 40 days. My success with that venture spurred me on to try another 40 days. I thought, at first, of adding something to my day ('I will walk for 40 days'), but realized that adding something would be twice as hard as giving something up. I mean, you can always say no, but to actually DO something takes a lot more willpower. And, really, who wants to walk for 40 days straight. Of course, my butt would be looking better by now had I done that.

Where was I? Yes, I gave up Spider Solitaire for the second 40 days! I had once again become addicted to that stupid game (having given it up during the move in August and not having Internet). It was so easy to click on the link as I sat at my computer thinking of what to write, how to revise a certain 50 pages, trying to decide on a blogpost. And I had convinced myself that because it was timed, I was only taking 10 minute breaks. Yeah, unless you count all the minutes after the original 10 as I hit replay over and over again! There were some days when a half an hour would fly past as I stared at those cards and tried to beat the clock. Yikes.

I will confess, the first week was hard - almost as hard as giving up wine. My finger would itch to click that button - just 10 minutes - a respite from the day job. But I worked through it and am now free of that addiction (for anyone who wants to know, I did not give up wine completely after the first Lent). I don't miss it anymore. I've found that I get a lot more done in my day - if I need a break from the Day Job (all computer, all day), I get up and stretch. Or I slip over to my favorite blogs and catch up on some reading. Of course, with the recent move I also used the extra time to pack boxes. Thank goodness that spider's off my back!

Now, I should think of another 40 day Lent - but with my new scheduling and determination to live my days as a writer with a side job, my brain is too tired to come up with another abstinence mission. But I'm not closing off the possibility of a future 40 day Lent before the next actual Lent. It's a great way to test my self-discipline. And it's only 40 days - unbelievable how quickly 40 days can pass.

Tell me, People of Blogland, do you have a game addiction that you would love to break? Do you find it harder to give something up or add something to your already busy day? Does anyone have a good link to timed crossword puzzles online? I'm kidding (maybe).

FYI - Nathan Bransford had a fantastic blogpost yesterday on Voice. Everyone knows my issues with finding my voice in my writing - his blog gives some good advice and the elements of cultivating a good voice. Here's the link :) And we'll talk more on Voice on Thursday (come prepared).

Popcorn for Supper?

What a fabulous day in the city yesterday! OK, except for the fact that the major appliance store I had planned on visiting didn't open until noon and that's when I was scheduled to meet some of the romance writers and since this was my first lunch with the group, I didn't want to be late, so I was hoping the meeting would be over sooner than 5 o'clock, so I could run to the appliance store then - AND, I had to spend my time somewhere and ended up buying lampshades. I really don't need lampshades! I need slippers, but I couldn't find any of the really fuzzy, boot kind that I like, so I bought lampshades. Connection? None. Rambling? Some!

Point of the story - getting there. We discussed our strengths and how we should exploit those strengths in order to tell the best story WE can. Our little group (yes, there was group work) seemed to focus on voice - and what is strength in storytelling but not voice? - and the sometimes difficult task we have as writers to find that voice. Sometimes, that voice is so obvious to others, yet not to us. Listening to others, examining their voice and pinpointing what it is they do well, comes so easily for most people. But listening to ourselves - really hearing ourselves - is much more difficult (in all aspects of life, not just storytelling). It really was eye-opening. During the discussion there was mention of the movie Notting Hill.

Seque into the real reason for this post. Are you still with me as I ramble on about everything else BUT popcorn for supper? After my hour and almost half drive home from the big city, where much of my brain was still thinking of the workshop and voice, I fished out the movie Notting Hill. The Husband made himself eggs for supper after I told him that I had a most delicious plate of fish and chips that seriously lowered the haddock stock of the Atlantic and potato reserve of PEI (there was a lot of food on that plate). Wine was poured and the popcorn maker fished out of the cupboard. Just realized I have used some variation of the word 'fish' three times in this paragraph. Sigh!

Yes, my supper consisted of a glass of white wine and a huge bowl of airpopped popcorn somewhat, moderately, bordering on too much, buttered. Yummy. This is a standard practice in our house - to eat popcorn for supper. And after all of that - my big point of the day boils down to three sentences stuck on the very end of a meandering post. Since I am writing this the night before, I'm going to blame my frentic blogging on the two cups of coffee I had at lunch and the extra grande/tall/venti concoction on the way home.

So, People of Blogland, is eating popcorn for supper a good idea? Can I seriously check off most of vegetable requirements after consumming 6 cups of fluffy corn? Does butter count as dairy? It should, in my opinion! And who loves Notting Hill? I haven't seen it for ages and laughed out loud at certain scenes - and realized the whole 'romance' concept was turned on its head. The woman (Julia Robert's character, Anna Scott) holds the power while the man (Hugh Grant's character, William Thaker) is love sick and forlorn. Interesting.

I really need to stop typing now - this is getting out of hand. I have enough information in this blogpost for the entire week.

The Dark Side...

My history of writing has produced a multitude of stuff that I haul around with us every time we move. I have at least 25 journals; notebooks partially filled with scribbles and starts of stories; file folders jammed with faded yellow legal paper (I love to write on yellow legal paper); binders, clipboards, and totes also stuffed with my writing; and now a hard drive where my ideas are haphazardly organized into files. And every now and then I rediscover a piece of writing that I don't remember working on!

I went looking for a short story - or a section of short story - that I had written a couple years for a contest. Didn't place in the contest, but the section I was looking for might be a good entry into a Postcard Short Story Contest I'm thinking of entering. I have all my short stories for contests in a file marked, surprisingly, Contests. Of course, as organized as I am, I can never think of what to name my files. Or I think I'll be clever and name them "Writing Contest #1, Writing Contest #2, etc" and then when I go searching I have to open them all to find! Smart, eh? I eventually found it - 624 words when I need 500; so I'll have to do some tweaking - and I also found this:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He still wasn’t awake. Katherine chewed the thumbnail past the quick, flinching with the pain, then sucking on the blood she had produced. Perhaps she had given him too much of the drug. If he died now, all of her planning would have been for nothing. She touched the gun, hoping it would have its moment of glory.

His moans brought her attention back to him. She put her hands behind her back, he would be mad if he saw the damage she had done to her thumb. His head came up, then rolled back, exposing his clean shaven throat.

"Scott?"

Saliva ran from his open mouth and Katherine stifled a giggle.

"Wake up."

His head lolled forward, his eyes slit open to look at her. When the tendons pulsed on his forearms, Katherine stepped backward, behind cover of the kitchen chair. But her knots held and Scott remained tied to his chair at the head of the table.

He licked his lips after his first attempt at speaking resulted in a squeak. Katherine pinched her lips together to stop from laughing.

"What did you do?"

"Drugged you and tied you up. Obvious, isn’t it?" Tingles of delight shivered over her skin.

"Well, untie me."

The tone of his voice stopped the mini-celebration. His jerking in the chair caused her to back up. "Katherine! Do it now!"

"No." She stuck her thumb back in her mouth.

Silence.

Her heart pounded in response to the stillness. She clenched her fists, crossed her arms over her chest and reminded herself that she was now in charge.

"I’ve waited a very long time for this, Scott." She stepped away from the table, flinching when he strained against the ropes.

The drug would slow him down, restrain him more than the ropes could sober. She had watched enough cows come around after having been administered the drug. It would be hours before he regained his strength. By then, her plan would be complete and she would be free from him forever.

She removed her dress. The ugly gray linen, perfectly ironed, would adorn her body no more. She watched him watch her. His eyes widening as she stood in her blood red bra and panties. She knew how much he loved knowing that underneath the drab dresses he made her wear vulgar, prostitute underwear awaited him. She slipped out of the undergarments and reached for the brown paper bag she had stashed under the table.

"You know, if you wanted to play sex games with me, all you had to do was ask."

Katherine pulled on the plain panties and bra she had been forbidden to wear. Glaring at him, she turned the bag upside down and dumped out the sweatshirt and jeans. The scar on her upper thigh spoke of their previous sex games and she swallowed back vomit at the memories.

"Don’t put those jeans on, Katherine."

She did. One leg at a time. Then turned to let him watch her zip them up.

"No pants in my house."

She pirouetted on the kitchen floor, before pulling the shirt on over her head. His renewed attempt to escape the ropes made her smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I started to read this I questioned what it was and who wrote it? Obviously, I did, but I had no memory of it until I got to the part about drugging the cows and the discussion I had with a friend, who's husband is a vet, about the perfect drug to disable a man without killing him. Oh, and the drug had to be something commonly found on a farm.

This is all I've written. I would have worked ahead in my head and came to a road block I couldn't get around at that time, so I left the story unfinished. But my question is not so much the unfinished story, it's the very dark side I have to my writing. The short piece I'm going to rework and enter in the contest is equally as dark and evil! Scary.

Have you ever written something you don't recognize as your own? Is there a side to your writing that makes you question yourself, your voice? I'm trying not to open up other files or start going through old binders and totes because if I do, I'll spend the entire day surrounded by faded paper and I won't get anything done. Do you have old journals you like to read through? Have you ever gone back to a story you started years ago and finished it?

Voice - And a Snippet...

Back to voice - I was re-reading some of the stuff I've written on Gillian and Mac's story (and calculating that I've written enough words, over and over again, to constitute two manuscripts - yikes) and realized that Gillian's issue is with voice. Hey, write what you know!

Gillian is a painter - landscape. But, she paints landscape because that's what she thinks everyone wants her to paint. That's what sells to the tourists in the tiny town on the south shore of Nova Scotia. And painting landscape is a way for Gillian to stay in control. Now, I've figured out what it was in her past that forced her to stop painting abstract (her passion) - she caught a man she held in high regard discussing her abstracts with another person and dismissing them as frivolous, amateurish, not worthy of anything. So, Gillian paints landscape - but she hasn't given up on her abstract, she just doesn't share them with anyone.

So, here's a paragraph from Gillian and Mac's Story (great title, eh?) that speaks to 'voice' and the peacefulness following your heart brings:

Gillian ignored the heron waiting for the finishing touch to his eye and sat in front of the other canvas. She had not looked at this one in over six months, her time concentrated on getting her other paintings in the series ready for the artists’ tour. It didn’t matter, even with the lapse in time, this canvas still spoke to her. Her lips twitched into a full smile. Her indulgence. She shivered in anticipation of stroking soft bristles over stiff canvas. There was no pride in this work, only passion and release. She grazed her palm over the partially painted canvas, then closed her eyes. When she opened them again, her breathing had slowed; her brush poised over the paint on her palette. The first dip of soft bristles in the slick, oily paint took her out of this world.

So, People of Blogland, is there some passion of yours that 'takes you out of this world'? Makes the time seem to stand still, yet fly by while you indulge? Do you do things because other people think you should? And have you ever had anyone squash your dream making you question what you want to do in life? Heavy questions for a Thursday :)

Inspiration - Finding Your Voice..

Thanks to Hazel and Hayley for the comments yesterday. Your words, advice, encouragement are appreciated :) I gave 'voice' some thought - and, well, I'll talk about it another time. But I did find some motivational quotes that spoke to me concerning this identity crisis. I hope you find them inspiring, too.

“Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.” - George Bernard Shaw

I really think with tons of writing practice (and the occasional blogpost or two), this quote holds true. A natural voice will emerge. It then comes down to what will you do about it - which leads to this quote:

“You never find yourself until you face the truth” - Pearl Bailey

Enjoy the day, People of Blogland. Sunny and bright here - coffee party to attend (yummy, egg salad sandwiches) - and, hopefully, some writing time after the paying job is finished.

Voice - An Artist's Style...

Most of my writer friends know of my issue with voice. I've probably bored them to tears with discussions on finding my voice! I've written blogposts over on The Prairies about finding my voice! And if I come across a blog that talks about voice, I'm usually bookmarking it AND sending it off to my writer friends in an e-mail!

VOICE! The thing that sets you apart from all the other story tellers out there. When a reader picks up a book, without looking at the author, they instantly recognize the voice. I think of Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Jennifer Cruisie, Linda Howard (no website) - authors that have unique voices that I would recognize anywhere. Voice is what brings you back to an author time after time.

And now I've begun to expand my discussion with voice to my non-writer friends. I've also begun looking at voice as it's found in other parts of the art world. Singers have a voice - not that kind of voice - so that if you hear a song on the radio by, say, Blue Rodeo, you instantly know that's Jim Cuddy. Or, if you're a country fan, a song sung by Reba McEntire - as soon as she opens her mouth, you know it's her. And I think that's what all the judges on the Idol shows look for - unique voice, something that makes the singer stand out, makes them recognizable.

Artists can be covered under the same umbrella. I've met two wonderful women recently, Shelley Mitchell and Barbara McLean, both landscape artists. As with any new person I meet, I'm fascinated by them - who they are - and talk always turns to the 'art'. During our discussions, both mentioned 'voice'. The true soul of a painter takes the art from "That's nice" to "Wow, that's incredible". A uniqueness. A vision. A sharing of one's true identity.

I've just silenced myself...those words have struck a chord (this post is full of cliches) and I need to think about it. Fear echoes just beyond those words - a common happening when I spew thoughts on paper. Let me come back to this topic - until then, share your thoughts if you wish.