What Is the Voice of Your Novel?

Lesson 3 of "How to Finally Get Started on that Novel"

Nov 27, 2024

Lesson 3 of 8 from “How to Finally Get Started on that Novel”

As a teacher and editor, I’ve encountered a lot of good stories. I’ve also encountered a lot of good prose. Much of this tends to be what I think of as “English class” good. By this I mean, everything is correct; the spelling and grammar are doing what they need to be doing; there are no glaring errors; the presence of the author is nearly invisible. This is great for a class paper, for academic writing, and for most forms of journalism.

But when it comes to fiction, and really, I’d argue, any kind of artful creative writing, we want a little more than correctness. We want some style, some verve. We want something fresh and surprising. We want voice.

What’s funny to me is that new writers are often anxious or uncertain about their voice. What’s my voice as a writer? Or: I’m still finding my voice as a writer. You might still be figuring out what prose style you want to employ for this particular novel, but you likely already have a voice as a writer. (I suspect that when people say they are still finding their voice, what they mean is that they are still trying to figure out just what they have to say in their work, which is a different situation altogether.)

A good way to examine your voice as a writer is to write something as artlessly as possible. Take your novel idea, for example, and write (or rewrite) the first page without trying to make it sound good or fancy or impressive. Just write it, as if you’re telling the story to a friend. Reread it. Does it sound like you? Voila: your voice.

Now, is this the same as the voice of the novel? Maybe! Maybe not!

Most of the time, each novel will have its own voice, even if the same person has written it.

This is in part because the style of each novel might vary – think of Virginia Woolf writing the thoughtful stream-of-consciousness Mrs Dalloway, as well as the dreamy, experimental, fragmentary The Waves, as well as the satirical, arch Orlando. Each contains her voice, but also has its own voice, and a distinct style that suits its subjects.

Style is achieved through a combination of word choice, syntax, punctuation, rhythm, and POV (which we’ll talk more about in lesson six!), and tone. Tone can be a tricky thing to wrap one’s mind around. I like the multi-layered definition Matthew Salesses gives in Craft in the Real World: “an orientation toward the world…the distance between the narrator and the character…the distance between our world and the world of the story.”

But voice? I think the easiest way to think about voice is: how the novel sounds. And/or: the novel’s personality. This is a combination of your particular voice, and the tone and style you choose for your novel. What agents, editors, and readers are often looking for when they pick up a new book is a unique, exciting, or unforgettable voice.

Think of a time you’ve picked up a book, read the first line, and not been able to put it down. For me, this happened with Lisa Taddeo’s novel Animal. Here’s how it starts:

I drove myself out of New York City where a man shot himself in front of me. He was a gluttonous man and when his blood came out it looked like the blood of a pig. That’s a cruel thing to think, I know. He did it in a restaurant where I was having dinner with another man, another married man. Do you see how this is going? But I wasn’t always this way.

I mean! Talk about starting something in media res, first of all. Right in the middle of the action! But what strikes me most here is the voice. We have a narrator who speaks in simple, declarative sentences, who seems to be revealing unflattering things about herself, and who sets up the expectation that we can trust her to tell the truth, since she’s willing to be so honest and vulnerable right off the bat. “But I wasn’t always this way”? Do go on.

Of course, this book is in first person (“I”), so the voice of the book is the voice of the narrator. Joan is traumatized and a little checked out, and lends her aloof-yet-on-the-verge-of-a-nervous-breakdown vibe to the novel. What about when the book is in third person, or various POVs?

A Study in Voice: Delicious Foods

Nearly ten years ago, James Hannaham published the world’s least-Googleable, most gorgeously-written and also incredibly disturbing novel, Delicious Foods. (Ok well I guess Animal is pretty ungoogleable too). This harrowing novel tells the story of Darlene, a troubled widow who turns to drugs, and her son Eddie, who is 11 when she disappears, lured to an exploitative farm/work camp by a corrupt company called Delicious Foods. It’s about the wounds that result from structural racism, and it’s about a lot of other things too, and it’s so great but really what I want to talk about is the way it uses voice.

The book is told in three different POVs, with some chapters telling Eddie’s story, some telling Darlene’s story, and some sharing the perspective of, well, crack. Yes, the drug, crack, who calls itself Scotty. I know. I know.

What has stuck with me for so long, since first reading this book, is the uniqueness of all of its voices. And only the drug (yes) narrates in first person. Still, each character’s sections have their own distinct voices.

Here is Darlene, early in her story, when she is a college student and first meets the man she will marry:

The secret dalliance inflated her–it practically pulled her skin taut with joy. Her roommates noticed and told her she had the flushed look of someone obsessed; they poked her waist and demanded information so personal that she blushed and hid from them in the library.

We’re in a close third-person here (as I noted, we’ll get more specific about POV later on), so while Darlene doesn’t narrate, we have access to her thoughts. This isn’t Darlene’s voice, not exactly. But the narrative voice is anything but generic. It’s expressive, it’s embodied. We’re buoyed along with strong verbs (“inflated;” “poked;” “demanded”) and rhythmic sentences. I feel, reading this book, that I’m in the hands of a very smart, very funny, very knowing storyteller – the prose is confident, brainy, breezy – even when the story gets incredibly dark and often gory.

Then there are the sections that are narrated by crack!

Here is Scotty/crack/drug addiction personified:

…can’t nobody pin what happened to Darlene on me. Can’t nobody make you love em, make you look for em all the time. Maybe I attract a certain kinda person. Folks always saying that I do. Doctors talking now ‘bout how people brain chemistry make some of em fall in love harder with codependent types. But I feel a obligation to Darlene. Out all my friends–and, baby, I got millions–she make me wonder the most if I done right by her.

It’s streetwise, and weirdly (?) emotionally intelligent, if not formally educated per se, which would make sense. I also love how Scotty is so thoughtful – in a way, like Joan from Animal – even about its own amoral behavior. The mismatch in voice, reputation, and its smart observational ability makes Scotty, against all odds, a fascinating and complex character.

Look at how the sentences in Darlene’s section are long, complex, fluid, hitched together with elegant em dashes and erudite semi-colons. Look at how the sentences in Scotty’s section are staccato, bouncing along conversationally. Look at the differences in word choice, punctuation, and even mood – Scotty’s sections are funny in an outrageous, daring way. The different voices also flick at different iterations of the Black experience in America.

Read this novel, and tell me you can get any of its voice(s) out of your head.

Play around with voice as you get started with your novel. Think about how you want the reader to feel, and how the style of your prose can get there. In the end, the book should have a distinct, engaging voice – one that sounds like you and no one else. A lot of this takes practice, so – as with mastering any craft topic – the key is to read and write, write and read, ad infinitum.

Exercises:

Write about something you hate. Write this quickly, without editing. Your most authentic voice is sure to come through. (I borrowed this from Gotham Writers’ Workshops – years ago I used this exercise in a class I taught for them and I still remember a student’s hilarious rant about people who hug the poles in the subway…!)
This one is from Brenda Ueland’s 1938 book If You Want to Write: “Tell about some childhood memory…write it as carelessly, recklessly, fast and sloppily as possible.” She swears that this prompt forces even the most blocked and/or timid of writers to reach an authentic place.
Think of a scene you know you want to include in your novel but haven’t written yet, and dictate it to your Notes app or word processing software (this function is usually under accessibility options). Think about how you would tell your best friend about it. Reread it. What do you like about the voice? What do you want to adjust for the novel?

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