On Finding Your Voice

[bluemantle]

Now that I've decided to make my novel humorous, the writing is going so much faster, and it's FUN!

Brandon Mull, the author of the Fablehaven series, spoke at the conference I attended last week. One thing he mentioned is how people should write about the things they love. I scribbled in my notes, "What do I LOVE to write? Funny stuff - Humor." I like dragons and Middle Eastern folklore and retellings of Abdul Rahman I's story (word on the street is, he fled the slaughter of his family by hiding in a laundry basket and then dressing as a woman. I'm sure it was very traumatic and horrible at the time....but you have to admit it's actually kind of hilarious.). But even more, I like to make people laugh.

When I meet with my writing group, 3 Liberals and a Conservative, we do a writing exercise. I love these. I usually chortle to myself as I write them, and when I read them out loud to share, sometimes I laugh so hard tears come out of my eyes.

I will share one for you. The exercise was to take the members of my group and write about them breaking into a house in our neighborhood that is rumored to be the former abode of drug dealers. This is especially funny when you keep in mind that the Real Lizzy is five feet tall when she wears heels. This passage is in no way meant as a commentary on Alcoholics or Cajuns.


"Ok, we're here," said Beth, all business. "Who knows how to pick a lock?"

Kristen chirped. "I guess we just assumed that you'd pick the lock for us."

"I guess I could always kick down the door," she said. "But I really hate splinters."

Staci jiggled the doorknob. "We won't have to, you guys," she said, triumphant. "It's unlocked!"

Lizzy Steeled herself for the uknown. There could be anything in there. Maybe even pirates.

Kristen went first. "Isn't this breaking and entering?" she asked.

"Nah," Beth said. "The door was open. What did we break?"

There was a chorus of hastily stifled chortles. Suddenly they heard a gruff voice call out, "Who's there?"

They froze in their tracks. Lizzy's heart pounded. No, she thought to herself. Not him. Not here. Not now.

"I'm warning you," said the voice. "I'm armed."

It was Phil, the Inebriated Cajun, Lizzy's former nemesis.

"Beth," a pale Kristen asked in a hushed whisper. "Did you bring your nunchucks?"
"No," she said, digging into her pockets. "But...oh, lemme see....I've got a dime. And I used baby-wipe.."

"Not to worry, Ladies," said Lizzy. "I got this." Despite her diminutive stature, Lizzy had spent six months in Nicaragua with the Freedom Fighters. She reached into her pocket to grasp her cell phone. "Phil, my old nemesis," She said with her hands on her hips. "Somehow, I thought you might be involved in all this. Stealing refrigerators indeed!"

Phil the inebriated Cajun took a swig of something brown in a bottle. "Lizzy," he said affectionately. "You always were the meddlesome type. It's been a while since Nicaragua, eh?"

"Not long enough. Tell me what your plan is!"

"Lizzy," Staci whispered. "Are you sure you should be riling up this guy? He looks kinda mean."

"I know what I'm doing," Lizzy whispered back.

Kristen was busy texting the whole thing to Joanna in Boise.

Phil laughed an evil laugh. "Muhahahah! As if I'd tell you!"
"Then you leave me no choice."

"Lizzy, don't you think..." started Beth. But it was too late. Lizzy had already pressed the call button on her cell phone which activated the alcohol-seeking missiles in her stylish casual tennis shoes.

Not great literature or anything, but fun and silly, and definitely worth a giggle or two. This was written completely spontaneously, fully formed from my brain. While it may not make a whole lot of sense, it feels natural for me to write this way, freed from the cumbersome stilted way so many people write fantasy.

Compare, if you will, the above passage with this:
He looked away. The Khaldunians had legends about those mountains, full of strange tales; horror stories, some of them. He did not want her to go, but neither could she be dissuaded; he knew her stubbornness enough to know that.

Pcture, if you will, five pages of internal monologue written in that same style. It's maybe a little interesting, but a little blah. My Writer's Group buddies always said nice things about my work and gave helpful advice, but later they admitted, "We felt there was something missing." Now I know why: I am not an entirely serious person. It doesn't make sense for me to write dreary slogging prose.

Since my breakthrough last week, my progress on my novel has been excellent. Writing is a joy, not a chore. It's exciting again. I say things like, "I'm so excited to share today's installment," instead of, "I dunno, you guys, maybe I'll throw out this project completely and start something else." I've even started to let The Husband read some passages. He says they're "good," which is high, high praise from him. He does not say something is good unless it really is good.

They always say "write what you know, write from your soul." In my soul I am silly and random and have purple hair. When people read stuff written in my "true voice" instead of my "serious voice," they can tell. I don't know how many other writer-type people will read this, but that is my advice to my fellow writers for the day: write from your soul.