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One of my favorite metaphors I frequently share with authors struggling to master the art of storytelling and writing craft is that, many of us having grown up reading and loving story, it often seems so easy or intuitive when we first try our hand at writing our own. But then we quickly realize the infinite complexity of the task: Writing a story, I say, is like conducting an orchestra of a countless number of instruments.

But, I add, you have to play each one of them too. And you have to compose the score. And arrange it. And you also have to be the audience so you can consider how they might experience the work…and the critic, so you can figure out what may not be working as well as it could.

And of all the many elements of craft we must master, author voice is the one I think can be the most intuitive—and yet often the most challenging.

Regular readers may know I’ve been working on a new class about voice—including narrative, character, and author voice. Recently I asked you to send me your most pressing questions about the topic to make sure I was hitting all the areas writers might most want to explore—and by far most of them were about author voice. It can be such a confusing little cootie (perhaps even more than POV, if such a thing is even imaginable) that I wanted to address a few of your thoughtful, nuanced questions about it here.

Learn more: “Mastering Voice in Fiction,” with Jane Friedman, new course Oct. 8, with video playback for registrants

What the Hell *Is* Author Voice?

Author Robby Robinson didn’t ask that question quite as crassly as I did in the above heading, but his and other writers’ frustrated questions boiled down to that:

“It may be helpful to hear when or why voice is lacking. Does that mean it’s bland? Even if it’s well written or beautiful prose with terrific cause and effect plot lines, conflict, interesting characters, what about it makes an agent say, ‘It lacks voice. It doesn’t have a distinctive voice’?”

Oh, Robby…I and most other industry professionals feel your pain. I recently spoke about the subject with literary agent Amy Collins, who offered her own take—”Think of voice in writing as the same thing as delivery on a stage…the way [writers] shape sentences, the way they use words, and the way they use language”—but also admitted, “I understand why authors struggle with it.”

“How you use language” is a broad umbrella category that includes complex areas like vocabulary and word choice; syntax and sentence structure; the rhythm and music of your prose. It encompasses whether your writing tends to be more internal (character-driven) or external (plot/action-forward); lyrical or concise; figurative or literal.

But on top of that, author voice encompasses many other qualities: personality and personal style; your own beliefs and biases; how you see the world and your distinctive perspective that arises from the singular set of inborn and learned traits, upbringing, experiences, circumstances that are uniquely your own.

With all these often ineffable elements of author voice, it’s ironic that writers might be left feeling effed.

Here’s as straightforward a definition as I can think of: You know that annoying question, “Who are you in a room alone”? Your author voice is similar: What is the core essence of who you are and how you express that when you are being simply, authentically “you”?

Before you plunge a grapefruit spoon into your eye now in confused frustration, realize that finding our authentic selves is truly the work of a lifetime. Why would we expect discovering and freeing our authentic author voice to be any less challenging?

How Do You Find Your Author Voice?

Author Leslie Kain says, “So many questions around this mysterious concept. Must the writer consciously develop his own [voice], or must it come naturally?”

“Do we have control over our authorial voice?” Robby Robinson adds. “Should we even try to control/define our voice?”

The answers to all these questions are “Yes.” And also “No.” And also “It depends.” (I mean, HOW FUN IS VOICE?!)

Here again is my attempt at a simple answer to questions about a topic that really has no simple answers: You don’t have to create voice; you already have it. Every one of us does, just as we already have an authentic self. And as with our true selves, the process of discovering, uncovering, and freeing it can span your entire writing career.

You don’t have to create voice; you already have it. Every one of us does, just as we already have an authentic self. And as with our true selves, the process of discovering, uncovering, and freeing it can span your entire writing career.

But if you start thinking about and analyzing it, I’m betting you can already identify many characteristics of your author voice.

For instance, I am full of imagery and hyperbole—I’m almost constitutionally unable to simply state something straightforwardly without also embellishing upon it with metaphor and simile, euphemism and symbolism, comparison and alliteration.

I like big words and I cannot lie. But I am also likely to juxtapose them with simple word choices and even ridiculous slang, vernacular, and dialect.

My tone is often casual and humorous. I like complex sentence structures, but frequently punctuate them and vary the rhythm with shorter ones. I like adjectives very, very much. I seem to write often in beats of three. I am unfortunately prone to saying the same thing more than once, sometimes even ad nauseam—the first area I focus on when editing my own work (and have yet been unable to edit completely from my conversational style).

These are traits I know about myself and my communication style and my writing from a lifetime of doing and considering it, and if you start considering the elements of your own distinctive voice, I’m confident you can come up with a similarly revealing analysis. If you can’t, ask friends to characterize your communication/conversational style. Ask writing buddies to do it for your writing—and ask them to point out specific parts of your writing that convey specific traits of voice to them.

If you’re willing, feed some of your writing into an AI engine (it probably already has more of it than you wish it did, but use emails or discarded writing or other dispensable examples if you don’t want to share an unpublished WIP) and ask it to characterize your voice. (And as with all LLM results, take what it says with a grain of salt—it’s a resource, but not the ultimate authoritative one.)

See—or, really, feel—what rings true to you for who you are. If you’re getting feedback that doesn’t feel cohesive with who you think you are or how you want to express yourself, consider whether you might be “doing” voice.

Do I really see hectic color staining someone’s cheeks, for instance, or are those just words I’ve come up with because I’ve read them so many times before? Or think they sound good or literary?

Author Brenda Ueland, in her marvelous If You Want to Write, a book I endlessly recommend, talks about digging past the easy default phrasings we have osmosed from others to how you actually see and perceive your story. How can you put that unique, proprietary perspective on the page in your own way?

Maybe in your mind a character’s cheeks are so red they look spanked, or they bloom like poppies on California hillside. Maybe the blood seeps into a character’s cheeks as readily as it might spurt from her veins.

Or maybe you don’t focus on a character’s blush at all, choosing instead to let the reader determine what may be going on inside the character from their words and actions and demeanor. Strong voice doesn’t mean it has to be flowery; Kent Haruf stories are instantly identifiable as his from their lean, spare style (among other distinctions).

It’s tempting and oh so easy to follow in well-trodden footsteps, take a safe route, or to worry about how you may come across and strive for a particular effect, rather than allowing your voice to authentically fountain out of you.

But every author has their own vision and perspective of their story—and your job is simply (and complexly) to tune into that and release it onto the page. Voice has to come from the inside out, not the outside in.

Whenever I’m stuck, either in my writing or in creating a presentation, or even with nerves before presenting one, I remind myself to focus on what I want to say and what I know about the topic. That brings me back to my motivation and intention, which is the wellspring of your authentic voice, rather than trying to consciously achieve an effect or worrying about how I may be perceived.

That frees me to express my thoughts in my way—my authentic voice. I can’t chase it or force it or fabricate it; I have to simply access and allow it.

As author Greet Vanlaer comments, “What held me back from finding my voice for years was trying too hard to find it.” She began accessing it by thinking of her own voice the same way she would discover one of her characters’ voices—one “who’s bold and doesn’t mince words,” as she puts it. “Since then I haven’t struggled with it,” she says. “Daring is the key. Forgetting that your mother will ever read it.”

Finding and revealing our authentic voice is so hard for the reasons finding and revealing our authentic selves is: It’s naked and vulnerable and real. If we simply let ourselves be who we really are and allow our bare, unvarnished individuality onto the page, we are exposing ourselves—our truest selves. That means if it’s found wanting, then we are inadequate. If someone doesn’t like it, that means they don’t like us.

Finding your voice takes frank honesty and diligent effort to mine down past all the sediment of self-protection we may have layered atop it for years. Revealing it takes courage.

Is Your Voice Really “Yours”?

Another confusing concept around voice is that we’re encouraged to be original and unique, even as we are inescapably a product of everything we have seen, heard, experienced, read throughout our lives, and it’s impossible to generate a voice free of those influences.

But in fact these influences, too, are part of what our voice is.

I recently saw this clip of Lin-Manuel Miranda discussing his influences for Hamilton, and he talks about not only artists whose style impacted his approach in his hit musical, but particular songs and even specific lines and phrases from other artists that he drew on. (Here’s another extensive analysis of his specific influences.)

But few would argue that Hamilton is not Miranda’s own distinctive creation. In fact, much of its success seemed predicated on his fresh and unique approach to a Broadway musical.

Yet he isn’t reinventing the wheel. Miranda’s borrowing conventions and styles not just from the rap and hip-hop worlds, but from R&B, jazz, even Broadway musical theater itself. All of it contributes to his distinctive style and voice, one that can be readily identified across all of his works, from In the Heights to Moana to Encanto–each of which draws on still other influences of their own.

Our voices are a composite as much as our authentic selves are, a mashup of innate elements of our personality and all the factors that have shaped it. Nature as well as nurture.

Can Your Author Voice Change?

Author Ruth Koons asks, “My struggle is with consistency, and wondering if pushing those boundaries and changing can be accomplished without sacrificing the heart of my voice.”

Your voice isn’t a static quantity. It can change and evolve as you do: as a writer and as a person. It can alter from project to project, to some degree, depending on the story, its genre, the subject matter, etc., just as our own voices can shift in various situations: The way I express myself with my closest friends may be different from the way I do in a professional setting, for instance.

But your voice doesn’t reinvent itself from whole cloth. I might tone down my expansiveness or humor or irreverence when teaching or presenting as opposed to having drinks with friends; might be a bit less casual, more careful and deliberate with my word choice. My blog posts are more conversational and informal than my articles for outlets like Writer’s Digest, and in my craft books my voice tends to split the difference. And all of those are different from my author voice in my novels (as Phoebe Fox)—which themselves vary in voice from one to another.

But in each of these instances I’m still “me” and I still sound like me—just another facet of me. In different settings I might refocus or narrow the lens as to which part of my voice is expressed, just as an author might from story to story, or an actor from role to role.

Author Leslie Kain asks, “Should an author’s voice be recognizable across all his/her work?” and the answer is often that almost has to be, if the author is writing authentically, for all the reasons we’ve discussed.

But that doesn’t mean it should take over the story. Author Lori Smithson says, “I am told I have a distinct voice. But isn’t the point to NOT hear the author’s voice? After I was told this I became quite self-conscious of not inserting too much of myself into my second novel so now it lacks the snark and humor of the first one. Help?”

Voice is arguably one of the most important elements in creating notable, memorable stories—but at the same time, drawing attention to the author’s voice can pull the reader out of the narrative.

This is often the toughest needle to thread. Voice is arguably one of the most important elements in creating notable, memorable stories—but at the same time, drawing attention to the author’s voice can pull the reader out of the narrative (except in genres like memoir or prescriptive nonfiction where the author is intended to be a visible key element of the story).

One of my favorite sitcoms was Cougar Town, a network show that ran from 2009 to 2015. Years later I got hooked on Shrinking on Apple TV, partly because it had many of the same qualities and feel that I loved from Cougar Town: snappy and clever dialogue; ridiculous situations and humor; desperately flawed characters bumbling through life despite their ample limitations with the help of an ersatz family of equally flawed friends; and a strong core of heart.

Unsurprisingly, both shows were created by Bill Lawrence, who also created Ted Lasso and Scrubs, very different shows that nonetheless carry those core traits—Lawrence’s voice.

I adore Michael Schur’s The Good Place (as anyone reading my recent posts no doubt knows about me already), so I wasn’t surprised that I loved Man on the Inside for similar reasons—its approach and tone and how it makes me feel–or that I’m taken with Parks and Recreation for the same reasons. As different as these shows are, all of them were created by Schur and bear the stamp of his voice.

The artist’s voice is often what keeps us coming back to their work—whether that’s a writer, a singer, an actor or director, a comedian, a visual artist, a dancer, etc. We like their sensibility, their style. We like their approach or tone, their worldview or perspective or themes. We like the way they make us feel. But that doesn’t mean they are all alike.

Once you learn to identify and free your own author voice, it permeates the fabric of your story—a backdrop for the tapestry of your story in the same way an artist may underpaint a canvas. It adds depth and texture and life, though it may never be noticed by viewers.

And like underpainting, it’s a fine balance—one that takes skill and experience. But that’s part of the journey of being a writer: exploring and deepening and honing those skills over the course of our creative career. If you can’t quite manage it yet, don’t give up—you will. Just keep working at it.

That’s the process. And it’s the work of your career—the work of a lifetime.

Over to you, authors. I want to hear your journey in discovering, freeing, and honing your author voice. Do you feel this is an element you’ve mastered—and if so, how did you do it? If you’re still working to define your author voice, what do you struggle with? Have you found any methods or exercises especially useful in helping you identify and free your author voice?

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