ON VOICE, OUR FICTIONAL AMBASSADOR
A question from our Office Hours: How do you go about feeling out the voice of a new piece of fiction? In fact, how do you think about/define/talk about voice in general?
Thank you for your kind question, Sara. I’ve discussed elements of Voice in an earlier post but let’s see if I can answer you more directly and usefully here. The Voice-in-the-Specific-Work — as opposed to the writer’s overall voice in their writing — has a number of elements and responsibilities that a writer needs to be alert to.
Voice relates directly to the Persona — the imaginary person or personality that is telling the tale. Persona and Voice could be considered one and the same, but for our discussion let’s keep these related functions distinct.
First and foremost, we need to remember that readers often encounter the story’s Voice before they encounter fully the Big Three mechanics of Character, Conflict, and Context that make stories Story. Invariably in fiction, Voice precedes.
The most famous instance in US literature, of course, is Melville’s opening line: Call me Ishmael. We have no idea who the fuck Ishmael is or what mad voyage we’re about to embark on but we do have an impression of the Voice that will drive Moby Dick, an informal Voice which in more formal times must have made a strong impression indeed.
Morrison’s opening to Beloved — 124 was spiteful. Full of a baby’s venom. The women in the house knew it and so did the children. For years each put up with the spite in his own way, but by 1873 Sethe and her daughter Denver were its only victims. The grandmother, Baby Suggs, was dead, and the sons, Howard and Buglar, had run away by the time they were thirteen years old—as soon as merely looking in a mirror shattered it (that was the signal for Buglar); as soon as two tiny hand prints appeared in the cake (that was it for Howard). Neither boy waited to see more; another kettleful of chickpeas smoking in a heap on the floor; soda crackers crumbled and strewn in a line next to the door-sill. Nor did they wait for one of the relief periods: the weeks, months even, when nothing was disturbed. No. Each one fled at once—the moment the house committed what was for him the one insult
Another banger. Not holding hands, both literary and rich of orality, and in the sentence that follows attentive to the homey details of domestic survival and the filial networks of communal survival.
Rushdie’s Voice intro in Midnight’s Children: I was born in the city of Bombay … once upon a time. No, that won’t do, there’s no getting away from the date: I was born in Doctor Narlikar’s Nursing Home on August 15th, 1947. And the time? The time matters, too. Well then: at night. No, it’s important to be more … On the stroke of midnight, as a matter of fact. Clock-hands joined palms in respectful greeting as I came. Oh, spell it out, spell it out: at the precise instant of India’s arrival at independence, I tumbled forth into the world. There were gasps. And, outside the window, fireworks and crowds. A few seconds later, my father broke his big toe.
Effusive, irreverent, attention-hogging, self-editing — you’re either going to love this Voice or fucking run.
Long story short: Voice is often our fiction’s first impression — it’s our ambassador.
Some readers, like some people, judge on a first impression; others stick around at least a little while to see if there’s more to what they’re encountering. So, something to keep in mind when writing is how you will introduce your Voice in the process of introducing your Story.
After all, at the start of every Story you’re introducing both your Story and your Story’s Voice simultaneously, and while your Story will have time to unfold itself, your Voice has to be its best self — right from jump.
I’ve replaced plenty of fantastic openings with less awesome openings just because the latter did Story and Voice better.
What in my book qualifies as good Voice?