My current soon-to-be-turfed work has multiple
perspectives, so it’s no surprise I’ve been thinking a lot about the writer’s
voice.
One of my characters is Irish. Predictably, I’ve given him my husband’s
speech pattern. It’s like putting on the
Butler’s still warm jacket. More than
that, it’s practicing a skill I don’t do naturally (speak Hiberno-English), a wonderfully
engrossing challenge.
Another character is American, from a region near my own. I sit back in his
verbal rocking chair and become Uncle Remus.
Here is where, in the guise of a gay male military surgeon, I speak openly
about dark things. I am a brave sheep in
wolf’s clothing. My bravery comes from
no one knowing what is true and what is not.
This isn’t real bravery, no powerful earth woman
standing with her arm raised, calling down the power of the Furies. It’s wee, teeny bravery. But, the only reason this wee teeny bravery
exists is because someone asked me to write about myself. And I did.
And I got a surprise. The
surprise was that I wasn’t brave at all, so wee, teeny bravery is a step
forward.
About this character actor I admire. (Come, come.
The Appalachian mind must travel in curves, never straight lines.) There’s a British actor who transforms
himself so completely for his roles – voice, appearance, walk – part of my
enjoyment is to see if he’s in there under the wigs and makeup. However, when I’ve seen him as a narrator in
documentaries, he comes across as uncomfortable in his own skin, as if he doesn’t
know who he is without a role. It’s
amazing (and painful) to watch.
He’s a good actor, you say? He is.
Then what’s the problem?
For the incurably introverted (myself, perhaps?), the role or the character’s voice protects the interior world, the place where creativity
comes from. Why mess with that? No great moral reason, I can see. I just like a challenge, because by
stretching my skill past what comes naturally to me, I improve that skill. Except the times when I fail hilariously, of
course.
In this first wee, teeny bravery, I’ve learned something. First, I’ve learned to honour my own experiences. I am the only person who’s had them. We all share certain experiences, this is true,
but I had those experiences in my body with my emotions reacting to and my
thoughts being shaped by them.
Therefore, my experience is unique.
The next thing I’ve learned is that there’s
liberation to this bravery. It’s like
being forced to use your right hand when you’re a natural southpaw, then picking up the pen in your left hand. That’s more than being a better writer; for
me, when I’m writing as the gay male military surgeon, I feel like I’ve moved
close to my reader and quietly shared a very good secret. I feel closer to you.
And so far when I spread my unique experience on
the table, the people who see my wares go, wow . . . I mean honestly, when I see your wares, I go,
wow . . . what made me think you wouldn’t do the same? That wow moment is a gift. My experiences are a gift to you. If someone doesn’t graciously accept them –
and that’s bound to happen – that doesn’t have to be about either of us. It just is.
The biggest thing I’ve taken from this is that the
act of being asked to speak is THE most important thing that can happen to a
writer. We pitch and we submit and we
work in our closets in the hope that someone will notice our incurably
introverted selves. It all changes when
someone says to me, will you write . . .
It’s one thing we have no control over. I would love to say, Will you write, and validate
your wares, but me asking you to write is one step away from Granny doing it.
Qaisra Shahraz (The Holy Woman, Revolt, Typhoon) recently suggested that writers participate
in virtual writing communities, not just through RTs and shares, but with our comments. Give our voices to other writers to let them
know their work is being read.
It’s great advice and I pass it on to you. Will you write, will you comment, will you
speak to other writers? I request 140
characters of your wares. Will you write
. . .
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