Voice is always an interesting topic that rears its ugly head in the writer community.
It’s not the kind you use to order tacos or argue with your cat though…
A writing voice is what I’m talking about.
That slippery fucker that’s either hiding under your bed dressed as Kafka, or screaming through a megaphone as a knockoff Tarantino.
You’ve been told to “find it” like it’s car keys.
The thing is though. Your voice isn’t lost. It’s just buried under all the bullshit they taught you in school, the trauma of middle school book reports, and that one tweet that went viral and made you question your entire existence.
Murder your heroes.
Your voice isn’t hiding. It’s smothered under the wet blanket of every author you’ve ever aped.
Love Neil Gaiman? Great. Now write a paragraph in his style, then set it on fire. Watch it burn.
What’s left in the ashes? That’s your shit. That’s the DNA.
This is a big one in the copywriting world…
Talk like a human, not a thesaurus.
You’re not writing a Renaissance Faire scroll. If you’d say “this sandwich tastes like a foot,” don’t write “the gastronomic experience evoked podiatric undertones.” Stop that shit.
You have to look at writing as if you’re confessing to the page.
Write a secret you’ve never told anyone. The time you stole, lied, licked a battery.
Doesn’t matter. Burn it after. The point is to vomit raw you onto the page, no filters, no “but what will grandma think?”
Embrace your inner cringe-lord
Your voice is cringe.
Good.
Cringe is the mold that grows on the authentic.
The world doesn’t need another polished pebble.
It needs your jagged, broken-glass laugh.
Write drunk, edit sober (metaphorically)
Write a sex scene where the real monster is awkwardness. A hero who picks their nose. A villain who just wants to nap. Let it be messy. Let it be embarrassing.
Steal your own life…
That time you got dumped at a water park?
The way your dad hums showtunes while doing taxes?
The intrusive thought about licking a subway pole?
Harvest it. Marinate in your own weird.
Write a Yelp review in the voice of a Victorian ghost. Rewrite the Starbucks menu as a Norse epic. Scream into the void until the void screams back in your accent.
Voice isn’t born. It’s built.
From the corpses of everyone and everything you’ve ever loved, hated, or doomscrolled past.
Make a toxic smoothie.
Blend Toni Morrison with your group chat.
Shakespeare with shitposting.
Twilight fanfic with Cormac McCarthy.
Drink it. If it doesn’t make you hallucinate, add more tabasco.
Use your tics.
Do you default to sarcasm? Poetry? Rambling footnotes that overexplain like a nervous wizard (guilty?)
Lean in. Double down. Make your tics a style.
Borrow voices like a library book.
Write a scene as a noir detective. Then as a bored teen. Then as a sentient Roomba. Take what clicks. Burn the rest.
Your voice isn’t a static thing. It’s a feral thing.
A werewolf. A sentient stain. It’ll shapeshift. But you gotta stop apologising for it.
Kill the right way.
Grammar rules? Fuck ‘em when needed.
Plot structure? Throw it into a woodchipper.
Write a chapter as a grocery list. A battle scene in emojis. A love story in spam emails.
Go niche or go home.
Love body horror? Write a rom-com where the third act twist is a parasitic twin.
Obsessed with baking? Make a thriller about sentient sourdough.
Your voice thrives in specificity, not “universal appeal.”
Argue with yourself. Write a manifesto about why your voice matters.
Then write a counter-manifesto calling it pretentious garbage. Let them fight. Winner gets the crown.
Voice isn’t found. It’s claimed.
Through blood, bad drafts, and the humility of realising your “genius” sounds like a mime cosplaying Hemingway.
Write until it hurts. Then write more. Finish the story. Let it suck. Let it be a first pancake that’s burnt, lumpy and glorious.
Test it in the wild. Read it aloud to your dog. Post a snippet anonymously. Watch people call it “deranged.” Good. Deranged is a brand.
Kill the clone army. Stop comparing your voice to anyone else’s. Margaret Atwood didn’t write The Handmaid’s Taleby asking, “But is this vibey enough for BookTok?”
Your voice isn’t in the woods. It’s in the wound. The one you keep poking to see if it’s still there.
Stop looking for it. Use it. Write like you’re carving your name into a prison wall.
Write like the rent’s due and the devil’s knocking.
Write like no one’s listening, because that’s the only way they ever will.
The demon’s hungry. Feed it your fear.
Or don’t.
But if you don’t, you’re just another ghost that’ll die on an unread page.
Stephen Walker
http://stphnwlkr.com/theleague
If you’re not diggin’ these tasty little emails anymore you can hit the unsubscribe button right here >>> unsubscribe
Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom