Voices

My fascination with words is no secret, even to the most casual ASPL reader. It is as readily apparent as my eye or hair colour, and even more essential to my sense of self.Although I would feel less fiery,I could pop in brown contacts and dye my hair blonde and still be at home.A life cut off from words is as unthinkable,scary and black as death:it would be no life at all.My strongest connection to anything this world has to offer,other than the hermetic bond that seals me to my mother,is an unbreakable tie to the English language.
Words are glorious;when the perfect one rolls off of the tongue it is,in a small way,an act of reverence,never more so than for writers. Any true wordsmith has their own voice,developed through a combination of nature and practice,that is as unique and resplendent as a snowflake or a soul.I have been writing since the age of seven.The journey from there to here has been full of much sweat,obsessiveness,passion and self-nurturing.At the end of the day, I am proud to state that my voice is recognizably my own, and cannot be mistaken for another's.If ,when time has ceased to shelter me and my journey is no more,this is the sum total of my artistic achievement I will be satisfied.
My creative voice is thorny.It is not for everyone,nor does it need to be.If my overriding desire was to place a number of books on the Best seller's lists,or to publish articles in the big glossies,this would certainly be an issue of gigantic proportions.I would probably have to dull my words to broaden my appeal.I admire anyone with the guts to go after the kind of career that they desire,for whatever reasons:I extend this respect to myself.I refuse to walk a path that I know would be littered with nothing but compromise and misery and recrimination.
Language is not merely a means to an end, the verbal equivalent of putting one foot in front of the other.At its best,its richest,it is hypnotic and commanding:it arrests you,distilling and then fragmenting your notion of what words can do.Moms are not always your best critic,as they want terribly for you to succeed.Mine is savvier and more realistic than most,nor am I a youth in need of coddling. She also has a preternatural understanding of what it is my voice is trying to say,why I arrange my words to suit a very specific rhythm.This comes as much from being a hard-core reader as from being my mom.
There are people who find my writing style exhausting (I say,"so be it"),not worth the effort to ponder,savour or turn around in their head or on their tongue.They want brevity,simplicity, writing un-enhanced, taken to the bone.They are entitled to that,but must go elsewhere for it. My mother has tried to explain to some of these people the nature and appeal of my style,what sets it apart,why it is worth the few seconds of extra effort . She says that I love words,revere words--that my writing is meant to be read slowly,with thought given to the flow and the meaning behind them. She is correct,at least, about the former:she has been witness to my life-long love affair with language,which gives full expression to my obsessive nature.
One of the main thrills that I find in reading is how happening across a stunning turn-of-phrase halts everything.Time stops,outside considerations cease to matter:the only focus is re-reading those words,pondering them,letting them fly or slink off of the tongue.Any writing worth a damn is enhanced,heightened,sharpened when read aloud.The words that I read two or three or four times in a row demand to be spoken.That is what I wish to accomplish with my writing:it is a tall order that I mercilessly task myself with filling.
Perhaps only James Joyce could get away unscathed with writing words for the sake of words,in homage to their sound,their meaning,their chameleon-like quality when grouped in unusual and unexpected combinations.The rest of us,even when equally in awe of language,must find a more solid ground to erect our combinations on.We must learn to do so--train ourselves to do so--without sacrificing our passion,our individuality,our peculiar patterns.In the end,if we fail--if I fail,for,in trying to speak for others like me,I must first learn to speak for myself--at least we do so knowing that we wrote with honesty and unfailing dedication to ourselves and our craft.
How did you develop your voice,your style,your own writer's vision of things?