Balls of Steel™: Speak Up

What’s more important, an original voice or an idea? I’m going to cheat and answer “both,” because if one of those qualities is missing, you’re screwed. Don’t get me wrong, having a stellar idea is critical, but you need more than that. Much more. And, yes, you need more than a great voice, too, like complex characters to attract talent, and a low-budget script.

However, today, we’re focusing on voice because I have some serious concerns about the future of writing.

First, what does original voice even mean? Many new writers are hyper focused on proper formatting and the story concept, but don’t often think about how that idea reads on the page.

My first lesson in the value of voice came from Jane Friedman (you can listen to my convo with Jane here). When I was a baby writer, she gave me my first big break, writing an article for Writer’s Digest on the value of Twitter. So, I immediately wrote a very thorough, professional How-To piece that was … accurate, but as engaging as an Encyclopedia entry.

After submitting, Jane graciously emailed, saying it’s a perfect “Twitter 101” piece for Mashable, but what she wanted was my voice—the “Twitter Pimp Angel Jeanne” who engages in so many fun conversations online. Yes, they called me the “Twitter Pimp Angel” back in the day … long story. Moving on.

When she said “voice,” that was the first time anyone had explained its importance.

I dove into rewrites. instead of focusing on being educational, I pretended I was writing for myself, my followers, and my blog. What would I want to know about Twitter, and what tone would engage me? What would make me actually enjoy reading a How-To article? I put aside my self-imposed restrictions, even tossing mentions of tequila shots into the piece because that was my jam on Twitter at the time. No judgment.

She loved it. It would become my first published article in a print magazine.

That’s what we mean by “voice.” How can you write a story in a way only you could?

Quentin Tarantino has a hell of a unique voice. So does Shane Black. But you can’t discover voice by watching movies. You need to actually read their scripts. (If you don’t know how to find screenplays, here’s a link for downloads.)

But they are longtime pros. You can’t expect to master voice right out of the gate. Voice takes time and lots and lots of writing. Start out by simply retyping the scripts of writers you admire. Get a feel for the rhythm of a pro. Don’t imitate them, but learn from them. Then pull up a blank page and start writing your own idea. Use Stephen King’s advice of slamming the door shut and writing with reckless abandon.

Close out the world. Write with complete freedom. That’s how you let your voice loose. Welcome her on the page. Give her permission to sound absolutely bat-shit crazy and daring.

That’s what readers want. They want to be pulled into a story and almost imprisoned by it, unable to look away. Needing to keep reading. Aching to find out what happens next because you have magically kept them engaged.

And this brings me to my fear for the future writing world. Yep, I’m going there … A.I.

I get that people are in love with it. In some areas of our lives, it’s convenient—you have your own personal assistant or research tool. But for me? Nope. I tested it. And … it lies.

I write historical fiction, so getting the historical part correct is important to readers. It’s important to me. When I fed primary documents into Claude and asked questions about these real-life people’s relationships, it went into detail about a specific mother and daughter. Going on about how the mother supported her daughter during her painful divorce.

Fine. Except … her mother had died many years before.

Imagine if I had not done previous research and already knew this detail. Yikes.

But facts are not voice. Guess what? A.I. has its own voice … and readers can spot it. There are certain patterns in its prose that once you see, you can’t unsee. For example, it loves to group things in threes. In scripts, it consistently lists a single short sentence in a paragraph … sometimes a single word in a paragraph … ten straight paragraphs of one or two words. That is not a script, and that is not a unique voice. That’s an A.I. tell. And don’t get me started on how it’s ruined emdashes for those of us who love them.

The use of an emdash is indeed part of a writer’s voice, in my opinion. I will die on that hill.

If you use A.I. to help you brainstorm, that’s a different topic. I can see the temptation, but please remember A.I. can only spew out things that have already been done. Yes, yes, I know I suggested to retype your favorite scripts to understand voice, but retyping as an exercise and using ideas ripped from other writers by a machine are two very different things.

So, if you are trying to come up with an original idea, you’re going to have to rely on your own brain. There are no shortcuts to art. Isn’t that why we love to write? To make things up? To create new worlds and characters we love to hate … or hate to love?

When our fingers glide across the keys, our minds float with words, and they magically pour out in a way only we can arrange them. It’s a euphoric high impossible to describe to anyone who hasn’t experienced it. Why give that magic feeling away?

Don’t be lazy. Don’t give that joy of being a writer over to a machine.

And if you think executives and contests aren’t seeing an influx of A.I. scripts, you’re wrong. They see them. They are very aware of the patterns, and those scripts are not going to launch a writer’s career.

Please. I beg you. Reawaken your joy of the written word. Give yourself permission to actually love writing. After all, it’s called Creative Writing for a reason. A.I. doesn’t create. It regurgitates.

That’s not a voice I want to read. That’s not a voice at all.