Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Ron's Column: Your Voice.

My lips perked at the sound of the words, my mind filtering through incorrect lingo, pinpointing the proper words to use in order to prove my view that was still developing. My fingers hesitate at the keyboard as one incorrect word choice can cripple a sentence, maiming the paragraph, euthanizing the story.

It would be over, at my own hands.

So I pause, reveling in the process as each word puts forth its case for usage. Simplicity here, complexity there, short sentence here, long sentence there, dividing the rhythm into a voice. A voice associated with the writer’s fingertips every time they sit to scribe at a keyboard, or as they hold their pen in their hand.

It sounds like them.

You can hear them speaking through the silence of your reading, an inescapable sound that every writer aspires to project. Their voice, a tone all their own, a style derived from the beats in their chest. Cover the name below the title, read the words and still come to a conclusion of who penned it.

It doesn’t need the byline.

It sits alone, hovering within the breaths of a writer who only wants to tell you what their voice can conjure up. Give the same topic to five writers and get five voices in five different note ranges.

We’ll never be the same, even mimicking writers you admire will still cause you to tinker with their style, making it your own, in search of the unwarranted byline.

Nobody wants to need that byline.

It looks good, able to brag to family and friends that you wrote something someone felt like publishing but if you truly want to be great, truly want to be among those that people anxiously wait for, you must develop the nameless voice. The voice associated with why I’m able to pen this right now without ever having to introduce myself.

You shouldn’t know my birthplace, just that it birthed into existence my ability to concoct sentences for views.

You shouldn’t know my heartbreak, just the tears splattered between the lines written just for me and you.

It isn’t rocket science, just an explosion of verbiage dancing upon a page that only exists to listen, to the sound of my voice.


No comments: