Nearly 50 years after the fact, I still recall an exercise in my first-year composition class at Colorado State University. The teaching assistant retold the fairytale about Goldilocks and the three bears in the style of famous authors, then invited students to guess who might have written what.
It wasn’t difficult to discern how Ernest Hemingway likely would have described in his sparse way how Goldilocks sampled the porridge: “She tried the first bowl. It was hot. She tried the second bowl. It was cold. She tried the third bowl. It was good. She ate it all.”
The same for Raymond Chandler and his hardboiled poetry: “I took a bite from the first bowl and nearly burned my tongue off. Too hot, like a heater in a small room. The second bowl was too cold. Then I saw the third bowl. It was warm. Just right. I wolfed it down, leaving the bowl as empty as a broken promise.”
The point of the exercise was obvious, even to a freshman who’d yet to contemplate a career as a writer. It was all about the importance of literary voice. Word choice, sentence structure, pacing, tone and perspective form a constellation of attributes that makes writing distinct and memorable. In the case of Hemingway, Chandler and many others, their voices are so distinct they’re recognizable within a single sentence.
Don’t get me wrong. Subject and plot matter. Character development matters even more, I’d argue. Good fiction tells compelling stories about characters you care about. The best fiction does the same thing while exploring human truths. But admit it. If your favorite author — the one whose literary voice resonates so deeply it feels like an earnest conversation with a cherished friend — published her grocery list, you’d run out and buy it. That’s the power of voice.
Even before I attended that composition class at CSU, I was gobsmacked by the literary voice of another author and the voice he gave in turn to one of literature’s most well-known characters. I’m writing about J.D. Salinger and Holden Caulfield. Is there a more unique first-person narration than what’s found in “Catcher in the Rye?” It’s at once intimate, sarcastic, funny … and grand. Although Holden would object to that last adjective: “There’s a word I really hate. It’s a phony. I could puke every time I hear it.”
A few weeks ago, I discovered yet another remarkable literary voice in reading “The Outsiders” by S.E. Hinton. It’s another coming-of-age story, told this time by Ponyboy Curtis. He’s a teen-age “greaser” some might mistakenly dismiss as a juvenile delinquent, but one who relishes sunsets, recites Robert Frost poems and brings a perspective to life well beyond his years. His first-person narration balances grit and tenderness. By the way, the novel opens and closes with a great line: “When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home.”
Here’s the paradox of literary voices, though: as much as you admire them, you don’t dare emulate them. It would come across as what Holden Caulfield — and nearly all readers — would recognize as a phony. The quality of voice depends on an authenticity born of an author’s knowledge, experiences and beliefs. All qualities as unique as a snowflake.
I’d like to believe I’ve developed something of a literary voice over decades writing newspaper stories and, more recently, short stories and novels. It’s been an evolutionary process involving writing, listening and revisions followed by more writing, listening and revisions. I’ve spent years reading my work out loud to detect not only the clinks and clanks of poor craftsmanship, but also the discordance of deceit.
I don’t believe for a moment my voice is nearly as distinctive as Hemingway’s or Chandler’s or Salinger’s. Or Hinton’s, for that matter, although she was only 18 when “The Outsiders” was published. Damn, girl.
It’s my voice, nonetheless. Honest and real. For better or worse. I only hope readers want to hear more of it.