Notes to My Beginning Writer Self: On finding your voice
Dear Me Then,
Remember in high school, when Hannah had that sea-green Hyundai Accent, and you used to nag her into driving you everywhere? You later thought she might have struck a deal with Mom and Dad — they made the payments in exchange for her giving you rides — but at the time, you just knew when you asked, Hannah got this tight-lipped expression like she’d rather eat rust than spend a night with you riding shotgun, but she always said yes.
You wanted her to take you where the cool kids were — the movie theater, the mall, or more often the parking lots where teenagers gathered to smoke Marlboro Lights and drink Red Bull and vodka. Outside the book store and the Taco Bell, Hannah suffered in silence as you prodded her to cruise the aisles, watching people jostle and lean against their hoods, in hopes that one of them would glance your way and want to make a connection.
I think it was the parking lot behind the bank where Hannah stopped one night. You had the windows rolled down to let in the sultry air, and all of a sudden you looked out and saw a pair of older boys running up to the car and shoving a camera in your face.
“What’s your name?” they demanded.
You told them.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” you said.
“What kind of music do you like?”
You glanced at their mussed-up hair, their wide-legged jeans adorned with patches and safety pins, and said, “Punk and ska.”
The guys smiled, just as you’d hoped they would. They thanked you for your answers, said they’d see you around, and ran off. You waved good-bye, feeling buzzed from the boys’ attention. Then you turned back to Hannah.
“Punk and ska?” she repeated, arms folded across her chest.
“What? That’s what I like.”
“Yeah, right. Like what bands?”
There she had you. She knew you didn’t listen to that kind of music, just like she knew you were really only fourteen. You couldn’t say so, however, because you didn’t know why you’d lied to two randos in a parking lot, so instead you lied again, which pissed Hannah off. So she sped home and stomped into the house, and you followed and slammed your bedroom door, and the two of you didn’t speak for days — all because when a stranger asked your opinion, for some unknown reason, you gave them somebody else’s.
That wasn’t the last time you did it, either.
In fact, the act of adopting other people’s words and opinions like they were your own became a disconcerting habit over the years. You never meant to do it. You never even realized what you were actually doing. Only now that you’ve decided to be a writer will you see this tendency for what it is: saying what you think people want to hear in hopes of making them like you.
You’re going to have to learn how to walk without that crutch. Even if I were with you, I wouldn’t be able to save you that struggle.
What I would tell you is this: Throughout your journey as a writer, you’ll hear people talk about “finding your voice.” You might think they mean using certain diction or flourishing edgy slang, but that’s actually not what they’re saying.
They mean that, as a writer, you have many tools at your disposal. Words, of course, and combinations of words; rhythm; punctuation; rhetoric. You also have intelligence, emotions, personality, experience, and dedication. All these tools you must master, but you must also learn how to make them work in harmony to express ideas that are original and true to you.
This process is going to be very difficult for you — maybe the hardest thing you’ll ever learn. And you’re going to spend a lot of years trying to find a way around it. You’ll learn to be an excellent mimic rather than speaking for yourself because that — stripping down, stepping in front of a crowd with your naked thoughts— that terrifies you.
You’ll manage to fool a few people, too, and they’ll reward you. But eventually, after years of ups and downs, little wins, big losses, you’ll come to the conclusion that that’s all it was — fooling. And you’ll realize you don’t want to be a fool anymore, and the people who said you had to find your voice were right all along.
You’ll find a way to protect yourself. To carve out a little space of silence where you can attune your thoughts to the faint, faint vibrations of your own mind. You’ll capture your ideas in grace notes. Then in phrases. You’ll hear them in the noise of day, over the clatter of work and social media and other people’s words. And at last, when you put them down on paper, they will sing to you, and you’ll realize this is what they were talking about.
“They” could be anyone — friends, teachers, fellow writers, agents, bosses, studio executives. But as you grasp your way forward in this profession, you should picture all of them as your sister Hannah, sitting in the driver’s seat, face set in that sister-knows-best expression as she glares a hole right through your haze of bullshit.
Imagine they know you like your sister knows you. No matter what pretty words you spin, what slick thoughts you pitch, if they don’t come straight from your heart, your mind, your life — she’ll know. And she’ll call you on it, again and again, until one day you give in to the fact that you can’t pretend to be anyone else with her except yourself.
And then, to your surprise, you’ll realize that’s the person she wanted to hear from all along.
Until next time,
Me Now
Meagan Daine is a television, film, and podcast writer specializing in alternative coming-of-age stories about diverse characters in extraordinary circumstances. She is currently a staff writer on the BET drama Games People Play. Follow her on Twitter/IG @writeordienow or check out her latest projects at writeordienow.com.
