New tricks, old dogs and waddling like a duck
Can authors change their voices?
Is it possible to glide like a supermodel when you’ve always waddled like a duck? That’s what I wanted to ask my friend when she declared her hobbling days over. She was standing in her kitchen, straight and crutch-less, as she boiled the kettle. A mere five days earlier, she’d exchanged a worn hip for a chrome and titanium combo. I stared at her, admiring her posture, silent with my doubts. It’s a big thing, being sliced open and having part of your leg sawn off and removed before the manufactured new parts are installed. I accepted a mug tea and followed her from the room. Her gait was even, but as tense as that of a dressage pony. She knew I was judging her.
I meant no offense. “Waddled like the duck” was my friend’s phrase, not mine and my skepticism came from a place of concern. Surely, she was setting herself up for failure, I thought, as I made my way home a little later. Can one adopt a new walk after getting by with another for decades? It’s like teaching an old dog new tricks. Isn’t the way you walk as innate as your voice, and the notion of permanently altering it as improbable as changing the way you speak and write? Can an author alter her voice?
One of the best things about being a writer is how it’s always possible to improve. I was a journalist for more than three decades before turning to fiction. The change required a shift in mindset and new skills. Information is accessible and the learning continues. In fact, there’s so much advice around, one can get lost in the woolly woods of what-to-do and what-not-to-do. There are opinions—they’re all opinion, after all—on plotting, pacing, building worlds, character development, beginnings, endings, and every other aspect of creating fiction. We’re told how to grab and hold readers’ attention, what is required of genres, when to withhold information, and how tension propels the narrative. Authors are encouraged to write now and edit later, get feedback, kill their darlings, and revise, revise, revise. It goes on. But what about an author’s voice? Is that something we can significantly change? Just as I was dubious about my friend ditching her limp, it seemed improbable to me that a mature writer could change her voice.
Voice exists before you say or write a word. It evolves little by little with everything that influences you throughout your life. Your tone, vocabulary, syntax, style, and energy are shaped by the voices and stories you hear, who raises and educates you, the books you read, where you live, and your personality, interests, and experience. Although it might mature as you do and evolve the more you write, your voice is there all along, as steady as a mountain. Naturally, it’s modified by your moods, and you might adjust for different stories and genre. However, like your fingerprints and personality, it’s largely fixed and distinguished by of the kinds of stories you tell and how you write them.
Intrigued by the question, I asked several other authors whether believe voice is the result of nature or nurture. While most agree it is “a reflection of an author’s worldview” and reveals the writer’s unique thoughts, emotions, values, and tone, some say, when craft comes into play, “additional voices” can be taught and learned. Just as actors adopt accents and voices for various roles, authors assume varied tones and styles for different pieces of writing. Whether or not these additional voices can be sustained across a work of long form is uncertain. After all, don’t we all eventually revert to type? Even when we’re unintentionally influenced by the voice or style of authors we admire, the effect is short-lived.
Not everyone I asked believes a writer’s voice is inherent. Some insist it is learned. One colleague urged me to compare successful authors’ early works with their later books. I did so, comparing Doris Lessing’s The Grass is Singing (1950), The Sweetest Dream (2001), and The Grandmothers (2004); Stephen King’s Carrie (1974), Blaze (written as Richard Bachman in 1977), and Pet Sematary (2014); and Elizabeth Strout’s Amy and Isabelle (1998) and Tell Me Everything (2024).
My opinion? From their oldest to most recent books, each of the author’s voices is discernibly distinct. I’m certain I could identify them with their bylines hidden. Even where King endeavored to disguise his writing as Richard Bachman’s, his voice is clear. The exercise highlighted what characterizes an author’s voice. I saw patterns in syntax, tone, style, settings, sense of humor, and characters. Above all though, it revealed to me how an author’s voice is distinguished by energy. It makes sense. Energy is obvious in everything we do, how we speak, laugh, move, and engage. It provides clues to how we feel about ourselves, others and our world. Sure, our energy ebbs and flows, but it’s unique to each of us in the same way that our voices are. It’s my experience that an individual’s energy is tightly bound to their personality. This supports my view that, once evolved, an author’s voice is fixed.
That might’ve been my conclusion. However, yesterday, I joined my friend and her new hip for a walk. It’s almost two months since the operation. I know she’s followed her physiotherapist’s instructions diligently, but we didn’t mention it as we walked. Instead, we discussed disobedient dogs, Christmas menus, home maintenance, and the cycling holiday she’s about to embark upon. It struck me as we ambled up a hill; she was gliding like a supermodel.
One of the best things about being a writer is how it’s always possible to improve. If you want to adjust your voice, work at it. Glide like a super model. Waddle like a duck. Teach an old dog new tricks. Anything is possible.
Here’s wishing you a happy, healthy and prosperous 2025. May the year be full of whatever tricks bring you joy, old or new!
Penny