The problem with writing, for me, can be summed up in a simple question.

“What is your voice?”

That’s it. It isn’t more complicated than that. I know there can be thoughts of prose and meter and narrative and whatever else writers like to spew in coffee shops and endless volumes of curricula. But, for me, it really comes down to that simple question.

“What is your voice?”

Write about anything. Food, Travel, Fiction, History, Houseplants, Climate Change, Fan-Fiction… Whatever. It doesn’t matter. If you don’t know what voice you are writing in, then you can’t tell the story you want to tell.

Think of the stories you most enjoy. Think of some of your favorites. Chances are, all of them have one thing in common even though they may written by separate authors. The commonality is they are all written in the individual authors voice. Their own unique, unmatched, personal voice. You can tell when it is authentically theirs. Like when someone you know, who is really good at telling stories at parties or family gatherings, has you fully engaged in what they are telling. No one can tell the story like they can. Think of Shakespeare. You know a piece is his, despite your opinions on if he truly wrote his own stuff, the way it flows and sounds in your head. Think of Ayn Rand, Kerouac, Hemingway. Think of Sandra Cisneros, Stephen King, Victor Villaseñor. All writers who, if you found a page of their work, without knowing who it was, you would figure out pretty quickly who wrote it. Of course, you would have had to have previous experience reading their work. That goes without saying. Simply put, they have/had a voice they wrote in. Some of them may have taken years to find it. Some maybe found it right away. Some may have found it in their experiences or endless research. Some may have found it at the bottom of a bottle, or three, of booze. Whatever it was, they found it.

How?

That’s the question I keep asking myself. How? Every time I open this computer and type on these keys, I stare at the empty pages and remember how empty my thoughts are. I type one page, then delete it. I start talking about one subject, then wonder if I even have anything to say about it. I write in a rhythm, wonder if it’s mine, then quickly realize it isn’t and I get frustrated. Then, I don’t even write at all.

So what did they do, that I’m not yet? Have I not lived? Have I not had experiences? Is there nothing I enjoy which I have nothing to speak with authority of? Have I not had an all night drunken bender to write my guts out? I haven’t, by the way. Anyway it sounds horrible and messy. I’ve struggled to figure it out. But, there may be some hope. There might be a clearing in the clouds. I think, after baking my noodle on it for a while, I may have the answer I am looking for.

You see, the other thing writers have in common besides their own voice is they wrote. (At this point, I paused while writing this to recover from the dizzying effects of the facepalm I just gave myself.) They wrote. They didn’t think about writing. They wrote. They didn’t talk about writing. They wrote. They sat down, notebook in hand and scribbled words on a page. They rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter and hit the keys to make words. Again and again. They wrote. Even if it was crap. Even when it was crap. They wrote. That’s it. They pushed and pushed and eventually the wall began to move and shake and crumble. Then they came out the other side and had a book, or paper, poem, anything. They wrote and wrote and eventually could write as much in their voice as when they were speaking out loud or dreaming. In order to do the thing, you have to do the thing. Write. Keep writing. Write again. Write without ceasing. Write without judgment. Editing comes later. Just write and your voice will be clear.