My Style, My Voice

I am doing the happy dance here in my chair, dear readers. I am over 10,000 words as of 5:30 last night.

I went to an Author Talk last night at the North Public Library, and enjoyed the moderated panel discussion with Therese Fowler (Souvenir, Reunion), Diane Chamberlain (18 published books, 19th to be released next year, and #20 is being written), and J.D. ‘Dusty’ Rhoades, full time criminal law attorney and author of five adventure/mystery books. It was a volunteer at the library that brought these fine NC writers together: JD was born and raised in Southern Pines and now lives in Carthage – he says ‘Good luck finding Carthage on a map,’ Diane lives in the Outer Banks and Therese lives in Wake Forest. Listening to their conversation last night gave me an idea for a piece I want to write (after NaNo is over, of course) about what makes Southern Writers so special. What is it that draws all of America into our books? Is it our idealism, our soft way of speaking (meaning writing in this case)? Maybe it has to do with the fact that Southerners in general are fantastic story tellers and we pass that know-how on to each successive generation. Or, perhaps it’s something more mundane, like the way we can pretty up the dirtiest pig and ‘shug, no one will ever know’ that we just stuck a ribbon on a sow and called it a beauty queen.

Therese Fowler said something that really resonated with me, something I had alluded to in one of my prior entries – it had to do with style being true to voice. I realized that although I will finish this NaNo mystery novel, I’m more drawn to a different writing style than the way I’m writing right now. I enjoy killing people in stories, it’s fun to think up different ways to do, and explore the dark side of people that drives them to kill, but it’s a temporary exercise. It doesn’t satisfy me in the long run. You see, I’m not being true to myself when writing this kind of story. I’ve always loved words. To me, they are a special kind of music and I can be brought to tears by a beautiful passage in a book. I love to read flowing, lyrical stories. For example, “The Shell Seekers” is my favorite book of all time. I read Rosamunde Pilcher’s novel once a year and each year, I marvel anew at the grace, the beauty, the flow of her words. When I read her books, I am a young woman in Cornwall; I can smell the ocean and the wet dogs as they come in from the rain. I can taste the strong, hot tea and fresh tomato sandwiches on my tongue, I feel the fog and the heat from the fire and the cold, winter breeze that stabs your cheeks like a thousand tiny knives. I see Penelope’s garden (Penelope is the main character in “The Shell Seekers”), and the bike propped against the back wall. I’m transported to Crete with Cosmos and Olivia and delight in their love affair. I despise Nancy for being such a whiney, self-entitled cow of a woman. It’s so wonderfully colorful, “The Shell Seekers,” such a true reflection of family dynamics both good and bad, the many faces of love, the wonder of a life – a life well lived, and the strength of a woman…. Now, I can’t wait for December 1st; it’s time to meet up with all my old friends in this book. It’s time for our yearly reunion.

But – to get back on point – I think in prose, not short, choppy sentences. I can’t simply say, it was a pretty red flower. No, I think along the lines of: The blood red petals of the just bloomed Mr. Lincoln rose glowed with a certain crimson crinkliness in the sparkly afternoon sunlight. That’s my style, my voice as a woman and as a writer.

NaNo is intense. It brings out things that you didn't even know were in you. I'm so happy to be doing this, to make my stand and take my place in what is so essentially me. I'm now living in the moment and enjoying each moment because I'm being true to what's been trying to get out of me for such a long time. Two and a half years ago, when I was first separated and feeling so old and ugly, trying to find my way in a new state, trying to pick up the pieces of my shattered soul and start my life over from scratch and scared to death of everything...at this horrible time of my life, my oldest niece gave me a gift. No reason, it wasn't my birthday, it wasn't close to Christmas. This wonderful gift was a beautiful mirror (the better to see the real me) and a blank notecard with this hand written message inside which has become my mantra:

I am no longer afraid of storms for I am learning to sail my own ship.
Louisa May Alcott