Dear ones,
I have been having a crisis of voice. As I work more on my book manuscript, I am noticing a sort of tug-of-war between registers, of sorts, that I’ve brought to the various writing realms I’ve occupied. Writing my memoir felt easy. Organic. Like a much more polished version of Livejournal or the zines I used to write(1), with a dash of the gender theory and class consciousness I’d picked up since then. It felt like my most ~authentic~ state; it flowed.
My thesis (on radical space and prefigurative politics) and my dissertation (on LGBT/labor coalition & sexuality in/at work) didn’t flow exactly, but I had a formula to bring to the bones of it. Academics are taught to write in a particular format and anyone who dares to bring a bit of style or voice to it is usually part of the intellectual celebrity ilk who feel the permission to be a little showy. Mostly academic writing is dry, but the ideas can be so stimulating as to distract you from the absence of craft. I was literally disciplined into knowing how to do that successfully.
My current project is meant to be a more traditional non-fiction, academic-leaning project on the current state of sex and gender movements and politics (broadly defined). I can’t do any writing without some of the personal, and so there is a dash of memoir throughout. I’ve written before that, after my memoir, it felt important to me to somehow prove my intellect again (to whom? I wonder now) by doing something smarter. But this book, thankfully, is not coming out with an academic press, and so I get to push the boundaries of that formula. And good nonfiction writing does have style.
But I have to tell you, I’ve been struggling. Sometimes I wonder if the regularity of the newsletter is blocking me from finding the right voice for the book, which isn’t a complaint (I love writing here every week), but a challenge I want to name out loud for myself and maybe for other newsletter writers who have felt jostled into mimicry. I’m not the first to say that reading so many newsletters might have an impact on how we’re writing and what we’re writing about.
I talk about voice with my writing clients and students a lot. One of my favorite compliments to pay someone is that their writing is “voicey.” Michelle Tea, Hanif Abdurraqib, Sam Cohen, and Luca Davis all stand out to me as really voicey. It’s such a delight to read something that feels like you could tell who wrote it even without a byline or book jacket. Once upon a time I think my writing could have been described as voicey(2), but then I became too concerned with sounding smart, then eventually sounding marketable.(3) I’m not trying to be down on myself—I think I can put sentences together just fine, and that my ideas are worth engaging—but I miss knowing I was writing something deeply recognizable.
I’m getting through, but I am feeling the academic ruler snap against my knuckles, dryly moving through a literature review that might be better communicated through anecdote or, god forbid, my own words. I think most writers worth reading have something innate that makes them good (apologies for a rare moment of essentialism), but we also learn how to craft that talent; it is harder to unlearn bad habits.
I’d love to hear how other writers approach voice. How would you describe your own voice? How do you clear out noise that gets in the way of it? If you’ve ever lost it, how did you find it again?
***
Below! Reading recs on media literacy, lightning bugs, reality television, and more. Thoughts on Couples Therapy and a maybe-new-to-you indie girl band. Plus the little gratitude list of things from this week that were cute and sweet and worth paying attention to.
I will remind you every week of summer: you can support my writing for just $30. If you like these essays, notes, and insights, I would be so grateful for your paid subscription. <3
love & solidarity,
raechel
(1)my longest running zine was called “Darling & Discontent” (cute, right?); in 2007, I was in a zine reading at the ultra-cool Quimby’s bookstore in Chicago, with Christy Road, at which point I retired from vying for punk points. :)
(2)I was most voicey in those Livejournal/zine days. Really long poetic sentences without commas was a big trademark. Also some key phrases — feeling things “in my bones” was big, as was juxtaposing “visceral” next to things you wouldn’t initially imagine would be. Shadows danced and hearts ached and there was a lot of second person. What freedom I had in those days before I had an audience!
(3)I am not so naive to think that I am particularly marketable, lol. Thankfully I still write mostly what I want to write (a lot about very radical politics….not marketable!), but of course I am influenced by what might make this art more financially sustainable.
Reading.
Clara got a lot of people thinking about media literacy this week, which of course I loved. (I taught a class called “Media Literacy” throughout almost all of grad school and have taught some version of that nearly every year since, so it is particularly interesting to me!)
Lighting bugs are magical, thrive in darkness, and are at risk of extinction.
Millicent Souris put the perfect heartbreaking words to intense body discomfort, and still managed to leave us hopeful.
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