Voice: Some Days It Is Simply Elusive
I always think about Morgan Freeman as the voice of God. Deep, low-pitch. Powerful, yet calming. Is there anything that doesn’t sound amazing when he says it? That was rhetorical — the answer is no.
Barack Obama’s speeches are a thing of pure beauty — flowing from his lips more like a jazz melody than common place words. Riffs that climb to a crescendo in a style reminiscent of Martin Luther King, Jr.
Tina Fey, badass improviser and comedic genius, has a voice that is unmistakable. Witty, charming, intelligent, sarcastic. Reading the book Bossypants, it’s almost as if I hear her voice in my head. She makes it sound so easy.
Lin-Manuel Miranda has a voice that is stylistically unique. After “studying” Hamilton (read: obsessively devouring), I could hear the same style ring through loud and clear as I took in a performance of In The Heights. If I hadn’t known it was his work before the opening number, it was immediately clear to me as the first lines of that catchy tune danced in my ears.
There are writers I love to read and artists I love to listen to because their voice inspires or awakens something within me.
It’s like a calling card. A personality.
I’d like to think that my writing has a unique voice that makes people want to read more. My writing voice. My writing. My voice. Writing. Voice.
Lately I feel a bit more like Ariel after Ursula scams her into trading her beautiful, melodic voice for a set of bowed, lanky human legs. Somedays I just can’t find my voice.
I am inspired daily by so many things. I have a million ideas for blog posts. But when I sit to write one of two situations play out:
- I’ve got nothing.
- I start to write and fall down a rabbit hole. I keep writing and writing and my post becomes more complicated than I ever intended it to be. I can’t find the graceful end. There is no way to wrap it up succinctly . . . so it sits. Unfinished. Unpublished.
So, either I can’t seem to start. . . Or I can’t seem to finish.
This is especially true when I want to write about something important. I want to do it justice. Truth be told, I’m a bit of a perfectionist.
I’ve been wanting to write about leaving the classroom and starting my next grand adventure.
I can’t. I’m not there yet. I haven’t found my voice on it yet.
Like someone, in an Ursula-esque fashion, has come and snatched it right out of me.
I can talk about it. But I can’t find a way to put it in writing.
It’s too important. Too emotional. Perhaps I’m too vulnerable or the wounds are still too fresh. Does writing about it make it more real to me? More public?
Don’t get me wrong, I made the right decision. I love my work.
But there is the baggage I still carry.
I need to write about it. Writing is catharsis. Writing is therapy. Writing is healing.
I can’t. I’m not there yet. I haven’t found my voice on it yet.
