At risk of being too inspired by the banal platitudes inscribed on fridge magnets and erroneously attributed to Oscar Wilde, I put forth the following statement:
“Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken.”
An obvious assertion, or a profound one, depending on how long you think about it; sort of like the way that words go weird when repeated several times.
We’ve all worn various masquerades in our lives. Some costumes might have sufficed for an evening or maybe even a season while others have become such a comfortable second skin that is is almost indistinguishable from the real flesh beneath; the true self that has never seen the light of day. No one starts out in life intending to stay hidden. But like those heavily made up women who have become drag queen-like caricatures of their real femininity, we keep accenting the disguise instead of revealing the truth about ourselves. The disguise grows coral-like, until the artifice is a ponderous mass; the result of a thousand concealing decisions made day in, day out, for decades.
We wear our personality disguises because we’re afraid of being seen--and yet, we cannot bear not to be seen--so we stage manage ourselves, trying to present just the right version of ME so that no one will have cause to reject us. Maybe it is humour. Maybe it is brains. Maybe it is strength or stoicism. Maybe it is selfishness or selflessness. We wrap ourselves up in the banners that make us feel safe--ramparts that we can defend.
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| This is a rampart. I know. The connection is flimsy. |
If you’ve ever read any advice about the “craft” of Writing, you will quickly encounter the discussion of Voice. All writers are urged to find their Voice but no one can tell you what yours looks or sounds like. Voice is an ineffable quality and defies concrete explanation. You can’t describe someone else’s voice with any real efficacy. You can talk about pitch and timbre and rhythm and tone; but such things have to be heard to be heard. It isn’t so much what is said but the way that it is said. As a writer looking for professional development help, this is super irritating advice. Sort of like Obi Wan telling Luke to use the Force when he just found out there was a Force ten minutes previous, not to mention there is now a little spinning droid shooting sparks at him.
Voice is the indescribable quality that causes you to read on because there is just something about it. Readers know when they’ve encountered it; although they might not articulate it as such. Voice is the soul of the storyteller that lets you, as the reader, know who you can trust. Sometimes you may not like the Voice. You may disagree with the things that it says. But you know when you’ve encountered a real Voice--instead of a masquerade--because the real is memorable and phony forgettable.
It sounds like finding it should be simple, but it isn’t. It sounds simple because everyone has one. It sounds simple because individuals can’t really help but be unique despite our best efforts to be the same. It sounds simple, but it isn’t. It isn’t simple because we’re all such good actors that we’re even able to fool ourselves about who we are and what our voices sound like. We forget that we put on a costume to protect ourselves from criticism and rejection. We buried our true voices--and, we probably did it fairly early in life.
Unmasking your voice in writing is a herculean challenge. It takes a lot of practice. A lot of misfires. A lot of words spilled onto endless pages that never seem to amount to anything worth reading over again. It is only after a lot of time has passed and a lot of words pass through your fingers that you start to recognize Your Voice. It pops up like a yellow thread running through a tapestry and you probably hated the sight of it at first. Like it was a bubble of rust appearing unwelcome under the paint of your car. “That shouldn’t be there,” you think. “That doesn’t look anything like Dorothy Parker or Pat Conroy or Jane Austen,” or whatever other heroic Voice you’ve been aping in your writing. “I don’t like the sound of that,” you think to yourself. I don’t like the sound of that because it feels … unnerving; too close to something that might be painful. Besides, I know that everyone likes Jane Austen. Writing like Jane Austen probably won’t cost me anything (although, I guarantee you, it cost her everything.)
Why else would every writer be tempted to write their own version of Pride and Prejudice, even adding zombies or murders in order to justify having their name included on the book jacket? We want to wrap ourselves in the mantle of someone else. Someone wiser. Someone stronger. Someone better. A voice we value. The problem remains, though. The imitation is only ever a covering--a wrapper--that hides and protects the substance within. It’s always cut too small though, and the words spoken in our own voices show up like feet sticking out from underneath a blanket. Feet that must be amputated--erased-- in order to keep up the act of mimicry. But mimicry has only ever been a cute parlor trick. It’s entertaining to see someone do an impression of Al Pacino or Robert De Niro, but mostly because it allows you to pretend for a moment that you are in the presence of a fascinating person you don’t know. It is only an ephemeral impression of their voice. But the mimic can’t tell you who De Niro or Pacino really are or what they think about things. It’s only a magician’s illusion.
One of my favourite novels is Margaret Mitchell’s, Gone With The Wind. I have read it several times, but I remember my initial vexation at the lack of certainty at the end over Rhett and Scarlett’s future. Did he really not give a damn anymore? Or, was that just his wounds talking? Would Scarlett’s formidable will be able to win him back, just as she had clawed her way back from utter destitution? Was it actually too late? Margaret Mitchell never tells.
I’m not the only one who wonders about what happened to the Butlers, because in 1991 Scarlett by Alexandra Ripley was published to harsh criticism and great sales. It isn’t the only ‘sequel’ out there, either. If you’ve ever had the misfortune to pick up fan fiction, you know that it is an unappetizing substitute for the real thing. While Ripley may have imagined Scarlett and Rhett and Mammy and Ashley in great detail, she was not their creator. She can’t know what Mitchell knew. Everyone else in the world can only play pretend with characters named Rhett and Scarlett. Only Margaret Mitchell can make them live. Even the greatest mimic can never produce anything more than an imitation of the real thing. Painting like Da Vinci, doesn’t make you Da Vinci.
So--given all this--why do we think that it is okay to hide ourselves, to ape others while denying our own Voice that runs a stubborn yellow thread through our portion of this tapestried world? Why dye the yellow thread red or blue or black when yellow is what is required? What good is someone else’s voice? If someone else could do it or say it better, God would have likely sent someone else instead. Your voice is important. Your true Voice, that is. Your authentic self. A masquerade just won’t do.
But unmasking is stomach churning stuff. You feel exposed. Vulnerable. Open to criticism without defense because there you are, on display for all to see. But I think the reward is greater than the cost of unmasking. While criticism may be leveled at you, not at the disguise, praise will be real. That will be genuine. That is worth something mighty.
I realized not too long ago that if I what I wrote didn’t frighten me at least a little bit--make me feel exposed in some way--then it probably wasn’t worth too much because didn’t cost me anything. It was just opinions without any heart. It was just the noise of my brain without the value of me. And, if there isn’t anything of me on the page--then what, really, is the point of writing at all? When we receive something phony from someone, we, like Holden Caulfield, resent it. “I was surrounded by phonies--they were coming in the windows…” We’re starving for real connections; for eye contact and soul contact. No one hungers for the PR managed highlight reel of social media. We just don’t know how else to be; how else to connect. We keep gilding the lily of our disguise instead of taking the risk of making the small, but monumental choices to be our real selves day in and day out.
You were created with a purpose. The Bible says so. You were created to speak into this time and place. The World needs your voice. Besides, I understand that everyone else’s is already taken.
