Directors Cut
Writers often worry about whether they have a “voice,” as if it’s some magical creature that either appears or doesn’t. The truth is, you already have one. You use it every day when you talk to friends, tell a story at dinner, or write a note that makes someone laugh. The real challenge isn’t finding your voice—it’s recognizing it, trusting it, and not sanding down the edges that make it yours.
Your authentic voice is the one outfit you can wear every day without feeling like you’re in costume. It’s not the most polished version of you; it’s the version that feels natural. If you’re funny, let that humor through. If you’re thoughtful, lean into that. If you write like you’re telling secrets at two in the morning, that’s your magic.
Readers can sense authenticity instantly. They can also sense when you’re trying too hard. The moment you start bending yourself into what you think publishers, agents, or “the market” want, your writing loses the spark that only you can bring.
And yes, sometimes your authentic voice slips away. Fear, comparison, or even just exhaustion can make your work start sounding stiff or borrowed. That doesn’t mean you’ve lost it—it just means your voice is hiding under the clutter. When that happens, try reading your work out loud. If it doesn’t sound like something you’d actually say, cut it. Or write something just for yourself: a rant, a memory, even a fake product review. Anything that loosens the grip of self-consciousness.
Your voice will evolve as you do. That’s not inauthentic—that’s growth. The trick is to notice when you’ve drifted too far from yourself and gently guide the words back.
Because here’s the bottom line: your authentic voice is the only thing no one else can copy. It’s your most powerful tool, your best marketing angle, and the reason a reader will remember you instead of just another book. Guard it. Use it. Trust it.
The Two-Paragraph Test
Write one short paragraph about something ordinary (your morning coffee, walking the dog, grocery shopping). Don’t overthink—just get it down.
Now, write the same paragraph as if you were trying to impress a stranger—formal, polished, “literary.”
Read both aloud. Notice which one feels like you and which one feels like a performance.
The first paragraph is closer to your authentic voice. The second shows how easy it is to slip into a mask. The lesson: keep writing from the place that feels like you. That’s where the connection lives.
A Fiction Break
Directors Cut
by Liz Dubelman
Jim was a “guy’s guy.” He had opinions on bourbon but not on deodorant, thought romance was remembering my middle name, and considered an oil change foreplay. For reasons I should probably unpack in therapy, I liked him. Probably because he sounded smart—he knew a little about everything, which is the most irritating kind of knowledge.
His real fetish, though, was movies. He didn’t just watch them—he mainlined them, stored them in his bloodstream, and spat out trivia like a Pez dispenser with anger issues. His favorite psychological warfare was the “movie game.” Stuck in traffic, he’d toss out Hoosiers and stare at me until I named a movie starting with “s.” I hated the game, so I stalled on purpose, hoping he’d give up. Instead, his face would redden like a toddler denied a toy, until finally he screamed: “ ‘S’! Don’t you know a single movie starting with ‘s’?” Then, unable to bear my incompetence, he’d shout She-Devil, pounding the steering wheel like he’d just cured polio.
Jim always won. Jim had to win. Losing was not in his emotional vocabulary. On a drive to San Diego, he launched The Godfather. I made the fatal mistake of saying, “Never seen it.” His head spun around like a possessed priest. What followed was a two-hour, unsolicited lecture on Coppola, Pacino, Brando, and the cultural significance of men mumbling about cannoli. By the end, I was fantasizing about opening the car door at 65 mph.
Two months later, my birthday arrived. I had left hints—jewelry, art, concert tickets. Jim showed up with a gift bag the size of hope. Inside: The Godfather, Part I on DVD. Not even wrapped. He beamed, waiting for applause, as though he’d cracked the code of gift-giving. The next year? The Godfather, Part II. There was no Part III. Not in the collection, not in the relationship. I dumped him before Coppola could strike again.
I still haven’t seen The Godfather. Why would I? I’ve already dated the director’s cut of every man who thinks quoting Pacino counts as a personality.
Smart and wonderful. —Love you so much!
so funny.