How To Find Your Writer's Voice
Finding your writer’s voice is like trying to order coffee in a hipster café. You know you want something bold, maybe a little quirky, but you’re surrounded by options: “oat milk noir”, “existential dread espresso”, “whimsical caramel macchiato with extra metaphor” Do you mimic the person ahead of you (Tolstoy vibes? Sure!)? Or do you panic and default to “whatever’s caffeinated”? Your voice isn’t on the menu. It’s the drink you eventually invent after spilling six failed attempts on your laptop.
New writers are told to “read widely” and “write a lot,” which is code for: “You’ll spend three years awkwardly cosplaying as Joan Didion before realizing you sound like a parrot who’s overdosed on self-help books.” Imitation isn’t failure; it’s phase one. You’ll Frankenstein Hemingway’s brevity with Maya Angelou’s lyricism, add a dash of Douglas Adams’ wit, and accidentally create a tone that’s less “unique voice” and more “identity crisis.” That’s okay. Even Shakespeare probably started with, “To yeet or not to yeet.”
The breakthrough comes when you stop trying to sound like someone you admire and start sounding like someone you are. Maybe your inner voice is sarcastic, tender, neurotically verbose, or allergic to adjectives. Let it out! Write a rant about mismatched socks. Describe a sunset like you’re texting a friend. Draft a love letter to your air fryer. Your voice isn’t hiding in a Pulitzer winner’s shadow; it’s buried under all those layers of “shoulds” and “what if I sound dumb?”
Experiment recklessly. Write the same scene as a noir detective, a rom-com protagonist, and a sentient toaster. Delete 90% of it. Burn a notebook (safely… maybe). Your voice isn’t a static thing—it’s a mood ring. Sometimes it’s polished and profound; other times it’s a gremlin shouting memes. Both are valid.
And here’s the secret: Your voice was there all along. It’s the cadence of your thoughts, the jokes you mutter to yourself, the way you overexplain things to your dog. It’s not about being original; it’s about being honest. So next time you write, imagine you’re telling a story to your weirdest friend. If they’d laugh, cringe, or cry, you’re on the right track.
Now go forth. Your voice isn’t “out there”—it’s in your messy, unedited, gloriously caffeinated heart. And if all else fails, add more caramel.
An example of finding my voice
by Liz Dubelman
WinWin (a continuing story read here or read the summary below)
Summary: WinWin is a humorous and satirical story about Betty, a 60-year-old woman who, after financial ruin caused by an ill-advised romance with a younger man, embarks on a series of unconventional career ventures. She tries everything from senior dog walking and house-sitting for the wealthy to becoming a YouTube influencer and selling pickles at a farmers' market.
Each of Betty’s attempts at financial stability is met with absurd and often disastrous results. Her experiences highlight the struggles of reinvention, resilience, and the comedic misadventures of an older woman navigating a gig economy that often disregards people her age.
As Betty’s entrepreneurial spirit evolves, she becomes involved in a controversial and dystopian tech startup—an app called WinWin, which matches terminally ill individuals with those seeking "impactful justice" in a morally ambiguous assassination marketplace.
Global Headlines with a Side of Schadenfreude (rewrite from last week)
The world’s news feeds erupted like a zit at prom night. Every outlet, from the New York Times to CatFacts Daily, screamed variations of: “Dying Man Yeets Corrupt CEO Into Sun in WinWin’s Deanteenth Scandal.” The details were a delightful cocktail of horror and inspiration—like watching a clown perform open-heart surgery.
Mark Kessler, a whistleblower with a pancreas staging its own Fyre Festival, had been matched with a pastor whose congregation had been fleeced by a CEO with the moral depth of a puddle. Kessler’s farewell tour? A manifesto, a video diary leak (shot on an iPhone 4, because aesthetic), and a PR disaster so juicy even Zuckerberg’s algorithm blushed.
In WinWin’s office, the team huddled around Sheila’s laptop like witches over a cauldron of bad decisions.
“We knew this was coming,” Betty declared, radiating the calm of someone who’d already picked out her prison bunkmate.
“Knew?!” Sheila snapped. “The hashtags are #WinWinWins, #VigilanteJustice, and—my personal favorite—#DeathUber. We’re not trending, Betty. We’re cursed.”
Betty waved a hand, manicured nails glinting like tiny knives. “Publicity is publicity. Remember Fyre Fest? They sold merch.”
“Fyre Fest didn’t get subpoenaed by the Department of Justice,” Sheila hissed, jabbing at her screen. A headline glared back: “DOJ Investigates App That’s Basically Tinder for Tombstones.”
The room fell quieter than a Zoom funeral. Even the resident idealist—a coder in a hoodie that now read Ctrl+Alt+Delete Life—looked queasy.
Betty broke the silence. “Heat means we’re relevant. If anything, this proves people want ethically dubious closure!”
Sheila leaned back. “You’re not worried about prison?”
“Prison?” Betty smirked. “Honey, Martha Stewart monetized prison. We’ll sell ad space on the jumpsuits.”
Sheila’s eyebrow arched. “Bold. Also, clinically insane.”
But Betty was already pivoting. “We lean in. Marketing! Drop a statement like you’re dropping a mixtape.”
The resulting PR gem: “WinWin: Empowering Users to Exit Stage Left… With Purpose™. (Note: Illegal activity bad. Unless it’s poetic.)”
Downloads skyrocketed. The servers crashed twice—ironic since they died faster than the users. Even Betty’s late-night brooding session was interrupted by Sheila slamming a folder on her desk.
“Meet Officer Do-Good,” Sheila said, pointing to a photo of a man so clean-cut he probably ironed his soul. “Undercover cop. Matched with a user who ‘mysteriously’ died. Surprise! He’s building a case to bury us.”
Betty’s grin didn’t falter. “Perfect. Nothing says ‘legit’ like government sabotage. Let’s leak his gym selfies.”
Sheila sighed. “When this implodes, I want ‘Icarus’ playing at my eulogy.”
The Circus Goes Pyrotechnic
The DOJ subpoena arrived with the subtlety of a flaming bag of poop. Betty’s legal team countered by arguing the request was “overly broad, like your mom’s TikTok.” PR launched #MyChoiceMyLegacy, which trended between #KardashianKollapse and #CatShaming.
On live TV, a journalist grilled Betty: “Isn’t WinWin just Saw for millennials?”
Betty, channeling the energy of a cult leader at a juice cleanse, replied: “Society lets CEOs burn planets and politicians nap through apocalypses. Our users? They’re just… auditioning for karma.”
The segment went viral. Supporters called her a “disruptor.” Detractors called her “Jeff Bezos with a death wish.”
As the app’s body count climbed, Betty stared at the chaos from her glass-walled office—a fishbowl on the Titanic. Sheila entered, holding a subpoena like it was a radioactive burrito.
“They want everything. User data, emails, your Pinterest board.”
Betty shrugged. “Tell them it’s ‘artisanal data.’ Charge extra.”
“Betty. They’ll shut us down.”
“Then we pivot. WinWin: Afterlife Edition. NFTs of user legacies. Think bigger.”
Sheila groaned. “You’re impossible.”
“No, darling,” Betty said, watching the city lights flicker like distant arson. “I’m innovating.”
Somewhere, a lawyer wept into their $400 latte. The servers crashed again.
Distinction between reading to imitate and reading to be inspired: . I don’t want to sound like Liz Dubelman (there is only one you), but your words excite me to write my words, kind of like Tag, you’re it! You say “the way you mutter to your dog” and my brain goes right into muttering mode and God is there endless material in my muttering. I can’t think of a better channel to the repository of our lived experience.
very witty-"existential dread espresso". Now I know what I've been drinking all these years