Unveiling the Fossil: Understanding Voice as the Skeleton of Fiction Writing

Unveiling the Fossil: Understanding Voice as the Skeleton of Fiction Writing

By Olivia Salter

Voice is one of the most enigmatic and essential elements of fiction writing. As Chuck Wendig eloquently puts it, “Voice is not just the result of a single sentence or paragraph or page. It’s not even the sum total of a whole story. It’s all your work laid out across the table like the bones & fossils of an unidentified carcass.” This metaphor encapsulates the essence of voice: a cumulative, living imprint left behind by the writer, recognizable across their body of work. It’s not a single vertebra but the entire skeleton—the structure that defines and supports the shape of a writer’s creations.

The Anatomy of Voice

In writing, voice is both intimate and expansive. It’s found in the rhythm of your sentences, the choice of your metaphors, the cadence of your dialogue, and the energy of your narrative. However, no single line or scene can fully encapsulate a writer’s voice. Instead, it emerges from patterns and subtleties, like piecing together a fossil from scattered fragments.

Imagine a paleontologist dusting off a bone fragment and speculating on the creature’s size, shape, and movement. Similarly, readers pick up on the small nuances in a writer’s work—the sharpness of their humor, the lushness of their descriptions, the bitterness or warmth in their tone—and from these fragments, the voice takes form.

Voice as an Unintentional Artifact

Voice often feels elusive because it’s not something a writer sets out to construct deliberately. Like the fossils Wendig describes, voice is an artifact of who you are as a writer—your influences, worldview, and personal quirks. It emerges naturally over time as you write, revise, and refine your craft. It’s the residue of your imagination, shaped by your obsessions and idiosyncrasies.

But how do you ensure that your voice isn’t just an incomplete skeleton, but a fully realized organism?

Unearthing Your Voice

1. Write Prolifically

Voice doesn’t emerge fully formed; it’s refined through consistent practice. Each story, paragraph, and sentence adds another piece to the fossil record of your work.

2. Embrace Your Obsessions

Writers are often drawn to recurring themes, settings, and ideas. Instead of resisting them, explore them deeply. These preoccupations are part of what makes your voice unique.

3. Be Honest

Voice thrives on authenticity. Let your passions, fears, and truths seep into your writing. Readers connect with work that feels genuine, even if it’s dark or strange.

4. Experiment

Like fossils, voice takes on different shapes over time. Experiment with genres, perspectives, and styles to uncover new dimensions of your voice.

The Living Skeleton

While Wendig describes voice as the bones and fossils of a writer’s work, it’s important to remember that these remains hint at a once-living creature. Similarly, your voice should feel alive—dynamic, evolving, and organic. It should not merely support your stories but breathe life into them, making your work instantly recognizable to readers.

Voice is not an end point; it’s an ongoing excavation. As you dig deeper into your craft, you’ll discover new fossils to add to your collection, each one revealing more about the unique creature that is your writing. So, lay your work across the table, piece by piece, and let your voice emerge—a living artifact, full of mystery and power.

Cultivating a Voice That Resonates

Developing a strong voice is about more than just standing out—it’s about creating resonance. Readers don’t merely consume stories; they experience them, and voice is the bridge between your imagination and theirs. A compelling voice ensures your work lingers long after the last page, echoing in the reader’s mind like the faint outlines of a fossil yet fully unearthed.

To cultivate a voice that resonates:

1. Pay Attention to the Details

The smallest choices in syntax, diction, and imagery shape your voice. A sentence as simple as “The sky was dark” becomes something uniquely yours when you render it as “The sky, bruised and heavy, sagged under the weight of the storm.” These choices create texture and reveal your perspective.

2. Trust Your Instincts

Writing workshops and critiques often focus on fixing what doesn’t work, but your instincts are what guide your voice. Trust the sentences that feel most natural to you—the ones that flow as if they’ve been waiting to be written.

3. Read Widely, Write Often

Exposure to diverse voices sharpens your ear for nuance, while frequent writing helps solidify your own. Let the authors you admire inspire you, but don’t mimic their style. Instead, use their work as a mirror to understand what resonates with you.

4. Accept Imperfection

Fossils are rarely pristine; they’re fragmented, chipped, and weathered by time. Similarly, your voice may feel uneven or raw at first. Embrace this imperfection—it’s part of the process. Over time, your voice will become more cohesive, like a skeleton slowly reconstructed.

The Legacy of Voice

The beauty of voice lies in its lasting impact. A reader may forget the specifics of your plot or characters, but they will remember how your words made them feel. Voice is what transforms a good story into an unforgettable one, what allows readers to identify your work even when encountering it out of context.

Like the fossilized remains of an ancient creature, your voice leaves a trace of your creative essence in the world. It tells future readers who you were, what you valued, and how you saw the world.

Voice as a Journey

Ultimately, the discovery of your voice is a lifelong journey. As you grow, change, and evolve as a person, so too will your voice. What remains constant is the commitment to laying your work across the table, piece by piece, with honesty and courage.

So, don’t rush to define your voice prematurely or force it into a mold. Let it unfold naturally, through the rhythm of your words and the stories you choose to tell. In the end, your voice is not just the bones of your work; it’s the soul that binds them, the invisible force that animates the skeleton and gives it life.

Your voice is your legacy. Embrace it, nurture it, and let it speak.

Voice as Connection

At its core, voice is about connection. It’s the writer’s hand reaching across the page to the reader, saying, “This is how I see the world. This is what I feel.” Voice bridges the gap between individuality and universality—it is deeply personal, yet it resonates because it touches on truths that others recognize in themselves.

When a reader is captivated by a writer’s voice, they don’t just follow a story; they step into the writer’s mind. They see through the writer’s eyes, hear the rhythm of their thoughts, and feel the pulse of their emotions. Voice turns storytelling into communion, creating an intimate bond between writer and reader.

Protecting Your Voice

In the pursuit of a career or audience, it can be tempting to dilute your voice to fit trends, expectations, or algorithms. But sacrificing authenticity risks losing the very element that makes your work distinctive.

To safeguard your voice:

1. Resist Overediting

In the effort to polish, it’s easy to sand away the unique quirks and textures of your voice. Leave space for imperfections—they are often what make your work memorable.

2. Write for Yourself First

Before considering the market or potential readership, write what excites and challenges you. A voice that stems from genuine passion will resonate far more than one crafted for approval.

3. Be Patient

Voice isn’t something you “find” overnight. It’s an organic process that unfolds with time, practice, and self-discovery. Trust that every word you write brings you closer to its full expression.

4. Honor Your Evolution

Your voice will change as you grow, and that’s not only natural but necessary. Embrace these shifts—they are signs that you’re engaging deeply with your craft and the world around you.

The Fossil That Breathes

Chuck Wendig’s metaphor of voice as a collection of bones and fossils reminds us that while writing often feels like a process of excavation, it’s also a process of creation. Fossils tell stories of the past, but in fiction, they come alive. Your voice is not static; it’s as dynamic as the living creature it represents.

When you sit down to write, think of your work as assembling the skeleton of something extraordinary. Each word, sentence, and story adds to the framework. Over time, the fragments come together to form something recognizable, something uniquely yours—a living, breathing testament to your creativity and vision.

Final Thoughts

Voice is the signature you leave on your stories, the fingerprint that marks your work as unmistakably yours. It’s not just the sum of your sentences or the shape of your stories—it’s the life force that animates them.

So, embrace the process of discovery, lay out the pieces of your work with care, and trust that your voice will emerge—raw, authentic, and undeniable. One day, someone will look at the bones of your writing laid bare and see not just a skeleton, but the unmistakable shape of a legacy.

Writing Quote: Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer. -- Barbara Kingsolver

Finding Your Voice: The Heart of Authentic Fiction Writing

By Olivia Salter

In the world of fiction writing, the pressures to conform to trends, genres, and reader expectations can be overwhelming. Writers may often find themselves caught in a web of external opinions, trying to mold their stories to fit what they believe audiences want to hear. However, as Barbara Kingsolver wisely states, “Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer.” This profound insight serves as a guiding principle for aspiring authors, emphasizing the importance of authenticity and self-expression in storytelling.

At its core, fiction is a reflection of the author’s unique perspective, experiences, and insights. Each writer possesses a distinct voice shaped by their background, beliefs, and emotions. When a writer prioritizes what they truly want to communicate over market trends, they tap into an authentic wellspring of creativity that can resonate deeply with readers. This authenticity not only enriches the narrative but also creates a powerful connection between the writer and their audience. 

Consider the works of iconic authors who have dared to share their truths, no matter how unconventional or unpopular. Their ability to weave personal experiences into their narratives has led to some of the most impactful literature in history. For instance, authors like Toni Morrison and Gabriel García Márquez have crafted stories that are not merely entertaining but are also deeply rooted in their cultural identities and personal histories. They remind us that the stories we tell must come from a place of sincerity and conviction.

Moreover, figuring out what you have to say involves introspection and self-discovery. Writers should embrace their individuality, explore their passions, and confront their fears. This journey inward can be daunting, but it is essential for cultivating a strong narrative voice. By understanding their motivations and perspectives, writers can create characters and plots that are not only compelling but also reflective of their own truths.

In practice, this means allowing oneself the freedom to write without the constraints of judgment. It encourages experimentation with style, genre, and subject matter. Writers should feel empowered to explore themes that speak to them, even if they fall outside the mainstream. When writers write for themselves rather than for an imagined audience, they often produce their most genuine work. This authenticity shines through, making the narrative more engaging and relatable.

Additionally, embracing this philosophy fosters resilience in the face of criticism. When a writer is grounded in their voice and vision, they are less likely to be swayed by critiques that may stem from a misunderstanding of their intentions. This inner confidence allows them to stand by their work and continue honing their craft, even when faced with rejection or skepticism.

In conclusion, fiction writing is not merely about telling a story; it is about sharing a piece of oneself with the world. By focusing on what they have to say rather than what they think others want to hear, writers can create powerful narratives that resonate with authenticity and depth. Barbara Kingsolver’s quote serves as a reminder for all writers to delve deep into their own experiences and insights, allowing their unique voices to shine through. In doing so, they not only enrich their own storytelling journey but also contribute to the diverse tapestry of literature that connects us all.

Writing Quote: Voice is not just the result of a single sentence or paragraph or page. It’s not even the sum total of a whole story. It’s all your work laid out across the table like the bones and fossils of an unidentified carcass. — Chuck Wendig

 

Writer's Voice

by Olivia Salter

 

Chuck Wendig, a prolific author and blogger, once remarked, "Voice is not just the result of a single sentence, paragraph, or page. It’s not even the sum total of a whole story. It’s all your work laid out across the table like the bones and fossils of an unidentified carcass." This insightful quote encapsulates the complexity and depth of establishing a unique voice in writing.

Wendig's analogy of voice being akin to the bones and fossils of an unidentified carcass is a striking image that underscores the intricacies involved in crafting a distinct voice as a writer. Just as paleontologists painstakingly piece together fragments of bones to reconstruct the skeleton of a prehistoric creature, writers must layer their words, sentences, and stories to construct a cohesive and authentic voice that resonates with readers.

Voice in writing is more than just the words on the page; it is the essence of the author laid bare for all to see. It is the cadence, tone, style, and perspective that infuse a piece of writing with individuality and personality. A writer's voice is a reflection of their experiences, beliefs, fears, and joys—it is the sum of all the parts that make them unique.

For writers, developing a strong voice requires introspection, experimentation, and practice. It involves honing your craft, taking risks, and pushing boundaries to discover what sets your writing apart from others. Like a paleontologist carefully assembling the bones of a long-extinct creature, writers must meticulously craft each word and sentence to reveal the hidden contours of their voice.

Furthermore, Wendig's analogy suggests that a writer's voice is not static but continually evolving, much like an archaeological discovery slowly revealing its secrets over time. Just as new fossils shed light on previously unknown aspects of ancient life, writers uncover new facets of their voice as they delve deeper into their craft and storytelling.

In essence, Wendig's quote serves as a poignant reminder to writers that voice is not a fixed element but a dynamic force that permeates every aspect of their work. It is the culmination of their creativity, passion, and dedication, laid bare for all to see, like the bones and fossils of an unidentified carcass waiting to be unearthed and examined.

Also see:

•  Chuck Wendig Books at Amazon

Narrative Voice by Crawford Kilian

Narrative Voice 

by Crawford Kilian

Someone in your story has to tell us that Jeff pulled out his gun, that Samantha smiled at the tall stranger, that daylight was breaking over the valley. That someone is the narrator or ``author's persona.''

The author's persona of a fictional narrative can help or hinder the success of the story. Which persona you adopt depends on what kind of story you are trying to tell, and what kind of emotional atmosphere works best for the story.

The persona develops from the personality and attitude of the narrator, which are expressed by the narrator's choice of words and incidents. These in turn depend on the point of view of the story.

First-person point of view is usually subjective: we learn the narrator's thoughts, feelings, and reactions to events. In first-person objective, however, the narrator tells us only what people said and did, without comment.

Other first-person modes include:

• the observer-narrator, outside the main story (examples: Mr. Lockwood in Wuthering Heights, Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby)
• detached autobiography (narrator looking back on long-past events)
• multiple narrators (first-person accounts by several characters)
• interior monologue (narrator recounts the story as a memory; stream of consciousness is an extreme form of this narrative)
• dramatic monologue (narrator tells story out loud without major interruption)
• letters or diary (narrator writes down events as they happen)

If the point of view is first-person, questions about the persona are simple: the character narrating the story has a particular personality and attitude, which is plausibly expressed by the way he or she describes events.

The second-person mode is rare: You knocked on the door. You went inside. Very few writers feel the need for it, and still fewer use it effectively.

If the point of view is third-person limited, persona again depends on the single character through whose eyes we witness the story. You may go inside the character's mind and tell us how that character thinks and feels, or you may describe outside events in terms the character would use. Readers like this point of view because they know whom to ``invest'' in or identify with.

In third-person objective, we have no entry to anyone's thoughts or feelings. The author simply describes, without emotion or editorializing, what the characters say and do. The author's persona here is almost non-existent. Readers may be unsure whose fate they should care about, but it can be very powerful precisely because it invites the reader to supply the emotion that the persona does not. This is the persona of Icelandic sagas, which inspired not only Ernest Hemingway but a whole generation of ``hard-boiled'' writers.

If the point of view is third-person omniscient, however, the author's persona can develop in any of several directions.

1. ``Episodically limited.'' Whoever is the point of view for a particular scene determines the persona. An archbishop sees and describes events from his particular point of view, while a pickpocket does so quite differently. So the narrator, in a scene from the archbishop's point of view, has a persona quite different from that of the pickpocket: a different vocabulary, a different set of values, a different set of priorities. (As a general rule, point of view should not change during a scene. So if an archbishop is the point of view in a scene involving him and a pickpocket, we shouldn't suddenly switch to the pickpocket's point of view until we've resolved the scene and moved on to another scene.)
2. ``Occasional interruptor.'' The author intervenes from time to time to supply necessary information, but otherwise stays in the background. The dialogue, thoughts and behavior of the characters supply all other information the reader needs.
3. ``Editorial commentator.'' The author's persona has a distinct attitude toward the story's characters and events, and frequently comments on them. The editorial commentator may be a character in the story, often with a name, but is usually at some distance from the main events; in some cases, we may even have an editorial commentator reporting the narrative of someone else about events involving still other people. The editorial commentator is not always reliable; he or she may lie to us, or misunderstand the true significance of events.

Third-person omniscient gives you the most freedom to develop the story, and it works especially well in stories with complex plots or large settings where we must use multiple viewpoints to tell the story. It can, however, cause the reader to feel uncertain about whom to identify with in the story. If you are going to skip from one point of view to another, start doing so early in the story, before the reader has fully identified with the original point of view.

The author's persona can influence the reader's reaction by helping the reader to feel close to or distant from the characters. Three major hazards arise from careless use of the persona:

1. Sentimentality. The author's editorial rhetoric tries to evoke an emotional response that the story's events cannot evoke by themselves--something like a cheerleader trying to win applause for a team that doesn't deserve it. A particular problem for the ``editorial commentator.''
2. Mannerism. The author's persona seems more important than the story itself, and the author keeps reminding us of his or her presence through stylistic flamboyance, quirks of diction, or outright editorializing about the characters and events of the story. Also a problem for the editorial commentator. However, if the point of view is first person, and the narrator is a person given to stylistic flamboyance, quirks of diction, and so on, then the problem disappears; the persona is simply that of a rather egotistical individual who likes to show off.
3. Frigidity. The persona's excessive objectivity trivializes the events of the story, suggesting that the characters' problems need not be taken seriously: a particular hazard for ``hardboiled'' fiction in the objective mode, whether first person or third person.

Verb tense can also affect the narrative style of the story. Most stories use the past tense: I knocked on the door. She pulled out her gun. This is usually quite adequate although flashbacks can cause awkwardness: I had knocked on the door. She had pulled out her gun. A little of that goes a long way.

Be careful to stay consistently in one verb tense unless your narrator is a person who might switch tenses: So I went to see my probation officer, and she tells me I can't hang out with my old buddies no more.

Some writers achieve a kind of immediacy through use of the present tense: I knock on the door. She pulls out her gun. We don't feel anyone knows the outcome of events because they are occurring as we read, in ``real time.'' Some writers also enjoy the present tense because it seems ``arty'' or experimental. But most readers of genre fiction don't enjoy the present tense, so editors are often reluctant to let their authors use it. I learned that the hard way by using present tense in my first novel, The Empire of Time; it was enough to keep the manuscript in editorial limbo for months, and the final offer to publish was contingent on changing to past tense. Guess how long I agonized over that artistic decision!

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Except from "Advice on Novel Writing by Crawford Kilian."

 About the Author 

Crawford Kilian was born in New York City in 1941. He moved to Canada in 1967 and now resides in Vancouver B.C. Crawford has had twelve science fiction and fantasy novels published. He has been nominated for an Aurora Award 3 times for his novels Eyas, Lifter and Rogue Emperor- A Novel of the Chronoplane Wars. His latest contribution to SF is a non-fiction book for would-be SF writers called Writing Science Fiction and Fantasy. Crawford has two more novels in the works.

To learn more about him at Wikipedia.

 

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Crawford Kilian Books at Amazon

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