NOTE: I’m going to start with the section below on how to write with voice using third person point of view. Why? Because many writers think first person when they think voice, but that’s a misunderstanding I want to tackle right away. Later, there will be first person point of view, simply because it’s often easier to write with voice using first person.
How to write with voice: the reporter VS narrator VS storyteller
For most writers, you start with a report of events. That’s how we think of the story—at least if we’re in the first two tiers, beginners. We know what we want to happen in the story, and so we write what happens.
Jill walked to the closet, stepping over dirty clothes on the floor. She couldn’t decide what to wear. Eventually, she took a green sweater from a hanger and shut the door.
This is the reporter. We all have to know what occurs, as the writer. But this doesn’t have much flare, does it? It sounds like someone with no interest describing the most basic form of events.
If we take it a step further, we have something that’s a step above the reporter. We have a narrator. The narrator might describe events a bit more like a writer might.
Jill stomped over dirty clothes on her way to the closet. She dragged the door open and began her search for something to wear, fingers flicking over this dress and that shirt. She couldn’t decide, but eventually yanked a green sweater from its hanger.
That’s better, right? Narrators aren’t bad. This narration tells you how the events occurred, but little else. What the prose currently lack right now is story which is given through perspective in addition to the events.
Because that’s what voice is at the end of the day: perspective dripped into the story.
So what happens when we have a storyteller? Think about it this way: how would someone describe certain events to a police officer versus how they’d relay the story to a friend. The friend? They get a person’s voice in the story. The police get the events.
Here’s that same passage, but let’s consider Jill, who she is, and what her perspective of these events is. Let me see if you can guess a few of those details based on this storyteller scene:
Jill stomped over the second carpet made of dirty clothes so high you could probably climb it. She had to yank the door to get the stupid thing to open, shoveling clothes out of the way, leaving a semicircle clear. Her own personal welcome mat. To hell. Her fingers flicked over fabric like she was skimming over bad decisions—tule from her cousin’s bridesmaid gown, something that was supposed to resemble silk now fuzzy, a lace long sleeve that was like wearing mosquito netting. Nothing would work. It all screamed wannabe or walking disaster. She’d look like an idiot tonight no matter what. With a groan, she grabbed the first thing that didn’t make her want to scream—a green sweater—before slamming the door shut before the rest of her wardrobe could judge her.
Obviously, this is more words. Because voice often adds words. Writing with voice also allows you to do more showing rather than telling. In the storyteller version of this scene, we understand how she’s feeling. Her perspective of choosing which outfit to wear.
Let’s pull out some lines that are clearly voice, where if you changed them, you’d have a very different character as the one in the scene:
Jill stomped over the second carpet made of dirty clothes so high you could probably climb it. She had to yank the door to get the stupid thing to open, shoveling clothes out of the way, leaving a semicircle clear. Her own personal welcome mat. To hell. Her fingers flicked over fabric like she was skimming over bad decisions—tule from her cousin’s bridesmaid gown, something that was supposed to resemble silk now fuzzy, a lace long sleeve that was like wearing mosquito netting. Nothing would work. It all screamed wannabe or walking disaster. She’d look like an idiot tonight no matter what. With a groan, she grabbed the first thing that didn’t make her want to crawl in a hole—a green sweater—before slamming the door shut before the rest of her wardrobe could judge her.
This is all very specific to Jill. Notice the comparisons she makes. The perspective she has going into the closet (“welcome mat. To hell.”), the comparison of lace to mosquito netting. Even her opinion of that clothing (wannabe, walking disaster). This is Jill’s voice coming through the narration of events.
Yes, there are other details that help pinpoint her mood and such (stomped over carpet, yank door, groan). But the voice within the narrative does a lot of heavy lifting.
Character voice VS author voice
Above, I talked about the narrator versus the storyteller.
Using voice writing third person POV
How rich to make your voice
Paragraph level breakdown:
That’s why I suck in a breath that chills me further and tighten my furs. My resolve with it. I dig in a boot—the ones with the long spikes, meant for windy days or sure footing—and make for the vulnerability in the wall.
It must have cracked yesterday when the winds first picked up. A line zigzags at the bottom of the section that’s crumbled away, the wind tossing jagged pieces so they’re spread along the ground. Soon, they’d become lumps stuck and smoothed over. I’ll have to get to those next.
That’s why I suck in a bone-chilling breath and tighten my furs. My resolve with it. I stomp in a boot—the ones with the long spikes, meant for windy days or sure footing—and make for the wind’s hack job on the wall several paces away.
It must have cracked yesterday when the winds first picked up. Now the break zigzags at the bottom like it’s captured lightning. The wind scattered chunks everywhere, jagged for now. Give it a night and they’ll be reduced to lumps, smoothed down, like the ice never wanted them gone in the first place. I’ll have to clear those too. Later.
I plant my mitts on either side of the break, the palm of my hand on either edge, my fingers pointed toward one another. In and up, I form the will in my mind. Closing my eyes, I release it with a breath like I was taught. Whole. But I leave gaps. Small rectangles all the way around. Frames of those coming our way.
I plant my mitts on either side of the break. Palms out, fingers pointed in and up. I form the will in my mind and press it into the ice in a breath. The way I was taught. Ask the ice to give way, my instructor always said. Like it ever had any other option. Not if I have a say. Make it whole. The gaps I leave on purpose. Small rectangles—windows to watch the way or we’d be truly blind.
