Voice is such a powerful thing. I just stopped reading a book after three paragraphs because I couldn’t gel with the voice.
When people tell me they like my books, I do think it’s about my voice. And, yes, I think my voice is just a little tiny bit different than anybody else’s voice. It’s like those customizable colour charts they give you in software programs, when you want a blue, but not exactly any of the pre-made blues, and you can dive in and click around and create your own blue which is not precisely like any other blue anybody else has used before because you made it.
Well, I think that’s voice. Somebody’s voice can remind you of another voice – or of a mix of other voices – but a worthwhile voice always gives you an itsy-bitsy something new.
Finding voice is very moving. Trusting your own voice is huge but, I’ve discovered this week, discovering voice in somebody you love is mind-blowing.
My kid has voice. This is it:
I was out, and when I came home in the middle of the day, he’d been home for lunch and had left this art assignment on the counter. I wanted to stare at it forever. I wanted to run out and show it to my neighbours (you should be glad you weren’t home, guys). When I look at this watercolour my son’s voice talks to me. I love it.
I also found it quite interesting to see the sketch:
Now I’m heading out to buy a frame!