How often have aspiring writers heard others say, ‘You have to find your voice?’
That, my friends, is the ultimate truth, a word I use in a number of different contexts in my work.
A voiceless writer is one who may be a great technician in the laying of words upon a page. However, those collections of letters are simply that. They can offer a story, but, unless the author is found in the connective tissue holding those words on the page, they are ultimately without heart, without soul, dead in many essentials.
Félix-Hilaire Buhot (artist) French, 1847 - 1898, Convoi Funèbre au Boulevard de Clichy (Funeral Procession on the Boulevard de Clichy), 1887
In other words: without the author’s truth imbuing life into a tale, it can never tell its truth, and can never express more than a second-hand yarn. Homer gave life to the Iliad and subsequent performers may have enhanced it through their efforts, but those latter folks did not increase the truth, the authenticity, of the original story.
Of course, there were those who REDUCED Homer’s truth by obscuring the reality of Achilles and Patroclus’s relationship. Much as Bowdler gutted Shakespeare’s truth, the Victorian urge to clean up the homosexual relationship (a feature of Spartan military life) of the greatest of flawed heroes also gutted the rationale for Achilles's absolute fury after Hector kills Patroclus: I mean dragging Hector’s body around Patroclus’s funeral bier for NINE Days seems a bit of overkill for just a friend.
Authors grow from writers over time through continual work. The unicorns like Harper Lee (To Kill a Mockingbird) are beyond exceptions. Most of us follow Ray Bradbury’s injunction to think of our growth from writer to author akin to digging through a pile of dirt—bad writing—until we find the good of good writing and become authors.
Somewhere in that excavation authors find their voices. Once that happens, they can excavate the darker (or brighter) corners of their souls to transform their work into experiences that will allow readers to transcend their existences.
Every voice is different and tells different truths. However, those truths are not oracular nor are they spoken in my voice. I have tried to articulate how my voice is heard in my work.
The closest I have come to that is expressed in my personal credo:
It is not what my readers know.
I must be unafraid to expose them to the unfamiliar.
It is not what I, the author, know.
I must be courageous enough to explore the uncomfortable.
It IS what the characters know.
Only they can tell me and my readers the truth of the story.
To do that, I have to understand how and why the characters act as they do. That demands—especially in #Austenesque literature—that I step beyond the fixed understanding of actors in the Canonical novels. For them to go to new places beyond those defined by Austen, they must be able to become different than how they appeared to Jane Austen. If not, they will only take us to the space where Austen left her characters. That would be remarkably unsatisfying to me as an author.
As our genre ages, we are seeing authors experimenting with variations that, if not breaking molds, at least are pushing boundaries. Nobody has yet been courageous enough to have Darcy or Elizabeth’s HEAs exclusive of the other. They have come closer with first marriages and widowhood before the final joining. Peripheral characters like Jane Bennet have been married off to others than Bingley. The most popular mates, though, still tend to be from the Fitzwilliam family…either the colonel or his older brother. In Volume Seven of the Bennet Wardrobe, The Pilgrim: Lydia Bennet and a Soldier’s Portion, I paired her Major General Sir Richard Fitzwilliam for her third wedding because he fit her pattern of seeking out uniforms. Yet, even then, they did not come together until late 1819 as both had to heal from deep emotional trauma.
We, as scribblers #InspiredByAusten need to consider where we want to take our work. Do we want to elevate it (much as Maria Grace has done with her Dragon Series, Alice McVeigh with her work centered on secondary characters, Melanie Rachel with her unique vision, or Susan Andrews with her humorous takes) or do we wish to continue the old Fan Fiction model?
If the latter, writers will continue to tell Austen’s truth—much like Homer’s performers—and never have their work explore new realms governed by new truths.
If the former, we can lay our work before new audiences who will appreciate the literary effort taken to bring them to new understandings of universal questions. Authors will use Austen as a starting point to evolve her universes onto new planes that enrich readers’ lives beyond the remarkable tapestries laid down over 200 years ago.
&&&&
'Tis the season and all that! Starting today (December 15) through the 30th, enter to win books/audiobooks from your favorite authors! Along with the work of 10 other #Austenesque authors, my book "In Plain Sight" is featured (audio book). The Grand prize is all eleven! Eleven other lucky winners will receive an individual copy! The link below takes you to this great (no charge) giveaway opportunity!
https://authoramandakai.wixsite.com/home/post/holiday-giveaway-2022
&&&&&&&
Here is an example of my exploration of why characters are shaped as they are. Please enjoy this excerpt from my current Work In Progress: The Sailor’s Rest ©2022 by Donald P. Jacobson. Reproduction is prohibited except when sharing this article.
Chapter 12
The Elliot and Meryton parties have just discovered each other in Barton on Humber, the last known location of Darcv and Wentworth. Anne Elliot and Elizabeth Bennet are becoming acquainted and discovering fertile ground for friendship. NOTE: I have timeshifted the P&P timeline to match the Persuasion timeline.
The Sailor’s Rest, Barton on Hull, March 2, 1815
There was a spark about Elizabeth Bennet that captivated Anne. Life bubbled from her. She unconsciously compared her own appearance with that of the younger woman. Her medium brown eyes could not rival Miss Bennet’s rich orbs that sparkled with golden highlights. Chocolate curls framed a heart-shaped face made richer by a dusting of freckles. Anne’s locks had always been mundane—useful, but ordinary—and not her crowning glory as were Miss Bennet’s.
Then Anne threw aside those feelings. She had found her forever match, and neither her eyes nor her hair had a thing to do with Wentworth’s love. In that she was equal to the other woman for it seemed that Mr. Darcy had found her soul to be his treasure. In this, Miss Bennet was closer to Anne than either of her sisters. Elizabeth Bennet was the rock—long hidden but now exposed by the violence of their common experience—to which Anne could cling. Anne could not imagine a world in which she had not known Elizabeth Bennet.
How can she who is passing through the same dark vale as I push away the deepest pain a woman can know short of the loss of a child? Yet, here she sits, enduring my father’s flutterings as if they were her oldest friends, her constant companions, if you will.
Elizabeth Bennet sits in a waterfront common room as if she were attending one of Queen Charlotte’s levées. There is an uncommon grace about her which lends to her consequence: not that put-on falsity that fills Bath’s Upper Rooms. Miss Bennet smacks of originality, an authenticity that instantly positions her as one of the most interesting persons in the room.
((As the two women conversed)), Miss Bennet showed her strength by unconsciously endorsing Anne’s observations. “Miss Elliot, our plight is frightful, almost beyond imagination. That two sound and dependable men could vanish without a trace is unthinkable.
“Unquestionably they are in some sort of trouble. In my heart I hope they are enduring their trials together for that can only help see them through.
“You and I must do the same. If we share the burden, we halve it. We will not fall before the despair that is sure to come. We must remain hopeful that all will be well. Our good spirits will be our weapon to break through barriers that would bar a happy reunion.”
Anne was grateful that Elizabeth had charted the only sensible path forward. “I know our acquaintance is new, and you do not know my history. Suffice to say that I endured too many years mourning a loss which I could have prevented if I had only been stronger in my convictions.
“You, Miss Bennet…”
“Elizabeth, please, or even Lizzy as my family calls me if you are comfortable in jumping so quickly to the familiar.”
“Then I must be Anne to you.” Anne snuck a quick look at the baronet before stopping herself with a visible shake.
She huffed. “I have only recently broken free of notions that led to a life of dissatisfaction. I think I have much to learn from you, Miss…Elizabeth… Lizzy. Oh, you must be Lizzy, or I will constantly be looking about for your namesake. That would be my sister, Elizabeth, and she is nothing like you.
“Of course, my difficult family is my cross and not yours.”
Lizzy’s crystalline laugh momentarily diverted Mrs. Croft and Sir Walter from their conversation. The baronet shot a questioning look at his daughter who offered a neutral smile in reply. Then she turned back to Lizzy. “A scant six months ago my father never would have countenanced my friendship with a mere gentlewoman. Even Miss Carteret is a viscount’s daughter!
“Papa is a bit high in the instep when he considers his position. The prospect that I would finally place my preferences, my love for Captain Wentworth, before his notions of status overset him, I think.
“He has improved considerably after this crisis struck. There have been times, though, when I wanted to remind him that the going rate for a baronetcy is 25,000 pounds in Lord Liverpool’s coffers. Yet, he is my father. I love him, and his pride is harmless although expensive.”
Anne settled back into her chair, her revelations tiring. How strange it was that she found herself pouring her heart out to this engaging lady.
“Sometimes it takes a shock to fracture a man’s façade,” Lizzy softly stated with a definite nod. “I recall all too well when I met Darcy. Top-lofty best describes his way back then. I had not yet learned that his manner was how he defended himself from the ton’s match-making mamas.
“Then he dropped himself into a neighborhood short on men and long on young ladies of marriageable age. That was a prescription for disaster. I will not go into our first encounter, but I assure you that if I never again hear the word tolerable, it will be too soon.
“I was set against him from the first moment because all I saw was the creature he played and not the man he is. My loss, for it took months to see past the stone face and discover the wonderful man just beneath.
“You speak of complicated families. I would hold up my own beginning with my father. He is a man who has rarely spent two consecutive days without hiding in his bookroom. Papa claims he cannot hear himself think with the noise made by six Bennet women.
“Those six are five sisters—Jane, me, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia—and our mother. Mama is petrified by the idea that our estate is entailed away from the female line.”
“My family, Lizzy, is well-acquainted with an entail’s evils. I am the middle of three sisters—Elizabeth is the eldest and Mary the youngest. We have no brothers. Father was not inclined to marry again after Mama passed away. Kellynch and the title are settled on an heir presumptive, a cousin, Mr. William Elliot.”
Elizabeth, her emotions rubbed raw by her worries about Darcy, was struck by Miss Elliot’s situation. “Oh, Anne, I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been to lose your mama. My mother may drive me to distraction, but I well know her foibles, and she is a woman who wants the best for her children. To lose that advice and…”
Anne dove into her reticule for a fresh handkerchief that she pressed into Lizzy’s hand. “Now I know we will be fast friends. We both turn into watering pots if we ponder too deeply about those we love. Was it only an hour hence since you rescued me—tears and all—from a roadside bench?
“My sisters each responded differently to Mama’s passing. Elizabeth was already out so she was forced into the role of Kellynch’s hostess. She pushed herself, I think, to become closer to my father and assumed much of his haughtiness. I wonder if she tried to mirror his moods and attitudes to gain his approbation. That has proved poisonous to her marital prospects.
“Mary was just becoming a woman. She regressed into a needy childishness. Kellynch’s halls echoed with her complaints about everything: her health, her clothes, and how the society of family and friends left her exhausted.
“I had hoped to see an improvement after her marriage to Mr. Musgrove. I had rejected him for being a mile wide and an inch deep.
“That, though, was not to be…”
Elizabeth filled in Anne’s pause. “How like my friend Charlotte your sister Mary is. Not that she is flighty. Charlotte is a most sensible woman. Charlotte—now Mrs. Collins in Kent—quickly accepted a man I refused. For weeks, Mama refused to speak to me except to throw verbal darts.
“Your isolation must have been profound after you turned away Mr. Musgrove’s suit. I assume he was considered an eligible match.”
Anne gave a dispirited response. “Indeed, Mr. Musgrove was quite eligible. But I could not love him. Mama’s friend Lady Russell urged me to accept the security Mr. Musgrove offered. She cares for me and probably thought she was protecting me from an uncertain future. But her guidance…”
Elizabeth was outraged. “She may have been your mama’s bosom beau, but she is not your sister, not your age, and not tossed upon the waves of romance inspired by a close reading of the latest novel! I can tell you that a respected friend’s ‘good’ advice often is a jagged boulder upon which love can smash.”
She reached across and squeezed Anne’s hand. “From what I have heard, there were no sisterly moments huddled beneath the coverlet. You were entirely alone. Oh, if only you had been my sister through those times, I would have cushioned the blow.
“Would that I could have been your Jane as my Jane already is mine.”
They descended into a silent communion, as emotionally connected as two unrelated women could be.