How can someone who habitually writes in a turgid, didactic style change to using a more natural, conversational style? Marcus Geduld, Published author, lifelong reader. 1.2k Views My technique is to write an email. Not one I’ll ever send, but one I’ll actually write in gmail, rather than in a word processor, even if it’s an essay or short story. (Gmail is great for this, because it saves drafts, so you can start and stop.) I pick an appropriate person to write to, usually a non-expert, and explain my idea, make my appeal, defend my claim, tell my funny story …
The act of composing an email and writing it to a specific person forces my brain into a conversational mode.
Later, I cut the text into a word processor and redraft it, removing “Dear Mom,” or whatever. Poor Mom never gets the letter.
I read everything I write aloud. Everything. If I’m worried about disturbing the people around me, I mouth the words. The act of vocalizing (or at least making mouth movements) helps just as much as the email technique. My brain becomes less writerly and more talky.
And I simply avoid hifalutin words. I don’t completely shun them, if I insist on writing “ambulate,” I’d better have a good reason. As I redraft, I hunt them down and shoot them in the head, replacing them with their homlier cousins. “Take that, ‘vehicle!’ Blam! I’m replacing you with ‘car.’”
Being specific helps. Most stodgy writing is laced with abstractions. Just writing “chair” instead of “article of furniture” goes a long way towards thawing frigid prose.
When in doubt, I ask a friend to read a draft. I tell him to underline anything obscure, forced, academic, or formal sounding. And I assume he’s always right.
25 Questions That Game of Thrones Needs to Answer in Its Final Season
Do not affect a breezy manner.
The volume of writing is enormous, these days, and much of it has a sort of windiness about it, almost as though the author were in a state of euphoria. “Spontaneous me,” sang Whitman, and, in his innocence, let loose the hordes of uninspired scribblers who would one day confuse spontaneity with genius.
The breezy style is often the work of an egocentric, the person who imagines that everything that comes to mind is of general interest and that uninhibited prose creates high spirits and carries the day. Open any alumni magazine, turn to the class notes, and you are quite likely to encounter old Spontaneous Me at work–an aging collegian who writes something like this:
‘Well, guys, here I am again dishing the dirt about your disorderly classmates, after passing a weekend in the Big Apple trying to catch the Columbia hoops tilt and then a cab-ride from hell through the West Side casbah. And speaking of news, howzabout tossing a few primo items this way?’
This is an extreme example, but the same wind blows, at lesser velocities, across vast expanses of journalistic prose. The author in this case has managed in two sentences to commit most of the unpardonable sins: he obviously has nothing to say, he is showing off and directing the attention of the reader to himself, he is using slang with neither provocation nor ingenuity, he adopts a patronizing air by throwing in the word primo, he is humorless (though full of fun), dull, and empty. He has not done his work.
How do good writers develop their “voice”? How similar is it to their spoken voice? Profile photo for Marcus Geduld Marcus Geduld , Published author, lifelong reader. Answered Nov 4, 2012 Voice is tension between natural speech and a more heightened, polished, and poetic tone. It’s the way you talk at your best. Your writing should read like something you might “just say,” but stripped of all the clunk and clutter; spruced up with lush images – but not so lush they seem forced.
To the extent I pull this off, I do it by making at least three drafts. The first is the “get it on paper” draft, when I don’t worry about voice at all. I just dump my thoughts on the page (or screen). Editing is way easier than writing, so it’s vital I have something – anything – to edit. As a barfly once told me, “Spew first. Clean it up later.”
The second draft is a combo of heightening it and making it flow. By “heightening,” I don’t mean planting all sorts of flowery phrases. I mean coming up with stronger images than I originally dumped onto the page. I may sneak in a quirky, surprising word here and there. Heightening is about slipping that hint of jalapeño into the cupcake – just to keep the reader awake.
It’s also in this draft that I go through each sentence, seeing if there’s a way to sneak one of the five senses into it somehow. Can I make the reader feel he’s seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting or touching something?
I worry over things like rhythm and repetition. Did I bombard the reader with a blast of bombastic b-sounds? Hmm. I might have added some cupcake to my jalapeño.
Did I use boring words too much? “I think we should think harder about teaching ourselves to think about stuff.” Yes, in everyday speech I blurt out that kind of crap. But I’m shooting for “me and my best.” I’m not going to change it to “I conclude we ought to aggressively cogitate re our pedagogical approach to ruminations,” because it’s not remotely how I talk. “Me at my best” is not a stilted academic. Nor is it a saccharine Halmark employee.
But maybe I’ll change it to “We should delve into our thoughts,” because I might actually say that. I’ll use a thesaurus at this stage, looking up “think.” I’ll try out metaphors (well, I already did when I used the word “delve,” but I’ll audition some more overt ones) like “We should stick our index fingers in our ears, root around in our brains, and nudge our thoughts in neat little rows.” Is that still reasonably “the way I talk” or is it “too writerly”? Voice tends to happen right at the edge.
The third draft is almost entirely about flow. This is where it really comes down to personal taste, but I prefer conversational to writerly. So I go through it again only worrying about “does it sound like a guy talking to you?” He can be a quirky guy, but he has to be a guy (or gal).
Here’s the most important tip: read it aloud! You must, must, must do this. I do it during draft two and three, but it’s absolutely vital during draft three. And don’t cheat: don’t read it in your head imaging you’re reading it aloud. There’s some “does this sound right” brain module that’s only switched on when the muscles of your mouth are moving. I read everything I write aloud, even Quora posts. And I don’t catch a lot of clunkiness until I do it.
If you’re in the office or the coffee shop, and you can’t read aloud without embarrassing yourself and disturbing your neighbor, then go Hassidic and move your lips. Read “aloud” silently, but make sure your lips, tongue and jaw are engaged, so that your brain goes through the “I’m speaking aloud” process.
Last tip: if you can’t find your voice, write in gmail instead of Word. Pick a friend who might be interested and tell him your story (essay or whatever) in a letter. Don’t send it (unless you want to). You can copy and paste it into Word when you’re done. It’s very hard to write for “a general audience.” That can make you lose your voice, because we developed voices to talk to real, flesh-and-blood people. So “talk” to someone. Then edit that “conversation” into a poem, story, or essay.
Here’s how I drafted the first paragraph, starting with the initial dump:
There’s no right answer for every writer. But for me, voice is a fun tension between the way I naturally talk and something more heightened, polished, and poetic. It’s the way I talk when I’m at my best. It should always sound believably like something I might “just say.” But it should be stripped of all the clunky things I say. It should just happen to be more sensually evocative than my speech generally is.
Here’s my process during draft two, with the bracketed and italicized parts indicating cuts and the boldface parts indicating additions:
[There’s no one right answer for every writer. But for me,] voice is [a fun] the tension between the way [I] you naturally talk and [something] a more heightened, polished, and poetic tone. It’s the way [I] you talk [when I’m] at [my] your best. It should always sound believably like something [I] you might “just say.” But stripped of all the clunk[y things I say] and clutter. [It should just happen to be more sensually evocative than my speech generally is.] With richer, sexier images than the ones that tend to roll off your tongue. But not so rich they seem forced.
Here’s the result:
Voice is the tension between the way you naturally talk and a more heightened, polished, and poetic tone. It’s the way you talk at your best. It should always sound believably like something you might “just say.” But stripped of all the clunk and clutter. With richer, sexier images than the ones that tend to roll of your tongue. But not so rich they seem forced.
Next edit, for flow (and also some condensing):
Voice is [the] tension between [the way you] naturally [talk] speech and a more heightened, polished, and poetic tone. It’s the way you talk at your best. [It] Your writing should [always sound] read [believably] like something you might “just say,” but stripped of all the clunk and clutter; spruced up with [richer, sexier] lush images [than the ones that tend to roll of your tongue] – but not so [rich] lush they seem forced.
Here’s the result:
Voice is tension between natural speech and a more heightened, polished, and poetic tone. It’s the way you talk at your best. Your writing should read like something you might “just say,” but stripped of all the clunk and clutter; spruced up with lush images – but not so lush they seem forced.
372 viewsView 12 upvotes Profile photo for Alexandra Pell Alexandra Pell upvoted this Profile photo for Piyush Ahuja
Profile photo for Alexandra Pell Alexandra Pell · November 5, 2012 I love your tip about gmail and actually use it regularly.
I have a hard time cosigning (or rejecting, for that matter) anything about writing voice… It varies so much. I’ve seen ostentatious but indescribably amazing voices, and also voices that that are so simple that you don’t even recognize them as voice unless you stop and analyze. And neither necessarily has anything to do with how anyone talks. Especially if it’s an author who is preternaturally gifted at writing many voices, all unlike him/herself.
Profile photo for Marcus Geduld Marcus Geduld · November 5, 2012 Yes. I think it’s kind of like acting. In the theatre, we are always talking about “truth,” but I think it’s a kind of shorthand for “unity” – of a character being true to himself. In other words, all his parts connecting somehow.
So a writer can speak in many voices as long as each one is unified: as long as there’s some kind of inner logic to the voice.
We don’t have to think, “I believe the author would really say that in real life.” But we do have to believe that Daisy and Gatsby and Nick would each really say whatever it is they’re saying in real life.
Some people are naturally wordy or whatever. The thing is, as a writer, you have to be able to pull of that voice in a way that feels natural.
The best advice I can give you is to always read what you’ve written out loud, and then change anything that sounds unnatural. This works whether you’re writing formally or informally. Even if your tone is “scientific,” rather than casual, it should flow like natural speech.
I strongly urge you to do this with all writing, even text messages and emails, because you want to form a habit. You want to learn to think of writing as “meant to be read out loud,” even if it isn’t. I read everything I write “out loud.” I put “out loud” in quotes, because sometimes I’d disturb others if I literally spoke my text. At those times, I read it back to myself under my breath, or at least imagine myself reading it out loud, as I think each word.
Do writers speak the way they write?
I base my style on the way I talk, reading everything I write aloud to make sure it’s as Marcus-speech-like as possible, except better organized, and more studded with strong words (like “studded”) and phrases.
If you heard me speak, it would sound like an alpha or beta version of my writing, topped with a generous sprinkling of ums and uhs.
Questioner: Marcus, do you write the way you speak?
Marcus: Um … well, sort of. I mean, I base my writing style on the way I speak. Like, um … I read everything I write out loud, to … you know … make sure it sounds natural, like the way I talk. Well, I mean, it’s better organized. Not that my writing is all that well, organized, but it’s better than my speaking is. And when I write, I go back over it and find better ways … better phrases to … um … to say whatever I’m trying to say. I make substitutions and use, like, thesauruses and stuff.
Is writing like you speak a good idea? When does it work and when doesn’t it? What type of people does this approach work for? This question previously had details. They are now in a comment. Profile photo for Marcus Geduld Marcus Geduld , Published author, lifelong reader. Updated Mar 7, 2014 · Upvoted by Ellen Vrana , Full-time writer. Originally Answered: Is writing like you talk a good idea? This is a great question, because it gets to the heart of what makes writing difficult and exciting. Unless we’re talking about highly stylized prose, good writing exists at a point of tension between naturalism and artifice.
It depends on what you’re trying to achieve by writing (poem? short story? essay? legal document? mathematical proof?), but in general it’s good to write an idealized version of the way you talk.
What’s good about the way you talk is that it’s the way you talk. Your speech is infused with your personality. And, in most cases, readers prefer prose that sounds personal—prose that feels as if a distinct person, not a robot, is communicating with them.
The bad thing about the way you talk is it’s (almost certainly) not well-crafted. In the heat of the moment, you use vague or cliched words and expressions. We all do. It takes time and work to coin evocative phrases, and in live conversation, we don’t have that time. To some extent, we don’t need it, because we can color our lackluster wording with gestures and vocal inflection. But, in prose, simple words have to do all the work themselves.
Make writing too natural and it will be filled with all the ums and uhs of speech and, worse, its images will fail to be sharp and sensual. Make it too artificial and it will be taxing to read and lose all its humanity.
Most writers find the balance by carefully crafting each sentence (in an artificial way) and then reading it back (out loud, hopefully) to make sure it sounds natural. You want it to sound like it’s “just you talking” but talking at your best, as if you’d been inspired that day.
Here’s George Orwell writing about one of his school teachers:
He would tap away at one’s skull with his silver pencil, which, in my memory, seems to have been about the size of a banana, and which certainly was heavy enough to raise a bump: or he would pull the short hairs round one’s ears, or, occasionally, reach out under the table and kick one’s shin. On some days nothing seemed to go right, and then it would be ‘ All right, then, I know what you want. You’ve been asking for it the whole morning. Come along, you useless little slacker. Come into the study.’ And then whack, whack, whack, and back one would come, red-wealed and smarting — in later years Sambo had abandoned his riding-crop in favour of a thin rattan cane which hurt very much more — to settle down to work again. This did not happen very often, but I do remember, more than once, being led out of the room in the middle of a Latin sentence, receiving a beating and then going straight ahead with the same sentence, just like that.
– http://orwell.ru/library/essays/joys/english/e_joys
It reads really naturally, and you can imagine Orwell in the room with you, telling it to you like a story, off the top of his head. It contains these little conversational flourishes, such as “which, in my memory” (as if he’s thinking in front of you) and “…just like that.” But, if you look closer, you’ll note the care with which he’s picked each word and image: “tap away at one’s skull … silver pencil … raise a bump … pull the short hairs around one’s ears …”
Here’s an even more conversational passage, by J.D. Salinger, from “Catcher in the Rye,” also about a teacher:
Then all of a sudden old Spencer looked like he had something very good, something sharp as a tack, to say to me. He sat up more in his chair and sort of moved around. It was a false alarm, though. All he did was lift the Atlantic Monthly off his lap and try to chuck it on the bed, next to me. He missed. It was only about two inches away, but he missed anyway. I got up and picked it up and put it down on the bed. All of a sudden then, I wanted to get the hell out of the room. I could feel a terrific lecture coming on. I didn’t mind the idea so much, but I didn’t feel like being lectured to and smell Vicks Nose Drops and look at old Spencer in his pajamas and bathrobe all at the same time. I really didn’t.
Notice the balance between talky phrases like “sort of moved around” and carefully-crafted (but still natural-sounding) phrases, such as “chucked it on the bed” which is a clear, evocative image.
Though we can imagine the narrator saying “chucked” in everyday speech, it’s more likely he’d say “threw,” which isn’t as specific an image. On the other hand, if Salinger had used “propelled,” it would have felt artificial. “Chucked” exists at a perfect nexus between naturalism and craft.
Different things are more or less therapeutic for different people. I’ve been writing daily for about 30 years, and I’d never describe it as “therapeutic.” It’s extremely hard, exacting work, and it’s never finished. Once a book, article, or post is finished, there’s another one to start. Maybe some writers rest between projects, but I don’t.
And, for me at least, it’s not as if writing is getting something out that’s been stuck in my head. I think as I write. Putting words on paper, for me, is a form of active cognition—not an expelling of something already there.
However, this question reminded me of a quotation I like:
“Don’t ever write a novel unless it hurts like a hot turd coming out.” – Charles Bukowski
J.D. Saliger taught me about voice. Some people love “Catcher in the Rye” (I’m one of them); others hate it. Regardless, it’s a lesson in writing with a very specific voice:
“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have about two hemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them. They’re quite touchy about anything like that, especially my father. They’re nice and all–I’m not saying that–but they’re also touchy as hell. Besides, I’m not going to tell you my whole goddam autobiography or anything. I’ll just tell you about this madman stuff that happened to me around last Christmas just before I got pretty run-down and had to come out here and take it easy. I mean that’s all I told D.B. about, and he’s my brother and all. He’s in Hollywood. That isn’t too far from this crumby place, and he comes over and visits me practically every week end. He’s going to drive me home when I go home next month maybe. He just got a Jaguar. One of those little English jobs that can do around two hundred miles an hour. It cost him damn near four thousand bucks. He’s got a lot of dough, now. He didn’t use to. He used to be just a regular writer, when he was home. He wrote this terrific book of short stories, The Secret Goldfish, in case you never heard of him. The best one in it was ‘The Secret Goldfish.’ It was about this little kid that wouldn’t let anybody look at his goldfish because he’d bought it with his own money. It killed me. Now he’s out in Hollywood, D.B., being a prostitute. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s the movies. Don’t even mention them to me.”
Twain’s “Huck Finn” (see above) taught me much about voice, too.
23 March 2019