A voice
by , 07-07-2010 at 07:17 AM (1473 Views)
I've been reading a lot recently, well I always read a lot, and I've started noticing and thinking about the writer's voice.
It was The Drowned World by J.G. Ballard which really made me think about it. As I started reading it, I was struck by how strong Ballard's voice is. The Drowned World was his first novel and although his subject matters have changed over the years (he gradually moved away from sci-fi) his voice has not changed. It is distinctly his. It is one of the things I love about Ballard; regardless of which of his books you read you can tell it is him. He is lush and specific. He uses words I don't understand and have to look up in the dictionary. He is lyrical and passionate. He dreams. He imagines a world in which we metamorphosise into something greater than what we are. It is compelling, but not necessarily that easy to read.
Then it got me thinking about other writers and how they have a distinctive voice. The recently departed Jose Saramago has a very distinctive voice. As does Halldor Laxness, Knut Hamsun, David Mitchell (though his voice is difficult to pin down it is still distinctly his), Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Albert Camus, Angela Carter, Italo Calvino, Cormac McCarthy, Franz Kafka, Fernando Pessoa, Hermann Hesse and so on. All these great writers bring their own flavour to their work, it drives and guides them. It makes their writing certain and authoritative. It makes you believe in them.
And then I thought: what is my voice?
And the truth is, I don't know. I'm not sure I have a voice, maybe I've not developed it yet or maybe I don't believe in something enough to make it translate beyond myself onto the page. Because I would say that what you need is self belief, but I think self belief and writers don't necessarily go together. So it isn't that. It is something else. Perhaps it is the desire to impart some part of yourself into the written word, perhaps it is being sure of an opinion or a view, perhaps it is just the love of writing. I don't know. Do you?
I wonder if I love writing. Some people clearly love writing, it comes across as an effortless-seeming kind of joy in their writing. Italo Calvino and David Mitchell both convey this. Now they may dispute that writing is, for them, an effortless thing but their love of it is self descriptive. Me? I have a love/hate relationship with writing. I love it because I love creating, I love building something in my mind and exploring it with words. I love it because I love sharing that side of myself, it is like a secret woven in lies and if you look through the lies there is truth. I hate it because my creations are never as beautiful or distinct as I wish them to be. I hate it because whatever I write feels like a failure.
And as I thought about it, I realised I don't have strong feelings about many things. Not when it comes to myself anyway. I'm sure I make it sound like I do, but oftentimes it feels more like a mental exercise. I am content, and contentment comes close to indifference. And what I think about something doesn't really matter, it is not important. Whatever I think about something one way or another, won't change what it is. I may influence, but the ripple of my influence soon dissipates. I can account only for myself. My feelings are irrelevant. They are small and insignificant. They are mine and they will be here and they will be gone. They will not last.
About our time, what is it that I would want to pass on to another generation about my world? What have I to say about this world? The more I look at it, the more I see it is transient, fleeting. That there is nothing concrete, nothing that lasts, everything is here and gone in an instant and the more effort we take in looking for it, in the future, in the distance, the more we miss right here and now. And we are bombarded constantly with input, with words, with pictures, with sounds, with sensations, so much so that most of the time we're trying to block them out. And somewhere deep in the middle of all that input is the thing we call 'me', if it is one thing and not a myriad of things in itself, and we're so busy trying to discover ourselves in amongst this melee of endless data, that by the time we find ourselves we've missed everything.
And we risk missing each other, other people who are caught in the swell. I would like to reach out my hands and let everyone who is passing grab onto them, to anchor them in the here and now. So that they might find themselves and, perhaps, each other. That maybe, even if only for a moment, instead of looking ahead we would look at each other. There is a whole universe behind a person's eyes. But my hands are small, and their reach is limited. I am only one person. I can do only so much. And some people want so desperately to be carried away. It is not for me to stop them.
My life is so small, and all I can offer is myself. It isn't enough.
And I think I want to rebel against these things: this world, these theories, these thoughts, this feeling of being under seige and missing everything on account of an idea.
I want to start seeing, and hearing, and feeling what is going on right now.
I want to only see the truth. By truth I mean facts, not opinions. I am fed up of being spoon fed spin and bombast by the media. I am fed up of being told what to feel.
I want to care about the things which are important and real. I don't want to waste my best emotions on theories and ideas.
I want to stop thinking about the future.
I want to stop thinking, and start doing.
In a world of information and data and soundbites and chaos I want peace, and distance, and detail.
And I don't know if anyone else wants those things, but in my writing I think I want to convey peace and distance and detail.
And I need to start writing for myself, because I want to. Because nothing else matters other than this: if writing is my sanctuary in which I can find peace and distance and detail, and in order to reach that sanctuary I have to observe and experience and be present, then this can only be a good thing. And if in the process of doing this someone else can discover themself in the present and find peace then this is also a good thing.
Because I believe that a single moment has the power to transform, but those moments can only be found if we are open: eyes open, ears open, mind open, heart open, to experience them. I believe those moments can only be accessed by being still, patient and at peace.
So I guess I believe in something after all.
And perhaps if I am still and I am calm and I am distant and open and present all at the same time, maybe then my voice will come.



