Been thinking about my long-sought-after-and-thought-I-found-it-voice in writing. And while voice is usually considered to be that of the narrator in fiction, it also may contain that of the author I would think, although that may be considered style rather than voice.
Be that as it may (in other words, I probably don’t know enough to even be allowed a voice), it dawned (and in the past few months, I’ve seen just about every dawn that dared show its damnable sunny face) on me that whatever this voice I have discovered in myself is unreadable–therefore, undoable–in writing anything longer than a paragraph. In posts I’ve usually labeled "Reality: Blah-Blah" is where my voice usually settles in. Mostly metaphorical gibberish written because the fact is that I just can’t verbalize it anymore and avoid talking to people because the reality right now plainly sucks, so I write. (I’m sure it will get better, and then maybe I’ll become my cheery (!) outgoing (?) self again sometime soon, so this is a temporary condition.)
But the point I’m trying to make is that you just can’t write a whole book or even a short story in that voice. It’d be as annoying as DeLillo’s Mr. Tuttle. This voice is better suited to poetry. However, it’s never been pointed out to me that I’m anywhere near the poet. So, what to do?
Ah, perhaps a book of flash prose?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology