Anyone who has followed Spinning in the almost year that it’s been in existence has wearily noted that on a regular basis I go off on a tangent about writing “voice.”
Something just came out at me from memory about reading voice that may indeed clinch the argument about who makes the story—the writer or the reader.
Many years ago, among friends hip and savvy as myself (!) I happened to start reading a mini-story that came in a box with a chocolate Easter bunny. I remember that as I started reading aloud, I got into a silly mood and just by tone, pauses, and other elocutionary gimmickry I managed to turn a simple little children’s tale into a near-pornographic rendition of the poor bunny’s Easter story. Needless to say, by the time I finished, we were hysterical, but the point is that I did not change one word, one mark of punctuation, but the story became filled with innuendo and changed with the mere reading.
I’m sure that as we read, even silently to ourselves, we establish a tone, mood—a voice that determines the story we are reading.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
I’ve always been a bit embarassed that I find it so surprising that a sentence written can be so easily misinterpreted; miscommunication can abound, even when the writer is certain their meaning is being conveyed with precision. The part of it that really gets me is that I’m always stunned all over again when i realize my words have been twisted or morphed into something for which I had no intent. It seems a bit naive to allow myself the delusion that merely putting words on the page will ensure there intended meaning. I can’t say why, exactly, this still catches me by surprise. Your description today reminded me of my folly.
On a more positive note, learning that inflection and pause and even breathing can change the tone of a written piece was a bit like rediscovering a jewel you’ve always owned. Recently poetry opened up for me in a new way when I realized I could attach MY OWN rhythm and tone; no longer did I feel constrained to try to ferret out the author’s meaning; instead, I could simply allow the words to speak to me in my own language. It was quite freeing to make this discovery. It allowed me to approach poetry not as a puzzle to be undone, but rather, as a song waiting to be sung in my own voice.
I have to laugh; even after previewing, I still manage to miss the rushed “there” for “their”, thereby changing the meaning. *grin*
What great insight into the reading of poetry! And, how freeing and inviting it then becomes.