Voice is one of the most important elements of any great writer. No doubt about it.
Without a unique “voice”, they wouldn’t have had so many readers.
But what is this voice, exactly? And how can you make it come through in your writing?
Well, let’s think of voice. Some have a deep tonality, a certain way of articulating words. They have a style. They talk like no one else you ever met. Others have this squeaky voice that sounds like scratching a blackboard with your fingernails, and even though what they’re saying could make a lot of sense, and it could be something witty and smart, you can’t wait for them to shut up, because you can’t understand a thing they’re saying anyway.
Well, the same is true for your writing. No one can hear you, but they can feel you through the words you use and how you choose to use them.
Odds are that you are struggling to find your voice as a writer. To find that style. Odds are that you are also putting a lot of pressure on yourself to be unique. To write like no one else before you.
If only you knew how simple it really is.
You just got to write like yourself.
Disclaimer: This new project of mine is called God, The Devil, and a Man walk into a bar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
— Antonio Machado
The traveler sat down on a sand dune and saw nothing. He heard nothing. He feared the worst. He had reached a truly godforsaken place: a vast, mournful pan of emptiness where anything sentient resented anything else that was alive. Every sun-scoured scrap of fauna had barbs, hooks or thorns, every animal had poison, paw or claw. Scorpions scuttled and snakes hissed and slithered while they went about their grisly business of survival. Even sand was an enemy. It burned his feet raw, it stinged his eyes and acted as a surrogate for pain.
His skin felt like scraped by sandpaper, his tongue was cloven to the roof of his mouth. His eyes felt like they’d melted into the back of his mind, making everything seem mirage-like. He knew he was alone, abandoned, and doomed. A colorless heat haze had blurred out the background and his vision had become myopic.
Yet, through the silence, through the nothing, something throbbed, something gleamed. Continue reading
Fragments of a wild and bizarre beauty would appear and disappear fast, never settling for more than what felt as a second. My mind couldn’t put together all the glints that my past kept throwing at me. But then the incessant moan of the city night faded into silence, and my mind began to weave an intricate web of memories. What had started off as a waffling and erratic cocktail of images, condensed to such a degree that I could barely discern Amber’s face, had now grown into a fascinating and yet frightening labyrinth.
I took pleasure in building her, piece by piece, until my mind contained a fully fleshed version of a thin and gracious young woman, a white dress sculpted around her body and her black hair falling down to her waist.
It was a two year old memory, but it felt as real as the people I was walking around with.
We were at my father’s restaurant. I was watching her from afar. She was thin, but there was still flesh underneath her rigid dress, there were still thighs and hips and breasts, all tailored together with delicate mastery. Continue reading
Some women are nice to stare at. Nice to hold their hand, go on long, long walks with them. They taste real nice when you kiss them.
But not this woman. Oh, no.
Kisses dream of lips like hers.
Alice walks closer.
God, this woman! Even the way she sips from her glass knocks men the fuck out.
She is sex. The way you’d imagine sex to look like. Alice is pretty sure she is wearing a perfume made from the tears of all the men who had her and lost her. If you listen carefully you can almost hear the sound of hearts breaking.
Even if they tried to avoid one another, it wouldn’t work. Somehow, the Universe seems willing to collapse in on itself just to make them meet.
Which is kind of odd, considering… Continue reading
“A writer is a writer because, even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway.” – Junot Diaz
I write because I know that I couldn’t live without my stories, without my characters, without my strange habit of angrily punching those keys on the keyboard late every night. Continue reading
”I completely fell in love with Cristian Mihai’s beautiful way of writing. His main character, Chris Sommers, is an embodiment of realism. His persona was much attune to what some of us feel about ambition, love, and the realization of heartbreaking disappointment. I felt a connection to him in a much deeper level than I’ve ever known. Mihai’s writing style just reaches out to you, captures you – without letting go for a moment. It’s also very personal that you just can’t help but love the main protagonist. There were times where it pained me to stop reading because I wanted to note down my favorite quotes from the novel because it was just that amazingly brilliant.” – E.S. praise for Jazz.
One copy of each of my titles. Signed, delivered to your doorstep.
”This book was very unexpected. It made me think about what is means to be a writer, what the process of creation means not only to the creator but to those who are affected by what has been written. Much of what Mihai says here will resonate with anyone who has ever struggled to put words on paper.” – Cynthia Dumarin, praise for The Writer.
$39.99, international shipping included. Limited time only.
”I was drawn in after reading the first page. Being a “hopeless” romantic I could empathize with both characters but I felt a connection with “him”. The authors description of loneliness, excitement, regret and pain is so intense, I became emotional while reading. It is gripping, honest and touching. Beautiful story…” – Melanie Lawson, praise for 2:22 AM.
If you’d like to purchase a book bundle, you can do so on my e-store here. All payments secured by PayPal.
On a cold and dark night of December I wrote my first story. It was for the first time that I had the vision, that my eyes saw more than what was right there, in front of me, that my ears heard more, and my mouth wanted to speak in a voice that was louder than ever before.
I wanted to reach people, I wanted to share with them the same dream I had. It was happiness in a way that you know it can only last for a few moments, that kind of happiness you could never expect to last longer. I was happy because I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Continue reading