Writer’s Voice and Eugie Foster
I came across a Youtube video, part of a series on literature called Stripped Cover Lit, where the subject was the writer’s voice. They made a list of six great short stories that demonstrated the author’s voice. The six:
Donald Barthelme – The Baby
Ernest Hemingway – Hills Like White Elephants
William Faulkner – That Evening Sun
F. Scott Fitzgerald – Bernice Bobs Her Hair
Lorrie Moore – How to Become a Writer
Eugie Foster – When it Ends, He Catches Her
I have to admit never being a big fan of Fitzgerald, but still, I rather like Eugie being grouped with these, particularly Hemingway and Faulkner.
I’ve been having a lot of conversations (well, online conversations) of late connected to this. I hadn’t used the term “writer’s voice,” but I should have, as it is vastly important when speaking of the art of writing, and of things that have popped up recently in the F&SF community.
Most authors do not have a voice. They write words, but there is nothing that marks those words from the words of others. If an author dies, more often than not, another author could take over, finishing the work without anyone the wiser. There is nothing distinct. There is nothing vital. There are just words, stuck together in sentences. Style, subject, perspective—it’s all the same. If you happen to like that style, that subject, and that perspective, that’s good for you as you have plenty to read. But no story matters more than another. No book matters more. No author matters more. They are all replaceable.
This was a matter of pride for Jim Baen. Everything the same. Everything what you are looking for. Everything replaceable. That makes sense as a marketing strategy, with words being nothing but a commodity. It doesn’t work so well with art. Words that matter, that will be remembered—those cannot be just more of the same. It was one of (my many) complaints with the suggestions of the Sad Puppies. Most of the works had no voice, or if you prefer, all had the same voice with ten thousand other stories. Most could have been written by the same person, perhaps at different points in his career to account for improvement in skill. All the same.
This is why I give more leeway to John C. Wright than others. Because he has a voice. If I plopped down a pile of recent stories, particularly Pup stories, a disconnected reader would be able to pick out two of Wright’s stories, but as for the others, there would be no way to match them. They are all the same. Love or hate Mr. Wright, at least he exists. And it is better to hate a work of art than be bored by it, or to forget it.
This is not purely a Puppy matter. I bring them up because they revel in it, and because they want to give it awards. But this is the norm. Most stories I read lack a voice. I’ve been catching up a bit with my reading and most of what I find feels like everything else I’ve already found. When I find something that truly speaks, I rejoice in that. And I’ve found a few. And those will be the ones I’ll remember and the only ones with a chance of being remembered by the larger community.
Poe had a voice. Lovecraft had a voice. Vonnegut and Bradbury and Lee each had a voice. So did Shakespeare and Austen and Twain and Chekhov if we want to broaden our horizons a bit.
And Eugie had a voice. She actually had two different ones. Her Asian fairytales had a different style, a different perspective, then the likes of Sinner, Baker, Fabulist, Priest, Red Mask, Black Mask, Gentleman, Beast, When it Ends, He Catches Her, and The Art of Victory (yes, that last one you haven’t seen yet, and you’ll love it), though there was a relationship between those voices. Her works were not like so many others. Another author could not just pick up where she stopped. Her voice is not interchangeable with those of others. I can’t say if her stories will be remembered. All the great voices, or merely the distinct ones, are not automatically immortal. The world isn’t fair that way. But they might be.
As for all those stories that are the same, from authors who have no voice, they will fade from memory.
This year I hope to see ones worth remembering, ones whose authors have their own voice, who are not replaceable, to receive the cheers and accolades. It’s a hope, but the world isn’t merit-based either, so I can only hope. I hope more for great writers, distinct writers, with their own individual voices, to rise up and create things that speak to the soul.
For now, I’ll just be amused at grouping Eugie with Hemingway. I wonder what she’d have said to that.