voice in my pen

I’ve been complimented about my style of writing for some time. The way I write, how I “sound,” which to writers abound would mean my “voice.” I continue to tell people that the way I write is very similar, if not close to, the same fashion as how I speak, although like most people, I speak faster than I can type. With that, I’m known to speak in run-on sentences or just sentence fragments. And then when it comes to writing, I try to follow most of the grammatical rules I’ve learned through public school just enough to make the point that I can bend them or completely break them consciously knowing I’m doing it purposefully, with the reader being in on it too, of course.

I think it’s safe to say that I took a break from writing altogether the past few months. I’ve written no new versus of poetry. No ballads of love lost, hopeful love found, revelations from God, God’s endless love, the love of cheese, haiku about nothing, or just sprawling prose that squeeze my mind out like a dirty sponge that just cleaned the entire kitchen from countertop to the annoying nooks in a George Foreman grill.

I haven’t written any screenplays full of stories that I personally haven’t heard or seen. Nothing that I’ve been inspired by real life scenarios, trips to casinos, encountering new foes or the joy and pain of buying and washing clothes. And yes, that would end up in some line of dialogue in a script I have yet to write. That and countless hours of usable, original, and moving quotes and conversations I’ve had with various walks of life over the past few months. And by “moving,” I’m including times where I or someone else has been either moved to tears of sadness, laughter of embarrassment, being angry with or at a friend or even envy of a friend.

And blogging, which I believe is one of the freest forms of open sourced musings about whatever your imagination can think of, has been absent on my to-do list of late. Free in so many ways, both fortunate and unfortunate. I don’t get paid to do it, but it’s free to read it. But who am I to complain, I’m just happy I have the gift of a voice and passion to write just about anything to my heart’s delight. Sometimes life is just happening to quickly or time won’t allow me to stop to write the roses.

I listen attentively to movies, songs, teachers, friends, and anyone who is speaking whether it’s a script, excerpts from a book or just their own heart or mind. Sure, I’m listening to what they are saying, but I’m listening to their voice. The words they use to say what they feel or see or think. It’s remarkable. I’ll sit there and covet other’s voices when I constantly must remind myself: I have my own. They say a good and seasoned comedian doesn’t fully develop his/her voice until about 10 years. I also know that about 10 years ago, my voice was probably an octave or two higher. It’s not just how it sounded, but emotionally, spiritually, intellectually I’ve grown into my voice. Increase in vocabulary and better syntax and semantics. Things I learned become easier to understand with age just like insurance and mortgages. And I also know, that as time goes on, it will continue to mature. I may say smart things now, but a couple decades from now, I hope to be beyond intelligence: wisdom.