A writers ‘voice’ defines them.  It tells the reader a lot about the tone of the story and how it will unfold.  Is it serious? Is it comical? is it… well that’s the problem.  What is it?

When working on my coursework, I’m marked on the voice I use.  Mainly is it identifiable, is it right for the story that I’m telling? This is something I’ve been pondering today while sitting here (on a day off).  If I were to write a novel, what kind of voice would I use?  I’m torn between the serious and the comical.  Something with a little bit of humour wouldn’t go amis I feel, but that can be tricky in itself.  How do you manage to get the voice across?

Would a story be funnier if it was told in the first person, or in the omniscient narrator?  I love the style that Robert Crais uses when he’s writing his Elvis Cole novels, mainly because he manages to weave serious with comical to great effect.  It can’t be easy, but I wonder how plausible it actually is when trying to write something.

Perhaps I should just stop pondering and actually get on with it, and see how it comes out.

Yes I know, it’s bee a little quiet over the last few days.  I’ll admit it’s because I’ve been overly engrossed in a couple of good books, and the weather has been far too good to sit inside.  Poor excuse I know, but with the last day of summer clearly now passing away like the leaves falling from trees, I’ve got no more excuses.

It struck me while sitting in the garden on Saturday and Sunday, that the noises you hear in the village are so entertaining.  OK, so the church bells and the neighbours cat on Sunday morning were not entertaining (as they woke me up).  No, what is entertaining is listening to the sounds.  What were people up to making all those noises?

I think I was struck by the noise of what was either an electric saw, or a hedge trimmer.  I spent a good deal of time trying to work it out (because the sound by this point had started to invade my head more than I wanted it to).  What was someone doing out there on a nice sunny day?  Were they shaping a bush into a nice tidy hedge, ready for the impending winter?  Were they building some shelves to house the books they’d stocked up on for the rainy days ahead? I just couldn’t decide.

Then there were the birds, chirping around.  The sound reminded me of the spring days, that blossomed into summer.  Of waking up to the birds outside my window before I moved.  There seem to be fewer birds and a lot more cows.  Cows that moo at 2 in the morning.  What on earth is that all about? Were they mooing instead of snoring? I couldn’t decide.

The last thing that struck me was the number of people out cutting their lawns.  I bet it’s going to be the last good cut of the year.  As the days wind down, the grass slumbers.  I’ve noticed it do it.  Not that I sit here and watch grass grow, clearly I’ve got better things to do.  Whatever the case, it was just the little mundanities that build up into the soundtrack to the last day of summer.  I didn’t want to believe that the sunshine that warmed me so much yesterday would be giving into gales and rain (which looking out the window appears to have happened).

How on earth do you layer these little details of everyday life into a story? It is the richness of this existence that reminds us that we’re part of the world.