Voice First: A Writer's Manifesto
Autor Sonya Huberen Limba Engleză Paperback – 31 aug 2022
By redefining “voice,” Sonya Huber offers writers an opportunity not only to engage their voices but to understand and experience how developing their range of voices strengthens their writing. Weaving together in-depth discussions of various concepts of voice and stories from the author’s writing life, Voice First offers a personal view of struggles with voice as influenced and shaped by gender, place of origin, privilege, race, ethnicity, and other factors, reframing and updating the conversation for the twenty-first century. Each chapter includes writing prompts and explores a different element of voice, helping writers at all levels stretch their concept of voice and develop a repertoire of voices to summon.
Preț: 123.19 lei
Nou
Puncte Express: 185
Preț estimativ în valută:
23.58€ • 24.87$ • 19.70£
23.58€ • 24.87$ • 19.70£
Carte disponibilă
Livrare economică 10-24 decembrie
Livrare express 26-30 noiembrie pentru 51.81 lei
Preluare comenzi: 021 569.72.76
Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781496231314
ISBN-10: 1496231317
Pagini: 248
Ilustrații: Index
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 17 mm
Greutate: 0.32 kg
Editura: Nebraska
Colecția University of Nebraska Press
Locul publicării:United States
ISBN-10: 1496231317
Pagini: 248
Ilustrații: Index
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 17 mm
Greutate: 0.32 kg
Editura: Nebraska
Colecția University of Nebraska Press
Locul publicării:United States
Notă biografică
Sonya Huber is a professor of English at Fairfield University. She is the author of several books, including Supremely Tiny Acts: A Memoir of a Day and Pain Woman Takes Your Keys and Other Essays from a Nervous System (Nebraska, 2017).
Extras
1 Listening to Voices
When you’re inside a piece of writing that hums and crackles and sparks,
when a real person is talking to you from the page, you’ve encountered
a voice. “Voice” is what writing feels like. It sets off sympathetic vibrations
in readers. It gives us a sense of connection to another live human
presence, creating a real and complex moment of communication.
We all naturally speak with voice, which in verbal speech animates
the larynx and the lungs; the ribcage and the lips, tongue, and teeth;
gestures and expressions. In sign language voice comes from the fingers
and posture, and gestures and expressions, or when using an assistive
device, voice comes from expression and gesture, from the bodily
movement of eyes or fingers using a keyboard, and in each case from
the unique string of expression that is produced. The poet Adrienne
Rich writes that words written with voice “have the heft of our living
behind them.”1
We have voices already, which makes the guidance to “find” one’s
voice confusing. Somewhere between the body and mind and the page,
this singular voice vanishes like a wisp of fog. Somehow the heft of our
living gets stripped from written communication.
My assumption in this guide is that you already have a full range
of voices and they are already fantastic. Through these chapters we
will name them, exercise them, watch as their stems and roots grow
and branch and strengthen. When you can identify the huge range
of voices you have, you can make choices about how and when to use
them, how to draw on them, which voice to channel, how to create
text that sounds like you, with the heft of your living and imagination,
with syntax and style and snap and verve.
As Janet Burroway writes, “Begin by knowing, and exploring, the fact
that you already have a number of different voices.”2 You can borrow
voices, learn to listen to your own, exercise them so they grow stronger,
trade them, try others on for size. And you get as many as you want.
When you use one, two more appear. And yet they are all connected
and shifting. Once you appreciate all the voices you have to work with,
you can mine them, and discover others, for writing in all genres. Your
web of voices is you—but
it’s also other people’s impact on you, what
you’ve read, and what you’ve experienced. As Walt Whitman wrote,
you “contain multitudes.” And as Felicia Rose Chavez writes, “How
we speak is as abundant as we are.”3
Throughout my years of teaching writing, I have tended to skip the
question of voice with my students because it didn’t seem to help writers.
Instead, I gave writing prompts and asked writers to inhabit perspectives,
real and imagined, past, present, and future. As these writers exercised
and stretched, they began to feel something flow that had been frozen.
They began to inhabit their writing, and that comfort on the page—with
all the different selves that sounded like them—often
transferred
far outside the world of memoir or the personal essay and enlivened their
academic writing. But I didn’t yet have a theory about why this worked.
If you’ve read about voice, you might have encountered the idea
that it is a singular essence that animates writing, made up of craft
and style choices and tone, and that it is somehow connected to our
“real self.” As a young writer, this advice sounded to me like I had one
“authentic” voice, the “real me,” with the rest of my expression somehow
impure or fake.
I knew that I had a certain style, a set of phrases and an underlying
grammar that united much of my writing, but when I thought about my
voice, I felt self-conscious.
That “one voice” concept made me feel like
I couldn’t stray far from my roots, like I had one crayon to color with.
Following that idea, it seemed like I’d somehow have to incorporate
all of my being and influences into one mode of expression so that, no
matter what, I’d always sound a little like a midwesterner stuck in the
1980s and my true style was a kind of anchor or tether, one I’d always
circle around, with a limited range.
I couldn’t tell you much about my “singular voice” beyond a list of
words I choose regularly, a few bad habits of sentence construction,
and some influences of region and era. But when I think about my
range of voices, I see very clearly how I use these strands in different
situations. I knew as I grew as a writer that I had a voice that comes
from my experience as a small-town midwesterner, a voice that comes
from my background as a political organizer, a voice that is shaped by
my time in academia, and many more. On a deep level those voices
have been shaped by everyone I have listened to and read.
We each have a range of functional voices that help us get through
the day in our present life. We have a voice we use to tell the dog how
cute she is, which is different than the voice we use at work, and mixing
them up is often fun. (Is bossy-wossy the cutest ever?)
Every voice we develop is an interface or cognitive tool to help us
interact with a specific slice of the world in a specific time and place. All
of these voices are definitely connected, and they’re united by a whole
host of style and tonal habits. We move along throughout our lives, and
we discard some of our old voices, or they are used to make new ones.
When you’re inside a piece of writing that hums and crackles and sparks,
when a real person is talking to you from the page, you’ve encountered
a voice. “Voice” is what writing feels like. It sets off sympathetic vibrations
in readers. It gives us a sense of connection to another live human
presence, creating a real and complex moment of communication.
We all naturally speak with voice, which in verbal speech animates
the larynx and the lungs; the ribcage and the lips, tongue, and teeth;
gestures and expressions. In sign language voice comes from the fingers
and posture, and gestures and expressions, or when using an assistive
device, voice comes from expression and gesture, from the bodily
movement of eyes or fingers using a keyboard, and in each case from
the unique string of expression that is produced. The poet Adrienne
Rich writes that words written with voice “have the heft of our living
behind them.”1
We have voices already, which makes the guidance to “find” one’s
voice confusing. Somewhere between the body and mind and the page,
this singular voice vanishes like a wisp of fog. Somehow the heft of our
living gets stripped from written communication.
My assumption in this guide is that you already have a full range
of voices and they are already fantastic. Through these chapters we
will name them, exercise them, watch as their stems and roots grow
and branch and strengthen. When you can identify the huge range
of voices you have, you can make choices about how and when to use
them, how to draw on them, which voice to channel, how to create
text that sounds like you, with the heft of your living and imagination,
with syntax and style and snap and verve.
As Janet Burroway writes, “Begin by knowing, and exploring, the fact
that you already have a number of different voices.”2 You can borrow
voices, learn to listen to your own, exercise them so they grow stronger,
trade them, try others on for size. And you get as many as you want.
When you use one, two more appear. And yet they are all connected
and shifting. Once you appreciate all the voices you have to work with,
you can mine them, and discover others, for writing in all genres. Your
web of voices is you—but
it’s also other people’s impact on you, what
you’ve read, and what you’ve experienced. As Walt Whitman wrote,
you “contain multitudes.” And as Felicia Rose Chavez writes, “How
we speak is as abundant as we are.”3
Throughout my years of teaching writing, I have tended to skip the
question of voice with my students because it didn’t seem to help writers.
Instead, I gave writing prompts and asked writers to inhabit perspectives,
real and imagined, past, present, and future. As these writers exercised
and stretched, they began to feel something flow that had been frozen.
They began to inhabit their writing, and that comfort on the page—with
all the different selves that sounded like them—often
transferred
far outside the world of memoir or the personal essay and enlivened their
academic writing. But I didn’t yet have a theory about why this worked.
If you’ve read about voice, you might have encountered the idea
that it is a singular essence that animates writing, made up of craft
and style choices and tone, and that it is somehow connected to our
“real self.” As a young writer, this advice sounded to me like I had one
“authentic” voice, the “real me,” with the rest of my expression somehow
impure or fake.
I knew that I had a certain style, a set of phrases and an underlying
grammar that united much of my writing, but when I thought about my
voice, I felt self-conscious.
That “one voice” concept made me feel like
I couldn’t stray far from my roots, like I had one crayon to color with.
Following that idea, it seemed like I’d somehow have to incorporate
all of my being and influences into one mode of expression so that, no
matter what, I’d always sound a little like a midwesterner stuck in the
1980s and my true style was a kind of anchor or tether, one I’d always
circle around, with a limited range.
I couldn’t tell you much about my “singular voice” beyond a list of
words I choose regularly, a few bad habits of sentence construction,
and some influences of region and era. But when I think about my
range of voices, I see very clearly how I use these strands in different
situations. I knew as I grew as a writer that I had a voice that comes
from my experience as a small-town midwesterner, a voice that comes
from my background as a political organizer, a voice that is shaped by
my time in academia, and many more. On a deep level those voices
have been shaped by everyone I have listened to and read.
We each have a range of functional voices that help us get through
the day in our present life. We have a voice we use to tell the dog how
cute she is, which is different than the voice we use at work, and mixing
them up is often fun. (Is bossy-wossy the cutest ever?)
Every voice we develop is an interface or cognitive tool to help us
interact with a specific slice of the world in a specific time and place. All
of these voices are definitely connected, and they’re united by a whole
host of style and tonal habits. We move along throughout our lives, and
we discard some of our old voices, or they are used to make new ones.
Cuprins
Note to the Reader
1. Listening to Voices
2. The Voice Lineage
3. Voices Live in the Body
4. Mind Is the Source of Voice
5. Time and Place Grow Voices
6. Voices of Challenge and Change
7. Detail Is the Seed of Voice
8. Embodied Voices, Racialized Lives
9. Voices of Joy
10. Voices with Fire
11. A Whisper of a Voice
12. The Voice of Spirit
13. Editing and Revising with Voices
A Few Final Words
Gratitude
Notes
Works Cited
Index
1. Listening to Voices
2. The Voice Lineage
3. Voices Live in the Body
4. Mind Is the Source of Voice
5. Time and Place Grow Voices
6. Voices of Challenge and Change
7. Detail Is the Seed of Voice
8. Embodied Voices, Racialized Lives
9. Voices of Joy
10. Voices with Fire
11. A Whisper of a Voice
12. The Voice of Spirit
13. Editing and Revising with Voices
A Few Final Words
Gratitude
Notes
Works Cited
Index
Recenzii
"A great resource—writers of all strokes will appreciate this spirited look at the craft."—Publishers Weekly
"Through essays and writing prompts, Huber helps writers identify, develop, and experience the many voices used when writing."—Poets & Writers
“Voice First is an intellectual tour de force and a work of great generosity. Huber dismantles the myth of a writer’s ‘authentic voice,’ acknowledging instead that all writers have multiple voices, no one more or less authentic than any other, freeing us from an insistence on sameness and opening up for every writer a universe of possibility.”—Sarah Einstein, author of Mot: A Memoir
“Sonya Huber brilliantly illuminates the intricate paths writers can take to shape their voices on the page. Huber’s own voice is packed with joy, fire, wisdom, and spirit, and her manifesto offers both indispensable advice and valuable prompts. Voice First is an inclusive, compassionate, and necessary book for writers and anyone teaching the art of writing.”—Dinty W. Moore, author of Crafting the Personal Essay
“Huber’s book is a class in itself—a workshop on naming and finding the glorious, the cantankerous, the jubilant, the apprehensive, the mischievous, and the assiduous voices within. . . . I cannot wait to share Voice First with educators teaching in diverse, inclusive settings and their writing students.”—Bryan Ripley Crandall, director of the Connecticut Writing Project and associate professor of English education at Fairfield University
Descriere
Voice First offers writers and teachers of writing an opportunity not only to engage their voices but to understand and experience how developing their range of voices strengthens their writing.