Finding Your Voice (Without Getting a Throat Injury)

Or: how to sound like yourself without sounding like everyone else

Writers love to talk about voice like it’s some mythical creature that lives in your laptop and only appears when the moon is right and your imposter syndrome is distracted.

“You’ve got to find your voice,” they say.

Okay…where exactly is it? Is it under “Settings”? Is there a button I missed?

I used to think voice was all about style. Sentence rhythm. Word choice. Syntax. And yes, it’s partly those things. But voice isn’t just how you write. It’s also how you think. How your brain naturally turns over an idea. It’s the way you tell any story, even if it’s about parallel parking or the contents of your fridge. (You know you’ve got voice if I’d read your grocery list and still chuckle at the commentary.)

And there are a lot of writers on Substack that have an amazing voice. I am not going to name names here. I don’t want to hurt your feelings if you don’t show up on my list of people with a great voice.

Voice is tone, perspective, honesty, attitude.
It’s what happens when you stop trying to write like a writer and just…write like a person. A weird little person with obsessions, opinions, and that one phrase you always lean on when you’re tired. ("Clear Ether," anyone? I closed a lot of my older blogs with that. But even that was derivative, E.E. Smith used it for the Lensman series.)

When you’re starting out, your voice is usually buried under a pile of influences. You try to sound like your favorite authors. You unconsciously echo their rhythms, their jokes, their paragraph lengths. It’s not a bad thing, it’s how we all learn. You can’t find your voice until you’ve borrowed a few others. But eventually, if you keep going, something shifts. You stop performing the idea of “author,” and start sounding like yourself on purpose.

Here’s the kicker, your voice will evolve. And it should.

If you’re still figuring it out, here’s my advice:

Write a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Voice shows up through repetition and rhythm.

Read widely. Steal from the best until it sounds like yours.

Talk on the page like you talk in real life. Just…maybe clean up the ums and curse words. (Unless that’s your brand. In which case: respect.) Keep in mind we emulate real dialogue; we don’t actually write the way people talk. They often hem and haw and don’t finish sentences, or say “ya know,” a lot. That would be horrible to read.

Pay attention to what makes you smile while writing. That’s often the trailhead to your voice.

And for the record, yes, you can have a different voice for different projects. Your space opera may not sound like your cozy paranormal mystery (unless that’s what you’re going for, in which case, you beautiful maniac, carry on). My Substack voice is very different from my prose voice. But underneath it all, there should still be a fingerprint. Something that says this came from you.

Okay, here is a little treat. I am going to share with you the very first draft of my current WIP. A voice comparison with the latest version to show the evolution.

2008 version (Sorry, I know it’s bad. I was new at writing)

It is always a bit of a euphoric feeling when I have conquered my foe but it also leaves me mentally fogged. I need to get back into the house and change without being seen. I don’t like the members of my staff seeing me like this. The euphoria never lasts very long, in fact it is already wearing off as I approach the main house. But I am still jazzed up and a bit on the ragged edge.

I stealth my way along the grounds avoiding my security detail. The darkness of the very early morning hour assists my efforts. Despite all the high tech gear I have put in place to defend my estate I am able to defeat it rather easily. I am not sure if I need to beef it up to the point where I am not able to sneak back in or if things are better the way they are. It would be highly embarrassing to be caught by my own security team, but I do want tight security. It’s a fine line. But then again, I am not just any ordinary thug. I have skills that most men do not possess and I am stronger and faster than a normal man. I can also sense them from a good distance away, which is very handy when trying to avoid roaming patrols.

I make my way to the lower level secret entrance, where I had left the door unlocked on my way out. I am able to avoid contact with anyone else and slip inside the entrance unnoticed. At least that is what I thought. I little too late I realize my folly.

“Good evening Nonno,” a sweet but low female voice says to me. I instantly recognize it is my chief of security, waiting for me just inside the door; waiting with a cloak to drape around me. She is new to my staff and is obviously doing a better job than I expected. I had been focused on the grounds and not the interior of the house.

I am a mess, with torn clothes and a disheveled appearance and a few scrapes and bruises, all minor but it gives me the look of someone dangerous and slightly manic. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here Marta,” I manage to rasp out at her as I try to get a grip on myself. I am still on the edge, almost animal in the way that I feel after the hunt. It takes a real effort to get my head right and calm my impulses as my blood is really flowing in my veins now. I am acutely aware of her presence; I sense her distance, her scent, even her emotional state. Me on the other hand, I am feeling somewhat embarrassed to have her see me like this, even though she knows me very well.

“I AM your Security Chief. I take the job seriously. How would you feel if I let someone else in here?” she says looking at me with a knowing smile, perhaps a little nervous too. She wraps the cloak around me shoulders. “I knew when you left and I’ve been keeping an eye out for you for the last few hours.” We start walking toward my private chambers on this level of the house as I calm further. “Why do you insist on these hunts Nonno? You know they are unnecessary, we have every thing you need right here on the estate.” Nonno is a term of affection; I am her great-grandfather.

“It would be hard for me to explain to you grandchild, but let’s just say that I enjoy the hunt - probably a little too much.” We walk in silence for a bit. “Don’t worry; nobody is going to turn up missing tomorrow in town.” She stops and I raise my head to look at her.

“I wasn’t worried about that Nonno - at least not too much,” she finished the last with a small grin.

I am feeling more like my normal self, as normal as I get anyway. “In time perhaps it will become clear to you why I hunt. Have you talked to your father? He might have some insight.”

“Not recently, he is not all that happy with his retirement and he’s having a hard time adjusting to his new role as husband first,” she says with a small laugh. Then more serious she continues “It’s not my place to question you Nonno. I just want to be able to do my job. Conall told me to let you go when I saw you leaving the grounds. I would feel horrible if something happened to you, that’s all.”

“I’m a pretty tough hombre Marta, you needn’t worry so much. Listen to your brother.”

“Yes Nonno.” I was looking into her eyes now and could see that it pained her to not be able to do her job. My former security chief, while competent, often had no idea when I would sneak out to hunt. I could see now that I would have to rethink the whole thing. I am annoyed that it bothers me to see the pain in her eyes. The Cognate serve its purpose very well, but I had made my mind up a long time ago to try not to get too emotionally involved with them, something I was not following through on very well of late. It was painful for me when they went out of my life as they invariably did. It was a concession I had to make with myself after Anne died. Anne was my wife – a long time ago.

As we approach my quarters I stop and turn to face her. “I won’t sneak out on you again Marta. I’m going to clean up and then I’m heading down to the music studio to work on a new lick that I am trying to perfect. I’ll be good for the rest of the evening,” I say with a grin.

“Ok, I will head up to security and see how things are going. Good luck on that guitar lick Nonno.” She bows her head slightly and grinning she leaves me. She understands me I think, at least my desire to play, she would often come and listen to me play the guitar when she was a young girl.

2025 version

He reached his room, changing swiftly into the scent-masking black polymers he used exclusively for hunting, each movement ritualistic, disciplined. A necessary habit to control the beast. It pacing beneath his ribs, awake, waiting, starving for the barest chance to seize control.

The beast within him was always hungry. It needed release, or it would tear its way out when he least expected. And he could not afford another slip. Remi had spent centuries fighting it, carefully nurturing control through these isolated hunts, just enough to satisfy the insatiable need. Just enough to maintain the fragile peace he'd struck within himself.

Isolating himself was the other part of that equation. Better to be away from the temptation. Safer for everyone.

Outside, the Spring Montana air enveloped him, rich and alive with scents, freshly mown lawn, the bouquet of a variety of flowers, scat from an assortment of small animals, the decay of dead vermin, nothing out of the ordinary.

No humans.

Good.

Remi inhaled deeply, savoring this last contact with Earth's tapestry of aromas before heading for the sterility of space.

The sweetness of lilacs drifted from the edge of the lawn, triggering a sudden, vivid memory of Jen, her laughter, her smile here beneath the stars, the promise he'd made never to kill again.

His heart tightened painfully. Centuries gone, yet she lingered in every quiet moment. And guilt. He might have to break his vow.

Remi moved silently through the wooded slopes of his vast Montana estate, the night air cool and sharp against his heightened senses. Beneath the pristine quiet, the beast within him stirred restlessly, impatiently craving release. He exhaled slowly, savoring the solitude, the ritual calm before a carefully managed storm.

An unfamiliar scent interrupted his reverie.

Remi froze mid-step. Every muscle flexed in silent readiness, instincts older than memory kicking in before thought caught up. The scent hit first—foreign, wrong—threading sharp through the night air like copper over loam. Someone was here.

Impossible. No one had breached this land. Never.

But the thrum in his blood said otherwise. His body moved before permission, knees bending low, silent through the pines and mulch and memory. The scent of pine sap, distant snowmelt, and the ghost of wildflowers baked into the soil. Beautiful. Clean. His last sanctuary. And now? Spoiled.

A heartbeat pulsed ahead. Not frantic. Not stumbling. Calm. Controlled. The cadence of someone trained. Professional. That alone made them more dangerous.

A low growl started deep in his throat, unbidden. The beast inside him stretched toward the sound, ears pricked, teeth already lengthening in anticipation. It liked the hunt. It craved this break in monotony.

It was no mistake. This was intrusion.

The tension in his jaw pulsed. Coppery tang where he’d bitten the inside of his cheek, sharp and hot.

His mind whispered caution.

The beast wanted violence.

Remi moved silently to a vantage point, eyes and ears straining for confirmation.

There. Movement, furtive and cautious, yet unmistakably human. Not a casual trespasser this one, he moved with practiced intent.

The sharp edge of gun oil and fresh carbon found him. The intruder was armed. Interesting, but irrelevant. The beast growled louder, eager for the hunt, pulsing with the need to consume, to dominate. Remi fought it back, gritting his teeth.

A quick capture, a clean interrogation, that was the goal. He just had to maintain control. But the villain’s blood called out. Hunger pulling at Remi violently. The beast roared inside him, pleading, demanding release.

The intruder stepped into full view.

Black-clad. Military-cut gear, slick with reflective suppression. Night vision goggles hugged his face, scanning the shadows with slow, practiced sweeps. A professional, at least, on paper.

Remi didn’t move. Not a blink. Not a breath. He became the stillness. Not hiding, being the dark. He had no heat signature.

The man’s gaze passed over him like a breeze brushing a statue. Nothing. No flicker of recognition. No hint he’d sensed what coiled not ten meters away.

Amateur.

A decent operator would’ve noticed the absence of motion in that pocket of air. The unnatural hush of something watching back.

The beast inside him grinned. Easy prey.

Remi struck.

One heartbeat, the man was alone. The next, he was airborne, wrenched off his feet in a blur of motion no human reflex could hope to follow.

Remi slammed him against the tree trunk hard enough to rattle bark loose. The rifle clattered to the ground, useless now. Disarmed before he could even register danger. Remi didn’t need force; he was force.

His face hovered inches from the intruder’s. Breath steamed between them. Remi inhaled, pulling in everything, the stink of fear, the ozone tinge of electro-fiber mesh, the sour adrenaline pooling beneath the man’s skin. The bastard reeked of panic.

Remi studied the intruder’s eyes, looking for shape, structure—intent. But the man’s mind was a shattered mirror, all sharp edges and no reflections. Nothing but noise and terror echoing back at him.

Hope you enjoyed that.

As you can see the first version I swept right past the thing that actually shows him being a vampire and a hunter. Classic Show vs Tell.

So, if you’re searching for your voice, don’t panic. Keep showing up. Keep putting words down. Your voice is already there, it just hasn’t stopped clearing its throat yet.