Howdy Modern Authors!

One of the questions I hear all the time from aspiring authors is:

“How do I find my writing voice?”

And increasingly, I think my answer is:

Stop looking for it.

Seriously.

I don't think your writing voice is some mysterious creative artifact hiding deep inside you that needs to be discovered through journaling, meditation, or reading twelve books about writing.

You already have a voice.

You use it every day.
You use it when you're explaining something to a client.
When you're telling a story over dinner.
When you're teaching.
When you're pissed off about something your industry keeps getting wrong.

When you're explaining an idea to a friend and suddenly say:

“Okay, here's the thing...”

That's your voice.

Then something bizarre happens.

You sit down to write a book...

And you become A Writer.

Suddenly you start using words you've never said aloud in your life.

Your sentences become 40% longer.

You develop an inexplicable allergy to contractions.

You start writing things like:

Dude.

You've never said “it is therefore imperative” in your life.

What happened?

You started trying to sound like a writer.

And ironically...
that's often the moment you stop sounding like yourself.

We Spend Years Learning to Edit Ourselves Out

This isn't entirely our fault.

Most of us have spent our entire professional lives being trained to remove ourselves from our writing.

School teaches us to sound academic.
Corporate life teaches us to sound professional.
Consulting teaches us to sound authoritative.
LinkedIn teaches us to sound profound.

And now AI can help us sound like all four simultaneously.

God help us.

So when someone decides to write a book, they often assume that being an author requires yet another voice.

A smarter one.
A more eloquent one.
A more sophisticated one.
A voice that sounds like someone who has published books before.

But here's what I've learned after reading thousands and thousands of pages of manuscripts:

The more someone tries to sound like an author, the less I usually want to read them.

Because I'm not looking for “an author.”

I'm looking for you.

Your First Draft Might Sound Like Everyone Except You

This is one thing Oliver's original draft gets exactly right.

Early drafts often contain borrowed rhythms.
Borrowed confidence.
Borrowed language.

You read Malcolm Gladwell for three weeks and suddenly everything is a surprising social-science mystery.

You binge Brené Brown and become deeply interested in vulnerability.

You read James Clear and every chapter suddenly needs four laws and a 2×2 matrix.

That's okay.

Imitation is part of learning.

My kids do it.
Musicians do it.
Artists do it.
Writers do it.

The mistake isn't borrowing.

The mistake is believing the borrowed version is where you're supposed to end up.

Because eventually you need to ask:

Would I actually say this?

That's one of my favorite editing questions.

Not:
​Is this sophisticated enough?

Not:
​Does this sound authoritative?

Not:
​Would a New York Times bestselling author write this sentence?

Just:
​Would I actually say this?

You'd be amazed how much bad writing that question kills.

Voice Isn't Something You Add

This is the distinction I think matters.

Most aspiring authors think voice is something you add to writing.

First I write the book.

Then I make it sound like me.

I increasingly think it's the opposite.

Voice emerges from what you're willing to stop removing.

The weird phrase you always use.
The story that feels a little too personal.
The opinion that's stronger than everyone else's.
The joke your editor isn't sure belongs there.
The sentence fragment.
The aside.
The analogy that only you would make.
The thing you believe that isn't quite conventional wisdom.
The thing you're slightly nervous to say because someone in your industry might disagree.

That's usually where you are.

One of my favorite Modern Authors is Dan Pink. Not only is he a smart, interesting dude... but his voice is consistent as anything.

Read his book... Dan.
Listen to his talk... Dan.
Watch his IG Reels... Dan.
Have an old-fashioned conversation with him (he's my neighbor)... Dan.

Voice isn't what your writing should sound like. It's what you actually sound like.

And we've spent years sanding those edges off.

AI Makes This Matter Even More

This has become much more important over the last couple of years.

Because AI is extraordinarily good at producing writing that is...

Fine.
Clear.
Logical.
Professional.
Well organized.
Perfectly pleasant.

And increasingly indistinguishable from approximately 70% of what gets published on the internet.

That's not an insult to AI.

I use AI constantly.
It's an extraordinary tool.

But its existence changes the economics of writing.

Competent prose is no longer scarce.

Think about that.

For most of human history, producing a polished 1,500-word article required a human being to sit down and actually write a polished 1,500-word article.

Now?

Tuesday afternoon:

Boom.

Done.

Which means being able to produce competent words isn't much of a moat anymore.

But having something unmistakably yours to say?

That's becoming more valuable.

Your experiences.
Your judgment.
Your humor.
Your scar tissue.
Your stories.
Your language.
Your strange little observations.
Your point of view.

AI can help you express those things.

It can help organize them.

Challenge them.
Edit them.
Expand them.
Compress them.
Turn them into seventeen different formats.

Fantastic.

But you still need to bring the you.

Otherwise we're just using the world's most powerful writing technology to manufacture an infinite supply of perfectly adequate oatmeal.

Rewriting Is Where You Start Removing the Costume

This is why I love rewriting.

People think revision is where you fix the first draft.

Grammar.
Structure.
Repetition.
Clarity.

Sure.

But something else happens.

You start removing the costume.

First drafts often contain what we think we're supposed to say.

Revision lets us ask what we actually mean.

I think about it like this:

The first draft discovers the material.

The rewrite discovers the writer.

You see a paragraph and think:

That's technically correct... but I would never explain it that way.

Rewrite it.
You find three pages of theory and realize the story you tell clients explains it better.
Use the story.
You discover you're hedging an argument you actually believe strongly.
Stop hedging.
You find an entire section that's basically proving how smart you are.
Delete it.
And slowly... the manuscript starts sounding less like someone writing a book...
and more like you explaining something you deeply understand.

That's where it gets good.

Here's My Favorite Voice Test

I've started thinking there is a remarkably simple test for voice.

Take a page of your manuscript.
Remove your name.
Remove the book title.
Give it to someone who knows you well.

And ask:

Would they know you wrote it?

Not because the page mentions your company.
Not because it includes a recognizable personal story.

Because of the way you think.

The rhythm.
The language.
The observations.
The humor.
The beliefs.

The way you explain something.

Could someone say:

“Oh yeah. That's definitely Eric.”

That's voice.

And notice what it isn't.

It isn't necessarily beautiful writing.
It isn't literary prose.
It isn't cleverness.
It's recognizability.

The Small Stuff Is Usually Where You Show Up

Authors often assume their uniqueness lives in the enormous story.

The life-changing event.
The breakthrough.
The dramatic revelation.

Sometimes.

But usually I find authors in much smaller places.

The sentence someone said fifteen years ago that you still remember.
The weird analogy you use with every client.
The thing your father always told you.
The moment in a meeting where you realized everyone was solving the wrong problem.
The mistake you've made enough times to finally understand it.
The phrase your kids make fun of you for saying.

That's the stuff AI doesn't know unless you bring it into the room.

And that's the stuff readers remember.

Because specificity feels human.

Stop Asking, “Would a Real Author Write This?”

This question has probably ruined millions of perfectly good sentences.

“Would a real author write it this way?”

Who cares?

Ask:

“Is this how I actually see it?”

That's a much harder question.

Because it requires you to have an opinion.

And increasingly, I think that's the work.

We're entering an era where producing words is going to become ridiculously easy.

Producing your words won't.

Not because AI can't mimic your syntax.

Eventually it probably can.

But your voice isn't merely syntax.

It's the accumulated result of:

what you've experienced...
what you've noticed...
what you've screwed up...
what you've learned...
what you find funny...
what pisses you off...
what you refuse to believe...

and what you've finally become convinced is true.

That's not a writing style.

That's a life.

And the best books sound like someone actually lived before they wrote them.

So Stop Trying to Sound Like a Writer

Seriously.

Stop.
Don't try to sound profound.
Don't try to sound “authoritative.”
Don't try to sound like your favorite author.
Don't ask AI to make you “more professional” until every trace of your personality disappears.

Say the thing.
Tell the story.
Use the phrase.
Make the joke.
Have the opinion.

Write the sentence the way you'd explain it to someone sitting across the table from you.

Then do it again.
And again.
And again.

Because I don't think you find your voice by searching for it.

I think you find it by writing enough that you eventually recognize:

Oh. There I am.

And then having the courage not to edit yourself back out.

So maybe the question isn't:

“How do I find my writing voice?”

Maybe it's:

“What do I keep removing from my writing because I'm afraid it doesn't sound enough like a writer?”

I'd start there.

Because in an era when anybody can generate perfectly competent prose in seconds...

I don't need your writing to sound more like writing.

I need it to sound more like you.

Happy writing, my friends.

Or perhaps more appropriately this week...

Happy writing like yourself.

Eric