There’s a wonderful quote over on the sidebar about writing what your passion is. I think every writer out there has heard the phrase, ‘write what you know’. How often are we told to write what our passion is? And are they the same? I wanted to write a western several years ago. The idea still sounds good and that western is still floating around inside. But when I tried to write the story, it kept dying. At the time I thought it was because I wasn’t writing what I knew. I’d never been on a wagon train. Research didn’t help.

The stories that work for me are set in the mountains. I figure that’s because it’s where I live and what I know. But it’s much more than that. I am drawn to mountains and whitewater and trees. Well, trees are really a passion. I live in the forest and yet plant more trees.

Earlier there was a discussion on voice and rhythm, and this kind of follows along the same line. Do I write stories set in the mountains because I know them, or because they are my passion, or because passion and knowledge are the same thing? I have no idea.

What I do know is that the mountains bring stories to me. They are mysterious, full of the unknown, of challenge, of scary things and uplifting things. When mountain tops are shrouded in sinking, rain-heavy clouds it’s easy to imagine Bigfoot up there. When you are alone in the woods and the light slants through the forest canopy just so, your heart soars. When you are alone in those same woods and something big and black moves through very close, grunting and foraging, your heart stops. The place is fertile ground for stories to sink roots and grow. When I have tried to write stories set elsewhere, they seem flat to me, missing that magic.

I’ve been to the high mesas and badlands of northeastern Montana, the rocky Oregon coast, northern Scotland, and Dublin, Ireland. All could be locations for stories some day, and I have drafts set in some of those places. But right now, what pulls words out of me is the temperate, lush rain forest of mountains. And the stories I write that are set there feel more alive, more compelling, to me.

Yes, the knowledge of place, characters, plot, etc. is important. But what is knowledge without heart? Like voice within rhythm, a story must have passion within knowledge. I know this must seem obvious to writers out there, but sometimes we need to restate the obvious in order to resurrect or honor that passion.

Last night I listened to a screenwriter talk to the writer’s group about creating screenplays. While I don’t write those, there were many things she said that translated to writing in general, and we had a fun, lively discussion. At one point she was talking about rhythm and how important that is. I asked her how rhythm was different from voice. She said that voice is within rhythm.

I confess that several minutes of discussion eluded me because I was still stuck on that phrase.

From a writing standpoint, I know two things. Voice is that distinct flavor of words that mark a story as coming from me. My writing voice is hopefully very different from yours. Okay, I get that point. Rhythm I connect to pacing. If I want tension, I know to create short, snappy sentences and to use punctuation to emphasize the tension. I know to read out loud during the editing phase because the ear hears what the eye misses. I know that careful selection of the right word, the right order of words, the right length of sentences and paragraphs, also create rhythm.

But I’m still stuck on that phrase. Voice is in the rhythm. Does that mean my writing voice has a distinct rhythm, too? That’s a possibility. A friend told me once that my stories suck her in slowly and inexorably until she wakes up to realize she’s trapped and can’t put the book down.  That kind of sounds like pacing.

I wonder if rhythm and voice are interchangeable, entwined, two words for the same thing. Or unique tools that I am not learning to differentiate between and use properly.

I wonder if there are definitions of each that I am missing, and because of that, if there is something missing in the writing. I’m not worrying, mind you, not going down that familiar writer’s path of thinking ‘I’m doing something wrong; my writing stinks’. I am curious though. I know I could research this on the internet and probably will at some point. Right now though, I’d rather pause and ponder.

Rhythm, tone, sound, words that sing, that sound right, that flow. Words as the imagery of sound.

Sounds like voice to me.

What do you think? Any words of wisdom?

What is it? I’ve heard instinct is your subconscious picking up on cues you miss. Okay. So what’s your subconscious? Well, a friend told me one time it’s ‘that still, small voice inside that makes you feel still smaller’. Huh. I thought that was guilt. Whatever these weird things going on inside us are, I have yet to hear a definition that feels tangible to me. And I need tangible. I’m not much of a ‘take it on faith’ sort. But this isn’t a rambling on biology and the workings of the brain, or faith.

What fascinates me about instinct is how it intrudes in writing. I’ll be working away, words are flowing, everything seems hunky-dory. And then that still, small voice starts niggling back there behind the door I closed so I could write uninterrupted. It’s a mental whisper that manages to shout at the same time, yelling at me to stop, to go back, to take a breath. Which I don’t want to because I’m writing. Who wants to stop when things are working?

So I don’t stop, I ignore whatever that ephemeral presences is in the gray matter and keep going. And usually, a few days later, when I read over what I have written, I realize things weren’t going as well as I thought at the time. Sometimes it’s a simple matter of having headed off in the wrong direction, or sent a character off to do something totally out of character. Or I got too caught up in description, or have nothing but talking heads on the page. Whatever the problem is, I realize I should have listened to that voice because, in not doing so, I end up having wasted a lot of time.

Which raises the question, why don’t we listen? I can excuse that in someone who’s young. But someone with enough experience to know that not paying attention to that niggling doubt always, and I mean always, ends up in wishing attention had been paid? There’s no excuse. Possibly laziness. Possibly the ability to self-deceive and tell that voice that this time it’s wrong.

I have yet to have a situation where instinct told me to watch out, and it ended up being wrong. Whether it’s when the stranger comes up to the truck in the parking lot wanting to know if I have cash, to the family friend that everyone loves but your inner voice tells you is a creep, to the simple act of writing.  I know better. I know to listen. Sometimes I choose not to.

But I still want to know exactly what that voice is that’s telling me, at this moment, that the writing I did last night isn’t going to work.

Dang it. Did it again. Didn’t listen last night. I guess I have some rewriting to do.

The photo below has nothing to do with writing or this post. It’s simply that my son is 5’10 and driving and sometimes I wish he was still little and the future simple.