Voice

What makes a novel entertaining? I'm going to argue tonight that it's Voice, with a capital "V." The structure of a novel, for example a mystery, can be mapped out in a general scientific fashion--main mystery (usually murder) occurs early on, protagonist tries to solve it, red herrings flop out and back, and the mystery is laid bare in the end. Setting and character development skills can be read about, practiced, and learned. Voice, though, I think is the real deal. A unique voice, one I can hear, is what keeps me coming back to an author. I'm attracted to humor, but also to vulnerability, honesty, and insight. Here's an example of a compelling chicklit voice in an email I just received from a friend:

"I really think people like Marsha Brady (do realize she is not real) ruined things a bit for us real-life girls. I thought guys just lined up (of course only the BMOC's) to take girls out, and that our biggest problem would be choosing a good outfit and not booking two dates in the same night.

Boy, I sometimes feel like saying, 'life, I'm waiting start any time.' So, imagine what it may/will be like to have him make you breakfast, paint your toenails, carry you over a puddle, and scrub your back in a huge tub full of bubbles (you of course have had the perfect bikini wax and can relax in the tub). These are some of the best moments in a relationship, the ones that happen before the relationship does. To quote a great ketchup commercial...'anticipation.'"

Don't you want to know what she was writing about, specifically? Don't you want to find out more about all the people involved? I do, and it's because she's got great voice. And voice isn't just about word choice, it's about selection of details and focus. For a compelling example of that, read Holly Hassel's brilliant poem, Cool as [Miami V]Ice:

A bongo-studded soundtrack Hammers,
percussing the primitive, sun-soaked world and
propelling it into American hearts
that multiethnic jewel in sunny South Beach.

It’s 1984
the camera roves over Miami’s
purest and dirtiest corners,
bubbling ice blue waters,
bouncing bikinied cleavage,
jai alai tournaments,
the grubby shaded jawline of Don Johnson,
and Armani-clad Philip Michael Thomas,
Crockett tanned, rugged, wounded,

Viewers walk in his sockless loafers,
so just so with a crewneck and blazer—
blithesome and (dare)devil-may-care,
the pastel linen camouflages
his lost, tortured, persistent spirit;
the ferocious pursuit of justice
nags his conscience like a nip
from Elvis, the captive gator….
a justice pursued relentlessly and swiftly
as his St. Vitus Dance speedboat,
site of sin as flush with rush
as his black Testarossa

America shivers.

Tubbs, New York transplant,
driven by vengeance,
dapper and debonair as a
top hat, as likely to spin French
phrasing as to brandish a beretta.
Ah, Tubbs, whose worldliness is lost
on Switek, Zito, Castillo, et al,
always voted most likely to
go undercover as a Caribbean vagrant.

stylish, edgy, lambent, a world of mint green
and strawberry ice cream pink,
where blow and weed
guns and girls,
whores and horrors
[pre]occupy our slick heroes
mired in the dark—no, darkest--corners
of huMannity

America swoons in 1984.

Jump cut dumb luck drug bust
Crockett and Tubbs
muck through
angel dust, lucre lust
and zoom lens
Mercedes Benz
Voodoo guru
ocean blue,
prostitute
ocean side
car ride
a cardiac soundtrack
Miami Vice
Zeitgeist.

1984.

There's few poems I really like because many of them are vaguely embarassing to read--too private with too much straining, like you walked in on someone pooping--or the author is trying to obfuscate instead of illuminate. Cool as [Miami V]Ice, though, has voice and verve and brings me into the moment while engaging in pop culture criticism and irony. The humor certainly doesn't hurt. Gotta love that Voice.