Deconstructing the Myth of Voice in Writing

This is Chapter 1 from my new book “How To Find Your Writing Style”, available HERE on Gumroad!

Everyone wants a voice. Nobody wants to bleed for it.

They think voice is a magic trick. A gift. Something you “find” one day while sipping overpriced coffee, reading Vonnegut, and journaling about how misunderstood you are.

Let me ruin that illusion for you.

Voice isn’t found. It’s built.

You don’t wake up one day and discover your voice tucked under your pillow like a literary tooth fairy left it there. You earn it. Through reps, through failure, through writing a hundred things that sound like someone else until one day, you read something you wrote and think: “Oh. That actually sounds like me.”

That moment? That’s not discovery. That’s residue. Left behind by everything you killed to get there.

And no, it doesn’t come from overthinking syntax or studying your favorite author’s punctuation like scripture. Voice isn’t in the commas. It’s in the confrontation — the one between you and the blank page, where you finally stop negotiating with approval and start telling the truth.

The Romantic Lie

Let’s rip the mask off this whole “find your voice” myth.

The industry — yes, writing has one, even if you pretend it doesn’t — romanticizes voice like it’s a spiritual awakening. Like one day you’ll stumble across the perfect sentence and suddenly know who you are. Cue the music. Roll the credits.

Here’s what actually happens:

You start writing.

You imitate every writer you admire — badly.

You try to sound smart, deep, poetic, profound. You hide behind adjectives. You stuff metaphors into every paragraph like they’re the point. You obsess over rhythm, but only because you’re terrified of silence.

You don’t have a voice. You have a collage of your insecurities wearing Hemingway’s haircut.

And the problem is, everyone around you claps. Because mimicry done well still sounds “good.” You can write decently, even convincingly, while being completely full of shit. But deep down, you know — it’s hollow. It’s performance. It’s safe. It’s the writing equivalent of karaoke: technically correct, emotionally vacant.

The Harsh Truth

Voice is the byproduct of writing without permission.

It’s what leaks out when you stop trying to impress your imaginary literary idol and start writing like you talk when you’re angry, bored, wired, or drunk.

It’s not the curated you. It’s the raw, unedited, unfiltered version that still knows how to punch.

Here’s the truth:
Most people aren’t afraid of not having a voice.
They’re afraid that their real voice is boring. Or ugly. Or stupid. Or just not enough.

So they keep layering on someone else’s tone, someone else’s rhythm, someone else’s confidence — hoping nobody notices the fear underneath.

Guess what? We notice.

What people connect to isn’t polish. It’s pulse. If you’re hiding your pulse behind someone else’s prose, you’re already lost. Nobody wants to read another safe, sterilized take wrapped in MFA buzzwords and Instagram-lit tone. They want something real — flawed, maybe, but undeniably yours.

The Work

You want a voice?

Write 100 pieces. Publicly.

Don’t workshop them to death. Don’t try to be clever. Just write what you believe, like it matters. Like someone deserves to hear it without you shrink-wrapping it in intellectual theater.

Then look back.

Find what repeats. What cuts. What stumbles but still sounds honest.

Your voice isn’t what you try to be. It’s what you can’t help being when the mask falls off.

Style happens when you stop dodging. When you write with the same cadence you argue in. When your sentences stop aiming for applause and start aiming for impact. It’s not about uniqueness — it’s about truth delivered consistently enough to become unmistakable.

Most people quit before they get there. They bail at draft #7. They rewrite the raw out of their work. They confuse refinement with self-erasure. Don’t be most people. Sit in the mess. Hit publish anyway.

Conclusion: Stop Hunting, Start Bleeding

Voice isn’t a style. It’s not a brand. It’s not a vibe or aesthetic or filter.
It’s a trail. Of attempts. Of stumbles. Of pages where you finally wrote something real — not perfect, not pretty — but true.

Stop trying to find your voice.
Start writing until you can’t avoid it.

Everything else is cosplay.

And if that offends you — good. That means there’s still something under the surface you’re afraid to write. Go chase that. That’s where your voice lives. Not in a guidebook, not in a tweet, not in someone else’s structure.

It lives in the line you’re scared to write — and the next 99 that follow when you finally do.

Learn more about finding your own unique, enticing writing style from this book!