What is Voice? by Ryder Islington

Mystery writer, Ryder Islington, has created a memorable protagonist. Trey Fontaine spoke to her, and thank goodness, Ryder listened: the result, her first novel, Ultimate Justice.
Ultimate Justice, A Trey Fontaine Mystery is receiving rave reviews from readers.  http://www.ll-publications.com/ultimatejustice.html

The small town of Raven Bayou, Louisiana explodes as old money meets racial tension, and tortured children turn the table on abusive men. FBI Special Agent Trey Fontaine returns home to find the town turned upside down with mutilated bodies. Working with local homicide detectives, Trey is determined to get to the  truth. A believer in empirical evidence, Trey ignores his instincts until he stares into the face of the impossible, and has to choose between what he wants to believe and the ugly truth.

A graduate of the University of California and former officer for a large sheriff’s department, RYDER ISLINGTON is now retired and doing what she loves: reading, writing, and gardening. She lives in Louisiana with her family, including a very large English Chocolate Lab, a very small Chinese pug, and a houseful of demanding cats. She can be contacted at RyderIslington@yahoo.com or visit her blog at 

http://ryderislington.wordpress.com

Read what Ryder has to say about What is Voice?

When I first started writing with an aim toward publication, I read and heard about ‘keeping your voice.’ No one ever explained what that meant. I needed someone to dumb it down for me. I just didn’t get it. It took a long time before someone finally explained it in a way that made sense to me.

Voice is more than how the writer interprets her story. It includes word choice, sentence structure, description, style, and so much more. Voice is why ten authors can write on the same subject and create ten different stories. Voice is why one history teacher is considered boring and while another is entertaining.

There are hundreds, if not thousands of mystery authors, and many have a following of avid readers. It’s the author’s voice the readers are following. Developing your own voice and keeping it, is essential to becoming a successful author.

When my debut novel, Ultimate Justice, A Trey Fontaine Mystery, went through the editing process with the publishing company, voice was the one thing the editor and I agreed on. Unless I made a grammatical error, sentences weren’t changed. Unless I had a plot problem, story was not changed. The editor worked with me to keep my voice. If something needed to be changed, it was my job to choose the words, narrative, dialogue, etc. Even the amount of white space on a page contributes to voice.

I like to write short paragraphs. Yes, it uses more paper, or space, but I’ve found that when I’m reading for pleasure, I’ll read a lot more in one setting if the paragraphs are short. I can take in the information easily, and I always have time for one more paragraphs. Or two. This is part of my style, and therefore part of my voice.

When I go to critique group, suggestions are made for how to fix problems. I take those suggestions home, and determine if there is a problem, and if there is, how I can best revise in my own words. Voice gets more distinctive over time. By the time you’ve written a million words, you can easily see your voice in your work, if you’re looking for it.

One thing that builds voice is developing vocabulary. I don’t mean learning big words when small ones will do, but finding different words that will avoid repetition and still maintain your voice. Do you use metaphors? Or Similes? Do you prefer on over the other? Do you avoid questions in narrative? Use colons and semi-colons? (I hardly ever use colons or semi-colons in fiction). Do you usually use beats instead of tags in dialogue? Read through your works and ask questions like these. Your favorite themes, your choice of punctuation and sentence length, every decision you make as you write, is about voice. Losing your voice is as devastating to a writer as an opera star. Don’t let anyone take it from you. Maintain voice at all costs. It’s what makes you unique. 

Mystery Trivia Tuesday: Three Detectives Walked into a Bar

Surley You Know Them

           Three detectives walked into a bar. One ordered a crème de menthe, twisted his mustaches and told the bartender to put it in a clean snifter. Another ordered two beers and a glass, and the tall, thin guy ordered absinthe.  

            “Ain’t got no sugar cubes,” said Frank the bartender.

            The man pulled a small cellophane package from his coat pocket and handed it to Frank. 

photo from flick.com/goolge images

            The bartender opened it to find a slightly chipped lump of sugar. Frank shrugged, he thought he’d seen everything working in this midtown dive, but these three take the cake.

            “Hey, Frank.” Louie shouted, holding up his empty martini glass. “One more for the road, if you please.”

             “Not now, Louie,” Frank warned. He scooped ice into the fountain, added water, and set it aside to drip over the absinthe, then he walked to the other end of the bar where Louie Fritz was empting his bowl of nuts faster than Frank could fill it. His martini glass now sat upside down on his napkin, the toothpick balanced on the bridge of his nose.

              Frank hated Louie; he hated his juvenile antics. He wished the jerk would just ask for another drink like the normal deadbeats who kept the vinyl-covered stools warm.

              “Hey,” Louie called over the sound of Frank rattling gin and ice in the shaker. “You guys new in town?”

             “Knock it off,” Frank said.

             “Must be a weirdo convention going on.” Louie picked up his glass and walked over to join the threesome. The tall guy sipped his cloudy drink.

             Louie stuck out his hand, “I’m Louie Fritz.”

             I know," Absinthe said. “You come in here everyday after your shift at the shirt factory. You drink four martinis, stumble home to your apartment in Hells Kitchen, feed your gray cat, heat up a can of beef stew for your dinner, then fall asleep in front of the TV. You own nothing whatsoever of value.”

           “Don’t forget about that gold watch in his right pocket,” the guy drinking the beer said.

           “Hey, you guys some sort of psychos?”

           “That psychics, Louie,” Frank said.

           “No, no, mon ami, that family heirloom is no longer is his pocket. It is gone,” said the dapper little man.

           “You’re right,” Absinthe said. “He lost it a few days ago.”

           “So the little Frenchman and the fat guy think they know what’s in my pockets,” Louie huffed.

           “Do not insult me, monsieur. I am certainly not French. Is it not most obvious I am from Belgium?”

            Louie downed his martini. “I’ve heard enough.” He grabbed his hat and left.

           “Thanks for getting rid of that guy,” Frank said. “He’s in here every afternoon annoying anyone who comes in the door. But how did you guys know all about Louie?”

            “Elementary. His coat was covered with white lint, hence spending all day across the street at the Levine Shirt Factory. One only needs to walk by the factory when someone opens the door, and one will see the lint bellowing out. He had three toothpicks lined up on his napkin and since he asked you to make him one more martini, that makes four. He wobbled over here and surely he will wobble home. The nearest apartments are a couple of blocks way in the Hells Kitchen district and a man who indulged in that much gin would not bother to frequent a bar too far away from where he lives.”

           “You Englishmen are such show offs,” the beer drinker said.

           “Let him finish, Monsieur, you will have a chance to, how do you Americans say, strut your stuff another day.” The Belguim said. “You were saying, Monsieur Englishmen. Zee gray cat, beef stew, and zee TV.”

            “Ah yes, his tie was covered in fine gray hairs that could only come from a domestic feline creature. The brown and red stains on his threadbare shirt had spread into an oily smear from his attempt to clean them. A man of his caliber does not spend his evenings at the theatre or reading a book, and not many females would bother with a sloppy, untidy fellow like him. That leaves the American TV as his sole form of nightly entertainment, that and cuddling his cat. Since clothing factories pay very little, he would not have enough left from his paycheck to purchase expensive steaks for dinner. A can of stew, after filling up on bar nuts, would satisfy his belly. Nor could he afford to buy the finer things in life. The pocketwatch you mentioned had to have come from a close relative.”
           The beer drinker merely grumbled.

           “But how did you know he used to carry it in his right pocket before he lost it?” Frank asked.

           “Would you care to finish the tale?” the Englishmen said to the beer drinker.

           “You’re doing such a fine job, continue.”

           “Very well. Your Mister Louie reached into his right pocket several times and came up empty handed. He then glanced at the clock over the bar since he no longer had his watch to tell him the time. Old habits are hard to break.”

           “That’s true,” Frank said. “But he could have pawned the watch.”

           “The hole in the bottom of his pocket leads me to believe otherwise.”

           “I’ve heard enough,” the beer drinker said. “I must get back to the nursery. This outing is a waste of my time.”

            The Belgium reached for his money purse.

           “Keep your money. Let the stingy fat man pay this time,” the Englishmen said.

Sunday's for the Birds: Nice Try

Thanks to all of you who responded to my plea and signed the petition allowing Operation Migration to continue escorting the Class of 2011 whooping crane chicks to Florida. The FAA granted the pilots a waver.
The good news: all the chicks are healthy and eager to fly.
The bad news: today's attempt was aborted.
This was the first morning this week that the weather cooperated and a migration takeoff looked promising. The pilots revved their engines, the chicks were released, and up they went. Soon after becoming airborne, the cranes scattered. The pilots did their best to round up their wards, but after four chicks dropped out, the flight was aborted and they returned to the pens. As migration day 77 comes to an end, the best thing is that all nine cranes are safe and they had a chance to exercise their rusty wings. In the words of Scarlett O'Hara, "After all, tomorrow is another day."

This information came from the OM website: http://www.operationmigration.org/

Read more about the Class of 2011 by going to the website's "In the Field." You can also purchase whooping crane merchandize on the website: jewelry, T-shirts, greeting cards, etc. And you can sponsor migration miles. There are more than 500 left for this year.