When I first introduce myself as a writer, I generally say that I’m a novelist. But the truth is I enjoy writing in many different styles. I’ve written plays and short stories and personal narratives. In high school, I got really interested in writing poetry and raps, which I wrote by hand in a journal. I’ve always thoroughly enjoyed my English class assignments and think they showcase some of my best writing. In college, my creative flow was sparked by writing music. I had just learned to play guitar and was using basic chords to complement my singing. I wrote everything from ballads to metal to pop. In my adult life, I write pantoums regularly, with my writing group and otherwise.
I tell you all this to encourage you to change it up. If you normally write on the computer, grab a pen and paper or use an app that will write as you speak. If you normally write poetry, take a stab at prose. If you normally write in third person, switch to first person. This will afford you the opportunity to hone your craft and deepen your narrative voice.
After editing an older draft of Dance With Me, an editor told me to change my point of view from third person to first person. Yes, that meant I had to rewrite my book from scratch. But it also got my readers closer to my main character. Check out my example below to get you started:
Third person: Charlie gave herself a good hard look in the mirror. She tried not to grimace when she saw her mom reflected back at her. Green eyes, sharp chin, deep collarbone. When she was kid, everyone would tut-tut and tell her that she looked exactly like her dad. When she looked in the mirror, that’s what she wished she could still see. Eyes that melted like the horizon as the sun hid behind the curve of the earth; eyes that were laughing, always laughing. Thick, wondrous cheeks, with only the dimple on the left side. He called it his good side. At least then she’d be able to see him looking back at her. At least then she might be able to see herself.
First person: I didn’t want to look at myself and hate what I saw, outlining all the parts of my body I wished were different. I did not want to see the green eyes or sharp chin that made me look like my mom and that made me feel nothing like my dad’s daughter. I would have given anything to look in the mirror and find my dad. He had these laughing eyes that melted like the horizon during sunset, completely disappearing into the rosy hues of his cheeks when he laughed. I laughed and squinted my eyes. He had these thick, wondrous cheeks with a dimple only on the left side. His “good side,” he used to call it. Those same cheeks smiled at me from the picture hanging from my rearview mirror. I pushed my left cheek in to create a dimple.
Elegance Press 