As someone who has taken decades to find his voice, I think a lot about the word. Though its etymological origin lies in human utterance, we musicians speak of the voicing of an instrument, which means its tone color as well as the way a given chord is “spelled” (e.g., in its first, second, and third inversions).
Writers too talk about voice. Track it to its cave and you find the Greek word epos, song. (My bringing up music is not accidental.) When I refer to a character’s voice in a story or poem or play, I mean that his way of speaking constitutes a particular, unique song. This song, in any medium, monologue, or dialogue, should be
- excited;
- essential; and
- authentic
It’s been said that music is excited speech. I think of excited speech as having a kind of Brownian motion. From a little distance we might not recognize the jittering, but look close and there’s something larger than usual, something important going on for the character. Second, a character’s utterance must be authentic, using the magical combination of diction and rhythm and imagery that only he would use in this situation. And by essential I mean that this character must say this thing and he must say it in the now of the narrative.
Shakespeare understood this imperative and practiced it without ever writing (damn it) a vade mecum for his interns–and he often got it right. I don’t, but I have fun trying.