Voice is a strange metaphor that some writers use to teach other writers about writing. I say it is a metaphor because I often imagine it more in the sense of one singing—Katy Perry does not sound like Adele. The problem is that Katy, after a few drinks, could probably do a wicked impression of Adele, and vice a versa, Adele belting out a cheeky “Part of Me.” We can be (or at least try to be) somebody we are not, but that seems like a lot of work for little payoff. Katy’s confident contralto is much better suited for upbeat pop music and Adele’s mezzo-soprano is better for those sweeping, soulful laments.

Let me allow Elise Hancock, from her book Ideas into Words, to make that point about writing:

Make no effort to be original. As adolescents, most people try to pose as someone they are not—at least my friends and I did. Alas, posturing never worked as well as being ourselves. Trying to “be original” in your writing is much the same. It’s almost universal among the young, and it’s a waste of effort, because you already are original. There is no one else who sees the world or uses the language precisely as you do. Nor has anyone else done precisely the interviews and research and thinking you have done. So relax. Save all your energy for understanding the subject, and as you write, keep asking yourself, “What am I really trying to say?” Then say it. The result will be original. Not only that: When you can reliably know what you want to say and say it, you will have discovered your mature writing voice. It’s as simple—and hard—as that. Science writing is seldom self-revealing in the way that poetry is. At the same time, to write anything is to expose yourself, unavoidably. You cannot help but reveal the way your mind moves, whether it’s quick hops or a delightful ramble or an inexorable drive. People will see whether you gravitate to the hopeful aspect of a subject or the Big Moral Issue; they will sense your attitude toward the reader (probably much like your attitude toward people in general). All that shows, and more. Indeed, that intimate connection with you, mind to mind and spirit to spirit, is part of what readers seek.

I will add one more bit from John McPhee, writer and Princeton professor to some noteworthy nonfiction writers (e.g., Joel Achenbach, Timothy Ferriss, Eric Schlosser). In this excerpt from his book Draft No. 4, he shares a story about his daughter asking for writing advice after she had graduated from college:

She said, “My style is always that of what I am reading at the time—or overwhelmingly self-conscious and strained.”

I said, “How unfortunate that would be if you were fifty-four. At twenty-three, it is not only natural; it is important. The developing writer reacts to excellence as it is discovered—wherever and whenever—and of course does some imitating (unavoidably) in the process of drawing from the admired fabric things to make one’s own. Rapidly, the components of imitation fade. What remains is a new element in your own voice, which is not in any way an imitation. Your manner as a writer takes form in this way, a fragment at a time. A style that lacks strain and self-consciousness is what you seem to aspire to, or you wouldn’t be bringing the matter up. Therefore, your goal is in the right place. So practice taking shots at it. A relaxed, unself-conscious style is not something that one person is born with and another not. Writers do not spring full-blown from the ear of Zeus.”