How to find your voice in fiction: Follow the energy
A swim in a pond in the rain might just help…
Sometimes writers are exhorted to ‘find their voice’. Or they’re told that their ‘voice’ isn’t strong enough. But what does that even mean—and how can we find our voice?
George Saunders in A Swim in a Pond in the Rain, wrote
‘When we "find our voice," what's really happening is that we're choosing a voice from among the many voices we're able to "do," and we're choosing it because we've found that, of all the voices we contain, it's the one, so far, that has proven itself to be the most energetic.’
As George says, we can all do other voices, by which I think he means that we can instinctively write in the correct style for a letter, an Instagram post, a report, or a text. But grasping some of the rules of a style associated with a certain type of writing isn’t quite what we mean by voice.
To George, it’s about energy: splashing in that pond until we find a sprightly stroke and then choosing to swim to the far side using that one. But what does it mean to say a voice has energy? And if we can choose our voice, how do we know which one is the right one?
My feeling is an energetic voice is one that feels vivid, alive and unique to a particular writer.
But first, let’s define what we mean by voice in fiction, before we explore what a voice infused with energy could look like, and then how we can find our own.
What is ‘voice’ in fiction?
Voice is the distinct personality and rhythm of a writer’s prose. When people say you haven’t found your voice what they really mean is that you haven’t settled into your own authentic writing style. It takes time. When we’re younger or starting out we’re often influenced by other writers. I wanted to be Margaret Atwood. And then Henry James. Then it was Charlotte Brontë…and then whichever author I had fallen in love with.
This mimicking of other writers’ styles can often be unconscious, but perhaps by doing so, we can splash about in the shallows until we find our own.
I also think this doesn’t just happen when we’re beginning writers, but also when we change genres or mediums, switching from playwriting to poetry, for instance.
Each time we need to find a new swimming stroke.
Distinguishing types of voice
It’s also important to distinguish between:
Authorial voice – the unique stamp a writer leaves on all their work, and
Narrative voice – the specific voice used within a novel, which may shift between projects (if you adopt a different narrative persona) or between the different characters.
For example, in my psychological thriller, My Mother’s Secret, the story is told from the point of view of three different women - Emma, the mother, who is hiding a huge secret, her daughter, Stella, who is a bookish and feisty teenager determined to uncover her mother’s secret, and Lizzie, who is caught up in a terrible crime and has to pay the price. Each ‘voice’ had to be distinct, but there is something that is uniquely me, the voice of the author, telling this story in this way, and not as if I were trying to be Lisa Jewell or Lee Child, for instance.
‘I smile at him. ‘Thank you I love it.’
And I do. Normally I’d be irritated but try to hide it. Jack has been attempting to get me to exercise for ages, and although he always say he loves my curves, I’m sure he’d rather I was slimmer. I swallow the guilt that burns the back of my throat and feel a blush flare across my neck. Because, when I look at this elegant bike I know exactly how useful it’s going to be.’
Emma Taylor, My Mother’s Secret
‘Ava leaps towards Dad and he catches her and spins. her round as if she weighs nothing instead of being a big lump of a girl, and she does that ballet-thing I detest, where she kicks her legs out and points her toes, like she’s in Sleeping bloody Beauty and Dad is the handsome prince and she’s in some pink frilly fucking tutu instead of jeggings and Togz. Her puts her down and they hold hands. Dad doesn’t hold my hand any more. Not that I want him to.’
Stella Taylor, My Mother’s Secret
What do we mean by an energetic voice?
Energy is what makes writing feel alive. Carol Ann Duffy says that verbs are the battery of sentences, making them pulse with life and energy. True—but we need more than just verbs to animate prose.
We can tell if writing has energy because there is:
Rhythm and cadence – sentences that have a natural flow and momentum.
Authenticity – writing that feels uniquely yours rather than imitative.
Surprise – an unexpected word choice or turn of phrase that makes the prose pop.
Effortlessness – writing that feels natural, even if it took many drafts to refine.
In contrast, flat writing often happens when we try too hard to sound ‘writerly’ instead of letting the natural rhythm emerge. We have, as Lee Child says, put on a formal suit instead of just pulling up a chair and telling the story.
The dark and spell-binding opening lines of Dark Places by Gillian Flynn are a perfect example of a strong, energetic voice—one that immediately establishes mood, rhythm and personality. Here’s how the novel begins:
‘I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ. Slit me at my belly and it might slide out, meaty and dark, drop on the floor so you could stomp on it. It’s the Day blood. Something’s wrong with it. I was never a good little girl, and I got worse after the murders…. .’
There’s an intensity, a physicality and a rawness that makes this voice compelling.
Let’s break down why it works and how it illustrates energy in writing:
Rhythm and Cadence – The short, direct opening sentence feels like a punch: ‘I have a meanness inside me.’ It’s followed by longer, more visceral imagery.
Authenticity – This voice feels immediate, unfiltered and specific to this character. There’s no hesitation, no over-explaining—just a stark, natural way of speaking by someone we’re immediately intrigued by.
Surprise & Originality – The idea of meanness as a tangible organ, something meaty that could slide out— is an unexpected and somewhat bloody image.
Effortlessness – It doesn’t sound like writing; it sounds like thinking. The phrasing is natural, but every word carries weight.
How does this connect to the idea of ‘voice’ having energy?
If Gillian had started with a flat, generic statement—“I have always been an angry person”—the energy would be gone. Instead, she chooses a vivid, powerful way to express this character’s essence. The energy comes from a mix of strong rhythm, sensory detail and raw authenticity—it feels alive on the page. This voice is not just stylish; it has momentum. The words pull the reader forward, making them want to read more.
So how can you apply this to your own writing?
First, do as Lee Child suggests. Imagine pulling up an armchair and telling someone your story - in your own natural voice, or maybe in the voice of your character.
Then, when you’ve written a draft, re-read it. Does it feel natural? Read your work aloud. Do your sentences flow and have rhythm and cadence? Rewrite and refine until the sentences sing, they’re effortless to read, the words feel alive.
Finally, try not to polish the life or the quirkiness out of your voice. In my writers’ group recently, one of the pieces of feedback was that the opening sentences weren’t grammatically correct. This was intentional: I was writing in the voice of a sixteen-year-old girl. Moreover, this short story (Grace’s Cave) had been commissioned by BBC Radio 4, so I knew it would have to work when read out loud.
‘I haven’t had a birthday since I was ten years old. That makes me sound like I’m immortal or a vampire, but it’s really not like that.’ Kat, Grace’s Cave
Your voice is not static—it grows as you do. It may change—it may need to change with genre and whichever medium for writing for. But the best way to find it is to keep writing and follow the energy.
Good luck, and let me know how you get on!
And in case you missed it, there’s a masterclass out on genre and how it affects plot.
