It's the end of October, and as cliche as it is to say, I don't know where the month went. Last I knew we were gearing up for a road trip and various visits and field trips and a month of activities, and here we are on the other side with heads spinning and candy bowls overflowing and sugar highs all around. 

In the midst of the comings and goings of family life, this month I've made another push forward with agent queries. I've sent out quite a few, and have received quite a few more rejections. Some flat out no's, some encouraging messages, and another one to add to a growing pile of "I like the concept, but the voice is wrong for me." 

The voice is wrong. 

Of course, upon receipt of such feedback I spiral, thinking about how terrible my writing must be, and vividly picture myself throwing my novel into the recycling bin, all the notebooks and sticky notes, the printed - and digital - copies. I imagine what life would be like without writing. Reading for the sake of utter enjoyment, not ever thinking, "yeah, I'd like to write book someday." 

The thing is, I've already written a book. Several. I may need to write a few more for one to stick.

The other thing is, logically I know this is something newbie writers struggle with: finding their voice. 

I've been thinking for hours about voice. My voice. About how I've cultivated a voice in my blog writing, and in my longer Instagram posts, the style I write in, and the depths I dive. How I struggled to translate that into fiction, and how when I was writing Farm Girl, at times I felt like I was skimming the surface. How I didn't think the voice used in my creative non fiction was worthy of fiction. How every single time Tori Amos's song Silent All These Years plays I weep. About trusting our voices, no matter the context, no matter the medium, and how often I simply don't. How I use my voice, or don't, daily. How impossible it is to hear our own voices in the din of constant media thrown at us from all angles. How voice and ideas dance, and the execution of both is work. How no matter how many times I say, "if you bring a dish to the sink, and there's no dishes in it, please wash your dish" the dishes occasionally pile up in the sink.

I'm thinking about how the times I think least about the specifics of my writing voice (like getting it right...) the more authentic it is. 

Because let's face it, the Instagram captions and these blog posts get less attention than a single sentence of my novel... 

So, I'm thinking about voice today, and thinking about how the only way to really get to where I want to be is to write more. Here, there, everywhere. Because that pit in my stomach that comes up whenever I think about reading a really good novel and thinking to myself, "yeah, I tried doing that. It didn't work out," is uncomfortable, downright painful, and I'm not willing to live with it quite yet. 


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