Rebecca Rasmussen's Blog, page 2

Love Lift Us Up Where We Belong By Jolina Petersheim

Jolina Petersheim's blog, The Happy Book Blog, at a year old has been featured twice on Southern author River Jordan's Clearstory Radio. Currently it is syndicated with The Tennessean's "On Nashville" Blogroll, featured under author Jessica McCann's "Stuff for Writers," award-winning freelance writer Melissa Crytzer-Fry's Blogroll and numerous other creative writing sites. Jolina lives in the mountains of Tennessee with her Mohican-man husband, their 40 acres of untamed territory, and one unruly but lovable Southern novel-in-progress set on a tobacco plantation in northwest Tennessee.




Love Lift Us Up Where We Belong



It almost felt like we were Peeping Toms as my husband and I clustered around the computer screen, avidly watching the most intimate details of this young family's life for the twentieth time in less than ten days. We laughed when the couple picked on each other, fretted when their offspring didn't seem to be thriving the way we thought they should, wondered if all of them would be able to stand the harsh elements pervading their setting, and secretly questioned the parents' abilities to keep their three offspring alive.

No, we weren't watching the latest "reality" TV show churned out by Hollywood, but a family of bald eagles my husband had discovered through an online live cam. I had caught him watching them last Sunday, and although at first I couldn't understand the draw, I soon became as addicted to their interactions as he. The mother and father shared the responsibility of their brood: the one sat on the hatchlings while the other flew over the dense Iowan woods--scouring it for rabbits, ravens, and even a fish whose scales reflected like tiny mirrors angled toward the sun. It actually took my breath as the mother/father (I still cannot tell them apart) ripped hunks of meat from their partner's latest catch and carefully depositing it into their offspring's uplifted, chirping mouths.

Last evening, before I went for a walk in the graveyard, I watched one of the hatchlings teeter toward the edge of the nest on unsteady claws and flapping, downy wings. Less than five minutes later, when I was tying my tennis shoes, my husband called from the office, "Honey! C'mere! Quick!"

When I came into the office and looked at the screen, I couldn't believe my eyes. Both of the parents were in the six foot, one and a half ton nest, and they were balancing a tree branch between their yellow beaks. One of them then took it from the other and put it at the edge of the nest where the hatchling had just been.

"They're doing that to keep the babies from falling out," my husband explained. I told him to call if they did anything else exciting, and I'd come tearing back.

Sometimes when I walk to the graveyard beside our apartment, I completely forget why it is there. Encamped by rolling hills, swaying saplings covered with pink cotton ball blossoms, and soaring mountains, it seems no more a place for the dead as Mars is for the living. But last evening, it was different. I guess it was because I was tired, and that bald eagle family had gotten me thinking about family life in general. I guess part of it had to do with the past month and a half, and though I don't want to go into much detail to protect those it is more greatly affecting, I will say that it has been one of the toughest experiences of my life.

So, instead of trucking up and down that paved pathway, I walked onto the grass and swatted down before the gravestones. I looked at the cameoed photograph of a woman who'd died when she was years younger than I, yet born a decade before the birth of my own mother. I traced my fingers over the dates of the departed, and my heart ached for the couple who'd been severed by death because the other half of their whole had kept on living. In their photo, although neither of them were really smiling, I could see the love they'd shared in the way she put an arm around his shoulders, and the way he gently clasped it with one of his callused hands.

The sun was setting behind the distant hills, so I decided to head back toward our apartment. After spending a day wearing long sleeves in eighty degree weather, I'd also decided it was time to switch out my winter and summer clothes. This is a task I despise more than any other; I would rather alphabetize the contents of my refrigerator than sort and refold all of my clothing. Despite this, I lugged all of my summer totes into our bedroom, started shucking sweaters from hangers, then paused and walked into the living room. I needed some music to get me going. Feeling slightly sentimental, I scrolled down through the playlists on my laptop until I found the one I sought: Wedding Mix.

Singing off-key to Frank Sinatra, Billy Joel, Air Supply, and Dan Folgelberg, I suddenly got a second wind and soon had two totes completely emptied into drawers and refilled with sweaters. Then a new song began to play: "Love Life Us Up Where We Belong." Because of what has transpired over the past month and a half, the lyrics resonated with me in a way they never have before. It spoke of living in a world where few hearts survive, how long the road is, how there are mountains in our way, but that love would lift us up to a place where -- and here I even got goose bumps -- eagles cry on a mountain high.

Needless to say, I was knocked into an emotional abyss before the second verse. Recalling that husband and wife gravestone when she's not even dead, I began getting teary-eyed. Then I recalled how it said at the very bottom, "To know him was to love him," and those tears, they started rolling.

Darting into the office, I stretched my arms out toward my husband and blubbered, "To know you is to love you!"

My husband, still watching the bald eagle family in between listing eBay items, looked back at me standing there with tears streaming down my face and said, "What? What happened?"

I pointed toward our bedroom and half-laughed/half-sobbed, "That song! Regardless of what we face, love will lift us up to a mountain high!" I then pointed to the computer screen where the father/mother eagle was tenderly feeding his/her young. "Just like them! Just like that bald eagle family!"

My husband pushed his rolling chair out from beneath the desk and stood. "Oh my, honey," he said, "you're really tore up."

Wiping my face on my long shirtsleeve, I laughed, "I know! I don't even know what happened!"

He walked with me back to our bedroom, which was strewn with chunky knit sweaters and sleeveless tanks. Reaching out his finger, he tapped down the volume on my laptop.

"Don't!" I hollered. "I like it loud!"

"I know, but the song's making you cry," he said.

I wrapped my arms around him and looked up, "Yes, but these are happy tears, Randy. Happy tears. I'm just so, so blessed."

Now, as I write this out on our land, my husband is strengthening our future home -- our love nest, if you will -- and I am sitting in the sun after having helped him pick up pieces of siding and fascia. And I know, regardless of how long our journey together is, how many mountains present themselves as we travel it, that love will continually lift us up to a place where we belong...just like those eagles.

(Live cam for bald eagles can be found here.)

Launch Day!

I am about ready to get on another plane to start this tour off, but I was thinking about all of you on my first plane ride and for the first time I was crying not out of fear but out of joy. You all have made this journey so wonderful for me. You've picked me up. You've offered your arms. You've wiped my (many) tears. And I will never be able to tell you how that saved me and my little book over the last year and a half. I love you all and I mean it. You have my heart.


With Love from the Detroit Airport,
Rebecca

1 Day Before The Bird Sisters Launch!

I can't believe we are almost there! I want to wish everyone a great day -- I am trying to enjoy this day before I hop on a plane to Pennsylvania and officially get things rolling with The Bird Sisters. Thank you to all of you for being such wonderful supporters of me and the book. And of course friends!


Love,
Rebecca

BOOK CLUB IN A BOX--4 days until Launch Day!

Hi everyone -- I wanted to let you know about a GREAT giveaway happening c/o the amazing Dawn from Too Fond of Books. She is generously giving away up to ten hardcover copies of The Bird Sisters and a skype call with me for a book club. If you are part of a book club and are interested, here is the link: TOO FOND OF BOOKS

The Nervous Breakdown

Hi everyone -- since I don't have access to Facebook right now, I wanted to share with you a lovely feature on the Bird Sisters at The Nervous Breakdown, which includes a self-interview, an excerpt, and some other pretty wonderful things. Thank you so much for all of your support! I can't wait to go on the road and meet so many of you! http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/category/fiction/


XOX Rebecca

Thank you!

Thank you to everyone for putting up with my Facebook accounts recently -- they have been compromised and I am working on getting them restored. This has been a bit of a nightmare, and it's all of my friends who have been getting me through. Visit me on Twitter or at my website if you need anything.

Thank you again for your support and your love and patience.

It's now only 10 days until the Bird Sisters launch! If you pre-order the book and would like me to send you a signed bookplate, simply email me at thebirdsisters {at] gmail {dot} com

XOXOX,
Rebecca

Launch Day for Jessica McCann

Hold On for the Ride (or How to Write a Novel)
by Jessica McCann
Writing your first novel is like a walk in the park. Really, you say, it's that easy? Before you rush to judgment, allow me to share a story about one particular walk in the park with my dogs.
My rescue pup, a super-loveable German Sheppard mix, has some "issues" around other dogs when she's on leash. Maybe she's protective of me. Maybe it's a doggy dominance thing. But a few years ago, during a hike in one of our many Phoenix desert preserves, we happened to cross paths with a rambunctious golden retriever and its owner. Both dogs pulled at their leashes, lunging toward one another with noisy growls and flying saliva. It was unclear if they wanted to play or fight, but we weren't about to risk finding out.
As I struggled to gain control of my unruly pup, I stumbled over a large rock in the trail and went sprawling into the dirt. She continued to pull at her leash, and I continued to hold on. She dragged me about four or five feet, my legs flailing behind me, through the rocks and desert grit. The retriever finally passed us, its owner shouting horrified apologies back over his shoulder, and my dog finally eased up. I took a deep breath and pulled myself to my feet. My knees were shaking. My shins were bloodied. My husband came rushing to me, apologizing that he had been unable to assist, since he had our other large dog on a leash and needed to stay out of the fray.
"Well, that was embarrassing," I finally managed to say, looking around for witnesses, my voice breaking, tears welling in my eyes.
"No," my husband said with a huge grin. "That was awesome! I'm so proud of you. You held on."
Had I let go, we might have had a dog fight on our hands. Had I let go, our girl might have run away into the desert. Rattle snakes, dehydration and the busy highway were just a few of the dangers she would have faced. I had no choice but to hold on.
Writing a novel is like THAT walk in the park. Or, at least, it was for me. I had to risk a little embarrassment, risk getting a little bloodied, to get the job done. I had a story I desperately wanted to share, and so I had to hold on.
We've been through a lot of dog training classes since that fateful day on the desert trail. But my girl can still be unruly at times. Sure, we could have taken her to back to the rescue shelter, given up on her in favor of an "easier" dog, one more manageable. But she's part of the family. When she drops her tattered sock-toy in my lap and patiently waits for me to throw it -- her helicopter tail whirling, her big brown eyes dancing -- I can't imagine the heartache I'd feel if we had given up on her.
I've been through a lot "training" myself since I started writing my first novel, despite my previous experience and success writing nonfiction. Multiples drafts, critiques, revisions, queries and rejections were part of the long process leading to a polished manuscript and a publishing contract.
My debut novel, ALL DIFFERENT KINDS OF FREE, was inspired by actual events. It tells the story of Margaret Morgan, a free woman of color in 1830s America whose perfect life was shattered when she was kidnapped and forced into slavery. It was a challenging, emotional, sometimes painful story to research and write. Sure, I could have put it in a drawer, given it up in favor of something easier to write. But the gratification of telling Margaret's story in a way that might touch or inspire those who read the book has made all the hard work worthwhile. When the UPS truck pulls up to my house with a box full of books -- fresh from the printer, with crisp pages and ALL DIFFERENT KINDS OF FREE emblazoned on the glossy cover -- I can't imagine the heartache I'd feel if I had given up my quest to tell Margaret's story.
Whether you dream of writing a novel or of some other goal, my advice is to go for a walk in the park and hold on for the ride. Life is only half-lived if you haven't bloodied your knees at least a couple times.
***Happy Launch Day, Jessica! 
If you're interested in purchasing Jessica's beautiful novel here are some helpful links: 
Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Different-Kinds-Free-Jessica-McCann/dp/1611940052/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1301580562&sr=1-1
Barnes & Noble http://search.barnesandnoble.com/All-Different-Kinds-Of-Free/Jessica-McCann/e/9781611940053/?itm=1&USRI=jessica+mccann
NOOKbookhttp://search.barnesandnoble.com/All-Different-Kinds-of-Free/Jessica-McCann/e/9781611940268/?itm=2&USRI=jessica+mccann

The Never Ending Re-Write by Beth Winegarner

When I was in my late teens, I would proofread my dad's market-research reports for extra pocket money. They needed it; my dad had a habit of inserting a comma every time he paused to look at his notes, take a phone call, or leave the room for a snack.

So, among other things, I would remove all those extraneous commas.
Unfortunately, he had another proofreader – a professional one. 


One time he told me, "When you proofread, you take all my commas out. And when she proofreads, she puts them all back."

That summarizes how I feel about the revision process: you could spend your whole life taking commas out and then putting them back in again. I love drafting, because there is a clear beginning, middle, and end. You know you're finished because everything you meant to put into the book is in the book, in more or less the order you intended.

But then, one day, you sit down to begin rewriting. That's when you
realize – with horror, embarrassment, or even a sense of mistaken
identity – that the book you thought you wrote in no way
resembles this book at all. As you read your long, rambling,
semi-coherent sentences, you wonder, "Who wrote this? It's awful!" And then it sinks in: you wrote it. And you're going to have to fix it. And it's going to take forever.

Oh, I get it. Rewriting is important – probably more important than
the writing itself. After all, once you get a look at your draft, you
think, "Thank God I didn't let you out of the house looking like
that."

But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

I have friends who adore revision. My friend Katie, who works at the
newspaper I left two years ago to have a baby, said she really enjoys
going back over her text, again and again, to make it sparkle. My
author friend Jon blogs pretty often about his revision process, with
the kind of enthusiasm most people reserve for high-intensity sports
or really great meals. To my mind, he might as well be raving about
scrubbing the toilet. But his books get published and favorably
reviewed, so I try to evoke him when I sit down to do the deed myself.

Of course, I also keep Anne Lamott in the back of my mind, and her
advice about "shitty first drafts," as she put it in Bird By
Bird: "For me and most of the other writers I know, writing is not
rapturous. In fact, the only way I can get anything written at all is
to write really, really shitty first drafts. … All good writers write
them. This is how they end up with good second drafts and terrific
third drafts."

Right now I am revising my most recent book, a nonfiction guide for
parents to the most controversial teen influences: violent video
games, the occult, heavy metal, and so on. Everything you've been told
will make your kid homicidal or suicidal. I wrote it during the second
year of my daughter's life, through sleep deprivation and tantrums and
shifting nap schedules, stealing time when I could.

At first, I was impressed that someone as tired as I was could string
coherent sentences together, let alone compose 90,000 words of mostly
intelligent prose. In fact, my first impression of the finished draft
was that it read like it was written by someone with many more
functioning brains cells than I have. I allowed myself be impressed
for a little while.

But then I sat down to revise it, and I wanted to put my head in the
compost bin. This was after I let several editor friends read
sections of it and provide feedback. I thought I was composing
readable, approachable prose. Instead, I was writing sentences such,
"If you're worried or even frightened about the music you hear blaring
out of your teenager's bedroom – or the names and symbols you see on album covers, posters, and t-shirts – then the last thing you probably want to do is pay more attention to them."

Oh, there's nothing technically wrong with it. It's grammatically
correct. It makes a point. It's just that it goes on. And on. And on.
Other sections of the book have sentences like this one, only they're
weighed down with long, academic words that made even my editor
friends chafe. If they couldn't sit through it, I can't expect
heartland parents to pick up the book.

I've already taken one pass through most of the book, doing what I
thought was a good cleanup job. But now I'm taking another pass and
realizing just how much more rewriting it needs. It's like each draft
clears the way so I can see everything else that's wrong. Sure, it's
an important process, and the book will only benefit from it. But it's
such a slog – one that doesn't have a clear ending point. I don't do
well without clear ending points. And I know that when I find a
publisher for it, the editor will want yet another rewrite. I'm game,
but I can't say I'm looking forward to it.

When I was working as a reporter for daily newspapers, I could tell
when I was done writing and revising, because it was time to send the
story to my editor. I'm accustomed to that kind of deadline, one that
comes at you like the tunnel-cleaner in Labyrinth. This time, I
don't have a deadline. Theoretically, the revisions could go on
forever.

When I offered to write this guest blog, I thought I was going to
offer some tips on rewriting, but I find that I don't really have any.
I mean, when I sit down for a revision session, I pretend I'm not
doing it. I distract myself with Facebook or blogs. I write something
else (like this piece – nevermind that it needs revising, too).
Anything but rewriting. And then, when I can finally focus on
the task, it's only for an hour or so at a time – more than that, and
I feel like I'm crawling out of my skin.

But then, I read back through the hour's work and realize how much
better my book is. How many fewer snags and hiccups there are in the
sentences. How much clearer the meaning.

At least, until the next time I open the document and see how much
more needs to be done.

Bio: Beth Winegarner is a journalist, author, and poet currently
splitting her time between toddler-raising and writing a new
nonfiction book on controversial teen subcultures. She also blogs
about these subcultures at http://backwardmessages.wordpress.com, and
has had pieces published recently in Mother Jones and
Radical Parenting. She lives in San Francisco with her partner
and daughter. For more, visit http://www.bethwinegarner.com.

-- 
http://www.bethwinegarner.com
http://backwardmessages.wordpress.com

Guest Post by Beth Winegarner

When I was in my late teens, I would proofread my dad's
market-research reports for extra pocket money. They needed it; my dad
had a habit of inserting a comma every time he paused to look at his
notes, take a phone call, or leave the room for a snack.

So, among other things, I would remove all those extraneous commas.
Unfortunately, he had another proofreader – a professional one. One
time he told me, "When you proofread, you take all my commas out. And
when she proofreads, she puts them all back."

That summarizes how I feel about the revision process: you could spend
your whole life taking commas out and then putting them back in again.
I love drafting, because there is a clear beginning, middle, and end.
You know you're finished because everything you meant to put into the
book is in the book, in more or less the order you intended.

But then, one day, you sit down to begin rewriting. That's when you
realize – with horror, embarrassment, or even a sense of mistaken
identity – that the book you thought you wrote in no way
resembles this book at all. As you read your long, rambling,
semi-coherent sentences, you wonder, "Who wrote this? It's awful!" And
then it sinks in: you wrote it. And you're going to have
to fix it. And it's going to take forever.

Oh, I get it. Rewriting is important – probably more important than
the writing itself. After all, once you get a look at your draft, you
think, "Thank God I didn't let you out of the house looking like
that."

But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

I have friends who adore revision. My friend Katie, who works at the
newspaper I left two years ago to have a baby, said she really enjoys
going back over her text, again and again, to make it sparkle. My
author friend Jon blogs pretty often about his revision process, with
the kind of enthusiasm most people reserve for high-intensity sports
or really great meals. To my mind, he might as well be raving about
scrubbing the toilet. But his books get published and favorably
reviewed, so I try to evoke him when I sit down to do the deed myself.

Of course, I also keep Anne Lamott in the back of my mind, and her
advice about "shitty first drafts," as she put it in Bird By
Bird: "For me and most of the other writers I know, writing is not
rapturous. In fact, the only way I can get anything written at all is
to write really, really shitty first drafts. … All good writers write
them. This is how they end up with good second drafts and terrific
third drafts."

Right now I am revising my most recent book, a nonfiction guide for
parents to the most controversial teen influences: violent video
games, the occult, heavy metal, and so on. Everything you've been told
will make your kid homicidal or suicidal. I wrote it during the second
year of my daughter's life, through sleep deprivation and tantrums and
shifting nap schedules, stealing time when I could.

At first, I was impressed that someone as tired as I was could string
coherent sentences together, let alone compose 90,000 words of mostly
intelligent prose. In fact, my first impression of the finished draft
was that it read like it was written by someone with many more
functioning brains cells than I have. I allowed myself be impressed
for a little while.

But then I sat down to revise it, and I wanted to put my head in the
compost bin. This was after I let several editor friends read
sections of it and provide feedback. I thought I was composing
readable, approachable prose. Instead, I was writing sentences such,
"If you're worried or even frightened about the music you hear blaring
out of your teenager's bedroom – or the names and symbols you see on
album covers, posters, and t-shirts – then the last thing you probably
want to do is pay more attention to them."

Oh, there's nothing technically wrong with it. It's grammatically
correct. It makes a point. It's just that it goes on. And on. And on.
Other sections of the book have sentences like this one, only they're
weighed down with long, academic words that made even my editor
friends chafe. If they couldn't sit through it, I can't expect
heartland parents to pick up the book.

I've already taken one pass through most of the book, doing what I
thought was a good cleanup job. But now I'm taking another pass and
realizing just how much more rewriting it needs. It's like each draft
clears the way so I can see everything else that's wrong. Sure, it's
an important process, and the book will only benefit from it. But it's
such a slog – one that doesn't have a clear ending point. I don't do
well without clear ending points. And I know that when I find a
publisher for it, the editor will want yet another rewrite. I'm game,
but I can't say I'm looking forward to it.

When I was working as a reporter for daily newspapers, I could tell
when I was done writing and revising, because it was time to send the
story to my editor. I'm accustomed to that kind of deadline, one that
comes at you like the tunnel-cleaner in Labyrinth. This time, I
don't have a deadline. Theoretically, the revisions could go on
forever.

When I offered to write this guest blog, I thought I was going to
offer some tips on rewriting, but I find that I don't really have any.
I mean, when I sit down for a revision session, I pretend I'm not
doing it. I distract myself with Facebook or blogs. I write something
else (like this piece – nevermind that it needs revising, too).
Anything but rewriting. And then, when I can finally focus on
the task, it's only for an hour or so at a time – more than that, and
I feel like I'm crawling out of my skin.

But then, I read back through the hour's work and realize how much
better my book is. How many fewer snags and hiccups there are in the
sentences. How much clearer the meaning.

At least, until the next time I open the document and see how much
more needs to be done.



Bio: Beth Winegarner is a journalist, author, and poet currently
splitting her time between toddler-raising and writing a new
nonfiction book on controversial teen subcultures. She also blogs
about these subcultures at http://backwardmessages.wordpress.com, and
has had pieces published recently in Mother Jones and
Radical Parenting. She lives in San Francisco with her partner
and daughter. For more, visit http://www.bethwinegarner.com.

-- 
http://www.bethwinegarner.com
http://backwardmessages.wordpress.com

Getting Back to Business by Nancy Hinchliff

Nancy Hinchliff owns and operates a bed and breakfast in Louisville, Kentucky where she also blogs and writes on line at Examiner.com, Eye on Life Magazine, Pink magazine and Hub pages. You can find her blogging at Business and Creative Women's Forum, Inn Notes, Inn business  A Memorable Time of My Life, and Louisville Bed and Breakfast Association  In 2008, she co-authored Room at the Table, for The Bed and Breakfast Association of Kentucky for which she won their president's award for outstanding work. She is currently working on a memoir titled Operatic Divas and Naked Irishmen: An Innkeeper's Tale, a humorous and poignant account of how an admittedly asocial retired school teacher reinvents herself as an Innkeeper. This intimate tale recounts 16 challenging years of self-discovery.
Getting Back To Business
...the business of writing, that is. For the past two or three months, my memoir has been sitting on an obscure corner of my desk upstairs in my office...out of sight...out of reach...out of mind. I haven't gone near it. What I have been doing is trying to figure out what in the world is wrong with it. Why do I only like Chapter 8 and Chapter 12?

I have three fourths of the book complete. And now I see that I have to do a major re-write on it. Why? Well, I finally figured it out. I can't hear my voice...at least I can't hear it all the time. It comes through in different places, like in Chapter 8 and Chapter 12, but it does not infuse the entire book. And that really bothers me.
So, what to do about it? Well, I finally retrieved my manuscript from my desk on the third floor...that's a start. Then I divided it into four sections. Each section has around four chapters. Now, what I am doing is re-writing every day for a set amount of time. I am going chapter by chapter, sticking with it until I have it the way I want it...looking for my authentic voice and planting it on the pages one sentence at a time.
Just what is writer's voice anyhow and how do you find your own? According to Wikipedia,"Writer's voice is a literary term used to describe the individual writing style of an author. Voice is a combination of a writer's use of syntax, diction, punctuation, character development, dialogue, etc., within a given body of text (or across several works). Voice can also be referred to as the specific fingerprint of an author, as every author has a different writing style.In creative writing, students are often encouraged to experiment with different literary styles and techniques in order to help them better develop their "voice." Voice varies with the individual author, but, particularly in American culture, having a strong voice is considered positive and beneficial to both the writer and his or her audience."
Finding your writer's voice may be compared to expressing your personality in real life. It's that authentic way of thinking, speaking and telling that each one of us has. "Confident writers have the courage to speak plainly; to let their thoughts shine rather than their vocabulary." says Ralph Keyes, author of  The Courage to Write: How Writers Transcend Fear  I strongly believe that one way one can find their true voice is through blogging on a regular basis. When I first started blogging a few years ago, I focused mainly on the content of what I was writing and was not too concerned about the way in which it was presented, as long as the grammar and punctuation was correct. I was not really writing to connect with my readers.
In the Elements of Style, Strunk tells us that "style is an expression of self, and [writers] should turn resolutely away from all devices that are popularly believed to indicate style – all mannerisms, tricks, and adornments." I believe that if one continues to blog, their voice will eventually be freed. "As you become proficient in the use of language, your style will emerge," writes Strunk "because you yourself will emerge…" so the more comfortable you are with the rules for good writing, the more your writer's voice will shine.
I have found this to be so true. And, it wasn't until I felt my true voice starting to come out that I even entertained the idea of writing a memoir. I wanted that memoir to be an expression of "me". But somewhere along the line, in trying to complete my work, I lapsed into my old ways of focusing on the content, not on my reader. And that's what I'm trying to get back.
Now, I am working that out, chapter by chapter. I am reading my writing aloud to see if it really sounds like me. This is very helpful, by the way. I had already stopped comparing my writing to other writers. Comparing how you write or your writer's voice to other writers is destructive and suffocating. So, my motto is: admire other writers' styles but nurture your own. And focus on ways to improve your confidence as a writer.
*A final tip: try picturing one specific reader — one that you're not trying to impress – and just communicate with her.