The two things I’m always looking for are story and voice. Story...

The two things I’m always looking for are story and voice. Story is often lying on the surface. It’s the way the events of a person’s life will string together. Voice is a much harder thing to quantify. Voice is the way someone speaks. But it’s not the ‘actual’ sound of their voice, because that can’t be transmitted through writing. It’s how a person uses language. The things they say that nobody else says. Those combinations of words that belong only to them. A strong voice is one of the writer’s greatest tools. A strong voice will pull you into a story. It will turn the written word into a living person.  
This week I shared the story of Kasson, a young man who was blinded after being stabbed in the eye with a screwdriver. At first the story wasn’t obvious. But as I took out my computer and began to transcribe Kasson’s words, right away I saw it. Clear as day. Not the story, but the voice. What a voice. ‘Too bright, too late. / You make me want to carry your books / May first was like love.’ Kasson was clearly a poet. He didn’t write poetry, but he was a poet. The story still wasn’t clear to me. Kasson hadn’t resolved his trauma yet, so I wasn’t sure how to end it. The published version ends rather abruptly: Kasson sitting on the steps, building up his courage, preparing for a new life. It’s not a perfect story. Questions remain. But at that point story didn’t matter, because we were too busy listening to Kasson’s voice.
The final step in my process is sending the finished story to the subject. It’s their chance to tell me if I got anything wrong, if I messed up any part of the story. But it’s also their chance to tell me if anything ‘feels off.’ If anything doesn’t sound like them. If I messed up their voice. This is always a nerve-wracking moment for me. By that time I’ve usually spent many days on the story, and I’m dreading the prospect of having to rip it apart. I knew that Kasson wasn’t going to be able to read the story himself. Somebody would need to read it out loud. I’d never done that before. And I was nervous. I could have easily sent the story to his girlfriend Benji, but that seemed like a cop out. So I picked up the phone. And what followed was one of the most spiritual moments of my life.
Kasson was alone when he answered my call. It was just me and him. I knew he was in the dark, hearing nothing but my voice. He was silent while I read the story. But it wasn’t a distracted silence. It was a focused silence. A heavy silence. An intimate silence. A silence of communion. Kasson was hearing my voice. He was hearing his story in my voice. But not just that. He was hearing his voice, in my voice. And the gravity of that responsibility had never been clearer to me. The stakes felt so high. I was giving him back the words he’d given me, several weeks before. But with structure. It was a story now. We felt joy in the same moments. We were crushed by the same moments. We felt the suspense, even though we both knew what was going to happen. And when the story was finished, both of us were a little stunned. Before any words were spoken, I knew that I had gotten it right. ‘Wow,’ said Kasson. He was crying now. ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it happened to me.’



This was excerpted from an essay called ‘Voice,’ which I shared yesterday with members of the Humans of New York Patreon. It’s the support of this community that allows Humans of New York to remain free of advertisements or sponsorships. Each month I try to share with them some of my thinking and process. Hopefully they don’t mind me sharing this particular piece with a broader audience. If you’d like to contribute to HONY’s creation by joining the Patreon, you may do so here: https://bit.ly/HONYPatreon