Finding My Voice ...A Writer's Angst

You are a writer because words dance in your brain and itch the tips of your fingers—begging you to pick up the pen or click the keyboard. Because a phrase on a page or the lyric of a song can steal your breath and remind you of all lines that live in your soul that long for release. Because you are pulled, again and again to your story. To be real and raw.
—J LeBlanc

Finding your voice as a writer is not just a matter of expressing your personality on paper—it’s discovering who you really are in your deepest heart and seeing the world through that lens.

Sometimes when you feel the most vulnerable, you're the most real.

I didn’t always know that and wasted valuable time learning the lesson.

“Who’s your target audience?” Clair was getting tetchy and I was getting tired.

“Women and the university educated,” I reply.

“If you narrow your readership any further, you’ll be one of those niche writers who get great reviews, but nobody reads.”

I look at Clair and will my hands to unclasp and not ball themselves into a fist.

Take a deep breath—count to ten. I tell myself.

“Ghost stories are hot now—the vampire craze has run its course and child wizards are passé—I know you can write about ghosts, Randall.”

The muscle near my ear is working—I think I even clench my jaw now in my sleep. I wonder if that’s what those little white lines are on the inside of my cheeks?

I need a calming affirmation—be gentle. Yeah, that’s rich—and don’t forget to go placidly amid the noise and the haste.

Note to self: go on line and find out how to make a hangman’s noose.

“You need to work on building a platform,” Clair continues.

And make sure it has a good, dependable trapdoor, I muse—wouldn’t want to botch the job and ruin my image.

I’m grinding my teeth now.

BRRRING! Saved by the bell—Clair’s cellphone summons her to a meeting with the publisher and she exits, blowing air kisses all the way out.

This woman is way too annoying, but apparently the best in the business—and business is the operative word.

I need to pay the rent or find a wealthy patron—I’d settle for a Raguneau who’d pay me in cream puffs, rather than have to make them myself.

We’ll find you a good publisher with deep pockets and long arms, she often opines.

Maybe I just need the Thought Police to kick me with their jack boots—that’d be preferable to writing airy-fairy, frothy tales for Kindle toting commuters.

“You’re frowning again.” Andie scowls and furrows her brow, trying to grump herself into me.

“Won’t work, Love—you’re much too beautiful and sunny to ever pass for Gargamel.”

“You’re no sorcerer—more like Brainy Smurf—at least your glasses.”

All through college I’d get the Clarke Kent jokes—but Andie finds me adorable—probably the way Marilyn Monroe felt about Arthur Miller. Anyway, I’ll take the compliment.

“Brainy Smurf, eh? Wonder if he was a struggling writer.”

“If he was, he was adorable.”

I could lap this up all day, but it’s not furthering my writing career. To add to my angst, I’m beginning to doubt everything that’s me.

I had spent the day sitting around my apartment playing old Valdy records on my turntable—in case you don’t know, Valdy was a seventies composer like Jim Croce and I must have listened to his song, Give Me the Simple Life, more times than I’d care to admit.

So, maybe I was mentally preparing myself for a lowered standard of living—or at least, for lowered expectations. But I was not prepared for what Andie said next.

“I’ve got some good news.”

“Okay, Ange, let’s hear it.”

“I met my neighbour today—you know the man with the bushy moustache and Groucho Marx eyebrows? Well, it turns out he’s a publisher and he’s interested in your book.”

“Really?” I’m thinking, I know what he’s interested in, but Andie’s too innocent to suspect his motives

“And what’s this publisher’s name?”

“William Sterne.”

I almost laugh in her face. William Sterne is the biggest publishing house on the west coast—at least the guy has heard of them—but I doubt the man behind the firm would be living in a modest condo in New York.

The real William Sterne would be in L.A. turning novels into screenplays.

“I don’t know Ange—sounds fishy to me.”

Andie’s real name is Angela—she hates it, so I call her Andie. I also call her Ange as a term of endearment—it’s the French word for angel, and really suits her.

“You’re always so suspicious—you’ve got to learn to trust people, Randy.”

That’s right—Randy’s my real name—Randall is Clair’s fake name for me—says it looks good on the cover of books. The ones I haven’t published yet. Hmm hmm.

“Okay, I’ll bite, " I tell her. " So, when am I going to get to meet this publisher friend of yours?”

“He’s invited us to dinner at Ceros’ tonight. He’s got a table reserved and he says he’ll alert the maitre d.”

I sigh. I’d like to say something cynical here, but the words just won’t come.

I know how this is going to go down. I’ll end up blowing my cash reserve because ‘William’ will discover he’s temporarily short of funds.

I remember learning this lesson in the Village at a high-priced bistro with another equally dubious man about town—but who am I to burst Andie’s bubble? Bring on the clowns.

Promptly at eight, we show up at Ceros’—Andie looking drop-dead gorgeous in her little black dress and I looking like Clarke Kent in a rumpled suit—minus the fedora, though.

The reservations clerk has no record of our booking and politely asks us to step aside while a busboy goes in search of the maitre d. It can’t get much more embarrassing.

Five minutes pass while Andie looks bravely optimistic and my stomach feels like it’s sweating tiny drops of blood. Eventually, the Maitre d appears looking like Mr. French in the old TV series, Family Affair. The evening’s turning into a macabre comic opera.

“Good evening,” the Maitre d says, “Can I help you?”

“Oh yes,” Andie beams. “Mr. William Sterne invited us to join him at his table.”

I’m expecting the genial Mr. French to turn into the Grand Inquisitor and in his baritone voice announce, “Off with their heads.”

To my surprise and Andie’s delight, he whispers, “Come with me,” and leads us back through a maze of white-cloth covered tables to a private booth at the rear where a gentleman is already seated.

“Mr. Sterne!” Angie smiles and the genial, older man rises, takes her hand and kisses it.

He turns to me, smiling. “And you must be Randy. How do you do?”

If this fellow’s a flimflam man, he’s very good at his trade. I’m suddenly tongue-tied and feel like a dolt.

“Please, be seated,” he invites, pulling out a chair for Andie.

I‘m sure I look a complete fool—I certainly feel like one.

He orders us drinks and engages in small talk. It’s obvious, he finds Andie totally charming, but I don’t get a creep vibe from him—I actually like him.

After a few minutes of polite chitchat about New York, he turns his attention fully on me and says, “So Randy, why don’t you tell me about your book?”

“The Lady is a novel about a woman who is isolated from the people in her town because they mistakenly think she’s an exiled member of the nobility. The book traces her struggles to be accepted for who she really is.”

The older man smiles and waves his hand—“That’s the elevator pitch, Randy. I’m not interested in that—I want to hear about your book, in detail, and after that, I want to get to know you.”

Two hours later, William Sterne’s still listening and Andie’s still smiling.

I’ve never occupied the floor for this long in my life—but I’ve never felt as impassioned either. When I come to the end, I deliberately wait, giving William Sterne a chance to respond.

He looks earnestly at me and then at Andie and says simply, “I think you have found your voice.”

Well, I did find my voice that night.

William Sterne allowed me to open my heart and share my deepest dreams.

I realized Andie was not just my cheerleader—she was my inspiration, my muse, because she showed me how to relate to others and not doubt myself.

The Lost became a New York Times best seller, but more importantly, I became the person I really wanted to be.

Marilyn Monroe married Arthur Miller, but it couldn’t last—it was a bizarre union of an egghead and an hourglass.

I married Andie and it did last, because she was the muse who helped me find my true voice.

© 2025, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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