The Real Magic of Fiction

One of the more interesting challenges I encountered while writing [un]civilized was figuring out how to give each character a unique voice while accepting an uncomfortable reality: Every word in the book came from me.

At first glance, that seems obvious.

Of course it did. I'm the one who wrote it.

But the more time I spent with the manuscript, the more I realized how difficult it is to create the illusion that multiple people are speaking when only one person is doing the writing.

Every author has a voice. Certain rhythms emerge naturally. Certain vocabulary choices appear repeatedly. Certain observations and ways of describing the world feel instinctive. Over time, those tendencies become part of a writer's identity.

Readers often seek that consistency. It's one of the reasons we return to authors we enjoy.

But fiction creates a competing requirement: characters aren't supposed to sound identical. If everyone speaks with the same cadence, uses the same vocabulary, and reaches the same conclusions, readers notice. The world begins to feel artificial.

The challenge, then, is finding the balance.

Characters should sound like themselves. The book should still sound like you.

I found that voice extends far beyond dialogue.

It's easy to think of voice as the words a character says aloud, but voice also influences what a character notices, what they ignore, what they fear, and what they value.

Place two people in the same room and they may experience entirely different realities. One notices the exits while the other notices the artwork.

The room hasn't changed. The observer has.

That realization became incredibly useful while writing.

Rather than forcing characters to speak differently, I began asking a simpler question: What would this person care about?

The answers changed everything.

A character driven by power interprets situations differently than a character driven by curiosity. A fearful person sees different risks than a confident one. An optimist and a pessimist can witness the same event and walk away with entirely different conclusions.

Their voices emerge naturally because their perspectives differ.

Of course, no matter how successful the effort, traces of the author always remain.

They have to.

Every character ultimately passes through the same mind before reaching the page.

In some sense, fiction is an exercise in controlled fragmentation. The writer divides pieces of their imagination into separate personalities and then allows those personalities to interact.

The goal isn't complete separation.

That's impossible.

The goal is enough distinction that readers stop hearing the author and start hearing the character.

When that happens, you begin to lose control. Characters start surprising you. And that’s a GOOD thing.

Writers talk about this phenomenon all the time, and it sounds ridiculous until you experience it.

Then it sounds completely normal.

Perhaps that's the real magic of fiction.