Over the summer, I picked up Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. Typically I dislike picking up books put out on the bestseller table for whatever reason, preferring to keep to my dorky sci-fi and fantasy reads, but I’m glad I didn’t walk past this one. McCarthy’s writing reminded me a great deal of James Joyce only a bit more readable/less inebriated.
My point in posting this, though, isn’t to give a basic book review. I noticed that while I was reading The Road, my writing looked more like McCarthy’s and took on that type of tone. The same thing has happened to me (both verbal and written speech) while reading Tolkien, Stoker, L.M. Montgomery, and Thoreau. While my own voice as a writer is there, I suppose I realize this is one reason I’m a bit fearful of composing a longer work. What if my voice changes halfway through? That is who I am. That’s my voice: a writer’s voice.
At least I realized that there’s nothing wrong with reading a current bestseller. Marley & Me awaits.