I know what my own voice sounds like

And I know what it doesn't sound like

What is a writer’s voice? How do you know when you read it/hear it? Many of my fellow writers and authors have written about this much more eloquently than I can. All I can do is share is my own experience, strength, and hope. Indulge me in a very recent (today) excursion into my own way of processing this topic.

My relatively brief adventure with Substack began on February 19th of this year. Coming up on six months. I’ve published a total of 39 essays. Although the topics can be somewhat complicated, my concept is simple; write about how my recovery from addiction has altered the way I view and interpret the world, engage in relationships, pursue interests, serve others, and generally live and laugh every day. I’ve lived a full life of many different careers, adventures, and geography. God willing, that will continue. But my personal growth in recovery for the last nearly 14 years has definitely flipped the axis of my life. Reversed the polarity. Elevated the view. Softened the landing. Deepened the experience.

Twelve years ago I wrote a memoir about my life and my experience in early recovery. To say that I wrote it is not a true statement. I hired a friend who I knew had published a novel and was, among other things, a writer. She was a great listener. I told her a story over about twenty-thirty sessions together in coffee shops, my living room, at a park, at restaurants. She took notes, sometimes recorded the sessions, and then she wrote chapters. We discussed my life and the concept for the book. I talked. I told some truth. I softened some of the ugliness of my story to make it sound a little less fucked up. I made stuff up. I flat-out lied about some stuff.

I was also very attracted to her. What I know now is that I was paying her to hang out with me, hoping that something else might come from it. My ego, properly shattered by the 12 steps, needed to be interesting and attractive to someone of the opposite sex. To make matters worse, she was happily in a long-term relationship with a guy. I didn’t care. Rationalization is more important to most humans than sex is. It has to be—we certainly do it more regularly. I had never, ever had difficulty being attractive and attracted. But in the process of getting sober I began to understand that I had a really fucked up “picker.” My choices and my reasons for who and what attracted me were simply all wrong. Early recovery—and I was definitely in early recovery at the time—is about finding your equilibrium. Once you get past the physiological impact of your previous dependence, that’s where the real work begins. That work takes time. But here I was, a year or two sober, selfish and self-centered enough to think that anyone would give a shit about my recovery story—which by the way I didn’t have a clue about yet—and besides I was hanging out with a hot writer and talking about myself. Like I said, the work takes time.

Nine months and $35K later, we had a manuscript on Google Docs. Nothing magical ever happened between us. She said “thanks for the gig. Let me know when you want to try to publish, and I can help with that.” I actually had the temerity to share it around with a few friends to read. Mostly yawns and a couple of “you should fictionalize that story it would be more fun.” I thought—if you only knew how much of it already is fiction…” I read it through a couple times, got bored with the bullshit I knew was in it, and then didn’t look at it again for about ten years.

I was not a writer. I think I might be more of one now.

Fast forward to my actual birth as a writer on Substack. Smack! Waaaaa! Shit where the hell am I? It’s a cold world out here! Wait wait wait don’t cut that thing—oh now look what you’ve done. Waaaaaaaaa!

2023 has been revelatory and so much fun. The process has deepened and cemented my recovery in ways that I had not imagined. I have learned so much in practicing the craft. The community of fellow writers, authors, adventurers, and ne’er do wells on the Stack has welcomed me, encouraged me, and coached me. A fellow writer named M.E. Rothwell

M. E. Rothwell

actually posted this on today’s Notes: “More people should write, because in order to write, one must first think. And in order to write anything good, one must think for oneself.”

But I am competitive. Always have been. My friends reading this will be rolling their eyes. So here I am cruising along writing essays and having fun and I’m seeing these other authors like Sarah Fay—who by the way has taught me so much with her Writers at Work workshop sessions—serializing (releasing) books and memoirs on Substack

Cured the Memoir by Sarah Fay

either in addition to, or instead of, going the traditional publishing route. I paid rapt attention to their examples and their counsel. I can do that too! I have a memoir that has been sitting on my drive for a decade! What a great idea! I’d also been reading about how other new writers like me were transforming their free subscribers into paid subscribers left and right. Add value! Add something exclusive to them! Put special chapters behind the paywall! Watch your numbers grow! Here we goooo!

And it does work in both theory and practice. I’ve seen it demonstrated over and over. But like anything else in my recovery and in my life, there are no shortcuts. The work takes time. Fuck I get tired of saying that sometimes. But me being me, that’s exactly what I did try—a shortcut. If I can just cut this line. If I can just get around this driver in front of me. Why should I have to wait?

So I dusted off the memoir—untitled at this point—and I published the intro chapter a couple of weeks ago for just my paying subscribers. “The Intervention” is in my opinion a powerful intro story to my recovery memoir. Why? Because it’s 100 percent true and real. Why? Because I rewrote the whole fucking thing. I took out the self-aggrandizing bullshit and told the true story. But then I stepped in it. After seeing a handful of my free subscribers take the bait and fork over their hard-earned $5 to read that chapter, I pushed out Chapter 2 about “Family” yesterday.

The discomfort hit me almost immediately. That’s somewhat normal when I hit publish on a deeply personal essay. But this feeling was different. It wasn’t the usual “oh I hope someone reads it. oh I hope someone likes it.” I was uncomfortable because I had gone through the motions. I hadn’t gone deep. I hadn’t even broken the surface. I was floating instead of snorkeling. I certainly wasn’t diving. It was like writing a paper in school that you know is good enough for a passing grade, but certainly didn’t interest you and certainly won’t interest the teacher.

The love of my life Ann read it. She said “it’s OK honey. I wanted more.” Ya think? The pressure of wanting to follow up Chapter 1 with Chapter 2 led me to hurriedly grab something from the Google Drive, give it a cursory read, and fire it out there. I read it again—this time on Substack as a published piece. About as deep as Hugh Grant sitting in a room full of young Mommies pretending to be a single parent.

They tell us in recovery to Pause when Agitated. I’ve dug into this idea a few times in other essays. The fascinating thing is watching this trite phrase—just like a bunch of other trite phrases from the rooms of AA—reveal themselves as true and timeless in my life. I was agitated. I reacted. I did not like the outcome. Not one bit. The difference is that now I can see it, feel it, and change it.

So I unpublished Chapter 2 of my memoir. If you did read it, thank you. It was all true but there just wasn’t a lot of meat on those bones yet. I promise I will fix that. There is a really good story of transformation in the pages of my memoir. A story that I hope others who might be struggling with sobriety might learn from. I will tell it. And it will be in my voice. And you will know the difference.

Thanks for your patience and for your interest in what I have to say. It matters more than you know.