The Best Example of Breaking the Writing Rules to Find Your Writing Voice
Photo by Laurentiu Iordache on Unsplash
One of the most common questions I field as a writer is, "How do I write in a way that sounds like me while also following the rules of grammar?"
Ah, the eternal struggle, for it is so real.
Writing often resembles a wrestling match.
In one corner, there's you, in your respective Writing Weight Class, fueled by your burning passion and equipped with your great ideas, eager to step into the ring and emerge victorious in weaving the tale that cannot live inside you any longer.
In the other corner? Your eternal opponent, The Grammar Grinch, who outweighs you and outsmarts you with signature moves like "Don't end a sentence in a preposition," "Don't start a sentence with a conjunction," and "There are no one-sentence paragraphs!".
Then, The Grammar Grinch invokes Comma Chokehold and brings you to your knees. Defeated, you walk away from the Writing Ring and take a nap.
How do I know this? It plagues me too.
Yep. Even me.
When I confess to my many defeats in the World of Writing Wrestling, I often hear, "But you make it look so easy, Judi."
That's because I keep getting up and going back into the ring, armed with my mantra:
"Once you master the rules, you know when to break them."
I wish I could offer the rules around breaking the rules. I can't. I write from instinct, which I've honed from years of practicing my craft. But when I look back on the work, I see where I took risks. Some paid off; some didn't. I learn from each analysis and apply the knowledge to the next writing challenge.
And just like when you drive a VW Bug and begin to see all the other VW Bugs, I notice who amongst my fellow scribes chants the same mantra, whether they know it or not.
Stephanie Calabrace serves as a prime example.
Stephanie is one of my favorite writers, although I'm sure she would scoff at that title. I fell in love with Stephanie via her 2018 viral Facebook post about the school drop-off line:
Who among us in Mom-Taxi Nation cannot relate to this rant? I laughed so hard and shared the post with so many people that I was sure my family would cut off my Internet access and confiscate my phone.
Stephanie hails from Alabama and lives in Tennessee, which only made me love her more. Recognizing that she was the Southern version of me, I friended her on Facebook.
And in that Facebook Messenger moment, Soul Sisters were born.
In the three years since we connected, I’ve learned that Stephanie’s 15 minutes of fame were a mere peek into the story of her Southern life.
An occupational therapist by day, storyteller by Facebook, Stephanie's posts remind me of the hallmark elements of Southern Literature: a strong sense of tradition, coupled with an innate ability to transport you to a place in time that leaves you feeling you are there alongside her.
My favorite Stephanie Stories embody her deep, abiding love for her family and community while also acknowledging the eccentricities of human beings in general and Southerners specifically.
One of her recent tales revolved around the (dubious) joys of caring for a houseful of sick kids:
If that snippet of life ain't hilarious, I don't know what is. Stephanie's Southern drawl and sense of humor leap off the page and into my ears. I would know her writing voice if I were blindfolded and gagged.
Stephanie indulged my Masshole ignorance of "Sick Call and/or the Sick and Shut-In List" and explained the phenomenon to us "Northerners" without missing a beat:
While humor is Stephanie's default, her ability to express gratitude inspires the stories I treasure most, especially when she reminisces about her late brother, Steven, and the love that surrounded him through his family by blood and brothers by choice. (Forgive the lack of a screenshot; technology wouldn't cooperate with the length):
April 15, 2018: I might just quit my job, grow a beard and go sit by a lake somewhere and write all night and day about Steven Blakely. It helps for me to get it out and to put out in the universe. (I can say that kind of thing now that I’m a full time author with a beard). First let me say that Steven had a stable night. So praise the good Lord above for one more minute, hour, day for overall stability. Secondly, let me talk just a minute about something I know nothing about: fraternities. Steven was literally, and figuratively,the big man on campus I reckon. He was president of his fraternity and Daddy was convinced this would surely result in Steven’s full time devotion to a list of little things Daddy noticed needed to be done to fix up the frat house. I do not know why Daddy thought a guy who’s presidential room at the fraternity house was so nasty that he kept flip flops at the bedside to donn just to walk across the room without coming into contact with the nasty carpet would be focusing any of his presidency on aesthetics but Daddy was always hopeful. It didn’t happen. But what did happen is that Steven formed and developed bonds with some lifelong brothers from all different walks of life and locations and one of these guys is a man named Dr. James Davies. I’ve been hearing his name forever from Steven and always followed by “He’s about the smartest guy I know. Like real real real smart. Like Mark Todd smart” -that’s Athens talk for smart. I never thought Dr. Davies would become someone who would have a pivotal impact on the course of my life, or Steven’s even, but as it turns out, when it became clear to all of us that despite the excellent care and devotion and love we received at Huntsville Hospital it would not be enough to get him better, Hilary had to only make one phone call to this mythical Jamey Davies I’ve been hearing about since 1990 and within 8 hours he facilitated transferring Steven to UAB with a critical care transport team who escorted him into this leading research hospital and directly under his world class care. I will be forever grateful to him and to Hilary for making such excellent decisions regarding his care, and for my momma who drove up in the drive thru to AmSouth bank in our college years and deposited money in 42 different accounts so that Steven and I could live the high life in college and come out debt free while she and Daddy bought and did nothing for themselves for at least 10 years before and after we both got our degrees. Momma, I can’t help but wonder if all those monthly checks you wrote to “that silly fraternity” seem a little bit easier on you now because as much as I hate to admit it, Steven was right, those boys are like his brothers. I can’t tag them all but I am friends with many of Steven’s brothers, including his actual little brother, Tyson Littlejohn and many brothers who are not kin through a fraternity but through limestone county or some other way, and I want each of you to know I count you as my brothers, too, and I really mean it when I tell you I love each of you for loving and supporting us through this.
Love is a verb, and Stephanie's writing is love in action.
Yep, she breaks the rules and I read them anyway, the lack of Oxford Comma be damned. (Stephanie, you know I say that with love!). I'd choose her distinct Voice before The Rules any day of the week, all day long.
While Stephanie also makes storytelling look easy, I reckon there are times she finds herself in the Writing Wrestling Ring, particularly when honoring Steven's memory. Consider this post, written not long after Steven's death last year:
“I didn’t write what was on my heart…and I still can’t today.” What a poignant phrasing of the pain of losing a loved one.
Grappling with the defeatist thinking that accompanies grief comes with time, practice, and grace. Over time, Stephanie gave herself these three gifts, and her voice (re-)emerged:
I'm with Phyllis. Exquisite writing indeed.
Stephanie Calabrace, you are victorious in mastering The Rules and knowing when to break them. You are a Writing Wrestling Champ and I'll forever love reading your words.