Hearing Voices: Authors and the Imagination



Yevgenia Nayberg

Here is an article on Virginia Woolf which inspired me to think about the imaginary voices we all hear, whether we're an author, or some other creative-type, or none of the above.


When I say imaginary voices, here're some examples (from the article) of what I mean:

[Imaginary voices] might include a bereaved person comforted by the voice of the departed; a mountain climber who intuits a felt presence; a child talking to imaginary friends; an athlete whose attentional focus tunes in to self-talk; the inner voice of a coach or trainer.

In literature, when I think of an imaginary voice, or of any voice speaking through prose, I immediately think of a narrator. A narrator doesn't have to be first-person but, for simplicity's sake, let's consider first-person narration:


As you read, the author's voice (the I of the story) fills your mind. As a reader, we interact with that I as we read along. We judge I's judgments, their diction, their tone of voice, what they choose to tell us and what they don't. We do this simultaneously as we read each word, follow the story, skip around sentences and check for when the chapter ends. But fundamentally what we, as readers, are doing is interacting with an imaginary voice. One which we create ourselves...


Even though the author writes the words and imagines the story—writes the entire novel!—still it is all but prompt. Prompt for the reader to imagine the sights and sounds—the experience—for themselves. The author has the task of ferrying the reader through: a plot twist here, a character there, describing what this flower smells like, and so on. The reader has the task of imagining it for themselves, if the story is to exist anywhere at all beyond the author's own imagination.


Reading is thus itself an inherently creative exercise. We not only turn those words typed across the pages into the author's voice in our minds, but we also imagine all of the scenes and characters and mannerisms and facial expressions and sounds and smells and dialogue. That's how when a character has an accent, we hear that accent—imagine it—inside. When a narrator has a suspenseful way of speaking, we, in turn, anticipate and feel that suspense. As a creative exercise, reading requires imagination and it requires imagining those voices and interacting with those imaginary voices; perhaps the author's imaginary voice most of all.


So (to flip the coin), we as writers should maybe understand the responsibility we have. When someone reads our words, they will be imagining our voice in their head. There's an intimacy there, and thus an implicit contract between storyteller and storylistener. There's a duty there, I feel, within that intimate relationship. The bounds of which I am still discovering.


Whose voices do you hear in your own head?