Voice

Some time ago I had a conversation. It was one of those slurry, blurry, almost pointlessly argumentative conversations and it went a little like this:

“You see, I believe there’s such a thing as the Midlands,” the other bloke began. I looked at the person I was supposed to be talking to, but he just shrugged apologetically. I was well and truly stuck. “It’s just north and south, when you come down to it. There’s no such thing as a Midlands mentality. People identify themselves as northern or southern, as hard manual labourers or softy cultural divas. I’ve never heard anyone proudly say they’re a Midlander.”

“Oh, fuck off bollockface,” I may have less than eloquently retorted – after all, it was that sort of conversation.

“So, you’re from Birmingham, right?” a girl asked more recently as we sat down into the sofa on the bar’s mezzanine with our white wines. ‘And that’s in the…north?
Oh, no, I can tell by the look on your face that’s not right.”

I am quite proud of my roots. Coming from the Midlands is an important part of my self-identity; the very fact that it can transcend a northern-southern divide by taking the better bits of both suits my purposes ideally. It is where my family is anchored (with a couple of dollops of Northern Irish and West-Coast Scotland thrown in for good measure). My surname is liberally scattered around the country’s heartlands. Long Marston. Marston Green. Marston, Sutton Coldfield. Marston brewers in Burton.

“Are you from Birmingham, young David?” a prospective yet patronising client once asked me.

“I am indeed,” I replied wondering what that had to do with anything we were talking
about.

“I like Birmingham,” he continued, “it’s pleasant along by the canal these days. I went for a walk down there when I was last in town and I came across a guy fishing. I asked him if he’d caught anything and he replied ‘a whale.’ Well, I was somewhat surprised so, ‘a whale?’ I asked. ‘Yeah,’ he continued, ‘a bicycle whale.’”

Hah-fucking-har.

I’ve never had a terribly thick accent, but it is something I resolutely hold onto – even though it makes me sound like an idiot, especially “Dooiive”. “Dooiive”, sounds like possibly the stupidest trick in the box. Whoever he may be he sounds like a bit of a berk, but that’s my name and that’s how I could say it. If I was ever to try hard enough.

Why I’ve struggled to retain these tones, I’m not sure. I guess it just says something about who I am, despite it giving me a bit of trouble abroad.

Snorkelling off Sardinia, the Italian lady guiding us seemed to struggle with interpreting my pronunciation and decided it was simplest to call me ‘Dive.’ Which, as I kept drifting off and being called back caused confusion for the other swimmers.

“Dive! Dive!” indeed.

Or in the Yosemite Valley having to ask someone to interpret for me that I didn’t want tomato or tumartoh or tamaito or however you want to sound it on my sandwich.

Or in New Orleans airport where the after a lengthy explanation as to why I just needed to take my bag back for two seconds the big dude behind the counter turned to his colleague and said, “hey is this guy even speakin’ English or what?’”
I’d have retorted with ‘well, let’s drop you in Wolverhampton and see how you get on, you redneck hick,’ but as he wouldn’t have understood me there didn’t seem much point.

“You’re accent gets stronger the drunker you get,” another girl pointed out recently.

“Sorry,” I shrugged.

“No, I think it’s cute,” she giggled.

‘Ah crap,’ I thought.

“The problem is, David,” said Justin in his decidedly non-West Midlands accent at yet another recently, “I’m just not sure about the voice. I don’t think it’s convincing or consistent enough.” But, of course, he was talking about a completely different sort of voice. This is the narrative voice, the way a story is conveyed so it sounds like the word of truth, of authenticity. It’s a crucial part to get right and probably the element to writing I struggle with the most (aside from metaphors, but that’s for another time).

Raymond Chandler, for example, is not a great writer, but the Philip Marlowe books are simply brilliant because of the voice Chandler employs. The books are riddled with a sarcastic, down-beat, seen-it-all, pissed off, vaguely romantic, doom laden voice that shudders at the spine. Without it, no-one would have given them a second look, for they have few other merits.

Other writers do it in different ways (and usually not just as the only point of the book). Irivne Welsh does it partially though the Scots dialect, partly through the desperate sneer. Martin Amis’ early, good novels have it in the misogamic fury and intellectual wordsmithery. W.G Sebald did it through the calming meadering confused storytelling. Joseph O’Neil did it with Netherland and it’s grasping, failing despair of isolation. Graham Greene did it time and again just by being himself.

I think I’m nearly there with this piece. I think it just needs a little tightening and it’ll work. Perhaps, the final trick of concocting another genuinely believable authentic written voice is to be entirely comfortable in my own spoken words.

“You can definitely tell this is a David piece,” said Jonathan at another session, although he didn’t clarify whether that was a good thing or not.