A little while back in this space, I wrote about certain writers and writings acting as inspiration, or permission, for your own efforts. I’d like to take up what I think is the flip side of that particular coin: separating your voice from your mentors’.
James Thurber wrote once of Robert Benchley, one of his influences, “One of the greatest fears of the humorous writer is that he has spent three weeks writing something done faster and better by Benchley in 1919.” And chances are, you’ve been there, too. You re-read something, whether it’s a first draft you’ve just finished, or something you’ve re-written for the nth time, and realize that it’s a copy of your favorite writer (or, worse still, one you don’t like all that well).
I’ll admit, I went through my Benchley phase, and a Barthelme phase when I was in college–among others. If you encounter something that inspires you to create something in response (I’m wording it that way for those of you who paint, play music, et cetera), odds are that there’ll be something of the inspiration in the finished product.
At some point, though, rather than being disappointed in these stylistic shifts and copies, I started to embrace them and use them instead. It’s one thing to unwittingly slip into someone else’s voice or style; it’s quite another to pick it apart and use it consciously. While it’s not the same as finding out what makes the writer him or herself tick, figuring out what makes their style work can be a fascinating and rewarding exercise.
You can learn a lot not just by reading authors, but by attempting to write like them. If you read closely, and write carefully, it’s an education all its own. We learn to speak in part by mimicry; it shouldn’t be all that foreign to learn to write in much the same way.
So if you tend to be a bit too verbose, try on Hemingway; if your descriptions seem flat to you, put on some Annie Proulx; if you’re trying too hard to be funny, attempt Barry (or, conversely, attempt your least favorite politician; few things inspire humor like someone taking themselves too seriously). Your bookshelves will have other examples than the ones I’ve listed. Rather than looking at this as work, think of it as picking through the racks at a clothing store. Some of the stuff won’t quite fit, and will make you look or feel ridiculous; other bits will slip on comfortably. Somewhere in that Zelig-like process of slipping into and out of identities, though, you’ll find your own voice and style starting to emerge, and that’s when the real fun starts.