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    Bridge Ladies When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
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You Take a Piece of Me With You

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What exactly does it mean to be in love with the sound of your own voice and why is that a bad thing, apart from the fact that it’s bad a thing. How does it manifest? Cleverness, for sure. Overwriting. Showing off. Maybe ascending to the second highest rung of the ladder is more canny or effective than going all the way to the top. False humility is also a form of it. Skipping down the keyboard like Lolita. It’s one of those things: I know it when I see it.

Are you in love with your own voice?

12 Responses

  1. When I’m least aware of my voice, it’s at its best.

  2. It’s whether your love blinds you to all other factors

  3. i often fall in love with my own voice and force myself to get a grip!

    sometimes i find myself writing tight, scared to open myself and my writing up. that’s more of a problem for me lately.

    i think voice is difficult when you’re not certain why you’re writing this particular story or to whom you are addressing. clever is okay as long as there’s truth.*

    *it’s truth that’s hard to find in writing and life.


  4. “Are you in love with your own voice?”



    Maybe a sentence or two, here and there. There are ones that make me think, oooo, good one. All I have to do is wait and I’ll see I’m wrong. Really wrong.

    God forbid I end up loving it because that means I might as well toss learning anything else aside. I know I still have a LOT to learn.

    And not to go on and on about it – but – I can see it too, at times. Often (and to my dismay) it’s in books getting a lot of hype and then I wonder WTF.

  5. If it reads like it needs canned laughter or dramatic music, or is the answer to a multiple choice question, the voice is uppity and needs a time out. In love with my own voice? No. Grudging respect..sometimes. Exasperation…often.

  6. Sometimes. And when I do…bliss.

  7. Sigh. Yes. Sometimes I’m way too impressed with myself and crashing to earth hurts. The thing is, I don’t necessarily think it’s bad. I mean, if I didn’t think I had something to say, I wouldn’t be writing. The words come out and I like what I hear.
    Now, that being said,here’s the pisser: some of the shit I’ve written offhand and tossed away, stuff I didn’t think was all that good, has gotten attention and positive feedback, so I just need to figure out how to harness the real and abandon the fluff.
    And one more thing: If only I had a voice that could sing! I’m not that strong a singer and it’s hard for me to carry a tune all the way through, but fuck it, I like to sing.

  8. When I get it, after a lot of agonizing, I’m not so much in love with it but in love with having locked into it. If I love a passage too much, I know, even when I don’t yet want to accept it, that the part in question may have to go — or at least be scrutinized twice as hard.

  9. “Are you in love with your own voice?”

    I think so, yes, sometimes I am.

    Everything is performance. All the world’s a stage, and all that. And look at our culture. We worship performance. In the literary field, there’s this constant pressure to be constantly performing, constantly calling out, “Look at this cleverness here, right here, right now — that’s my cleverness, everybody!”

    Then for the student writer, there’s the admonition, “Find your own voice.”

    And then editors, they look for that voice, the unique voice, that new voice.

    We worship at the Temple of Voice.

  10. Only when I am singing in front of an audience. There, the music provides a safe structure for interacting with strangers and the lyrics a sort of shield from revealing the true me. However, when I’m writing, I’ll admit that the Voice within those sentences is still a work in progress.

  11. And I thought I’d be the only one to shout, sing and scream the words Yes, Oh God, That’s It, YESSS!
    Behold, bland world, my voicey fucking tribe.
    If you don’t like it, squeem your meekliness back under your blankies, and read James Fucking Patterson.

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