In last month’s LOW NOTES, I talked about copying the voice of the great masters to find the genius behind their work. Now that you’ve done that…WHAT’S NEXT? (Aaron Sorkin reference, CHECK!)

Find Your Own Voice

(Here’s a story of when Jay thought of something to say and accidentally used his outside voice and said it.)

June of 1995, International Brassfest was held at my grad school, Indiana University (Go Hoosiers!) It featured several days of the world’s greatest brass players convening on a small Indiana college town for masterclasses, performances, and instrument and equipment sales up the wazoo. It was a-MAY-zing (minus the annoying double-tonguing. Again, see last month’s LOW NOTES.)

I attended a master class held by a famous teacher and player, titled “Find Your Own Voice.” The clinician did lots of talking about growing into the musician each player was destined to be, and they performed two pieces as well. One of the pieces with trombone and piano was also being performed at the festival by world-renowned trombonist, Joe Alessi, accompanied by the festival orchestra.

The clinician spent 45 minutes discussing how they developed their own style over the years and cited their influences and background. In and of itself, the session was an inspirational discussion. They planned on closing their presentation with the second piece of music, and said, “I was going to play (trombone piece) but since Joe is going to play it tomorrow night, I’ll play (some other piece) instead.

At that moment, I should have sat there like a polite attendee, and remained quiet, but cocky grad student, Jay Heltzer muttered under his breath, “Find your own voice.”

The clinician heard my comment and laughed with awkward pain like a kidney stone just told a good joke whilst embedding itself in their urethra.

That was ballsy of me. It was also rude. I still feel bad about it thirty years later. Thankfully, I’ve learned my lesson and I haven’t had a verbal foul-up since. 😇😜 But the moment stuck with me for the right reason as well. It made me ask…

How do you find your own voice?

Looking over my Goodreads and StoryGraph profiles (feel free to add me), I asked the same question of each author I gave four stars or more to.

I love the tone of Gregory Maguire’s prose, but I don’t want to write like him.

I love the descriptive worldbuilding of N.K. Jemesin, but I don’t want to write like her.

I love the ribald ferocity of Hunter S. Thompson’s storytelling. I don’t want to write like him (or do drugs, or drink, or use firearms).

And the list keeps going and going. Those writers are a-MAY-zing at what they do. I would love to be as prolific and varied as their output and a mere quarter as successful as them, yet I don’t want to write like them. Why not?

I want to write like Jay Heltzer.

What does that mean? Aren’t I doing it already?

Honestly, I have no idea.

Asking me to describe my writing voice is like trying to describe the shape of my own nostrils without the use of a mirror or using the word “round.” I know they’re there, but other than that, they’re nostrilling just as they should.

Meanwhile, I don’t know what my writing voice is like. I use words I already know and pray they line up in grammatical order.

“Jay Heltzer’s writing voice is 78% grammatically correct.” That doesn’t work.

I don’t think that the words produced by my brain and fingers are an exact match to the words produced by my brain and my vocal chords. Do I talk the way I write, or do I write the way I talk? (Geez, if we could edit the things we say like the things we type, my opening story would never have happened. I can think of one unnamed clinician that agrees.)

You may remember when I discussed the history of who I am in this early LOW NOTES post from December of 2022. Since then, I’ve consumed more, so much more, and yet I feel like the same me. Ask my kids or my colleagues, I’m cracking the same one-liners, using the same pacing, and remain inspired by the same people.

No matter who I read, and no matter how many of Gregory Maguire’s words I copy by hand, I’m still writing my words.

My trombone sound concept is a mix of several (now-former) orchestral bass trombonists. Add to that, my elbows jut out from my torso when I take a breath, just like Charlie Vernon. I inhale air like John Rojak like there’s a hot piece of baked potato in my mouth, shaped like I’m saying “ohhh.” I manipulate my bell angles on stage like Jeff Reynolds. I’m certainly my own player, but I can not get away from those that I watched and listened to endlessly when I was younger… and do I need to? Something something old dog, new tricks, etc.

In my… or our pursuit of developing our craft, we can’t, nor should we attempt to stray away from our influences. It’s who we are. As we traverse down the salad bar of our skill sets while we art our art, we fill our plates with this and that. (I’ll take some Christopher Moore romaine, some Rachel Yoder carrots, I’ll skip the Kurt Vonnegut peppers, maybe I’ll try the pickled William S. Burroughs onions, alright Toni Morrison olives, lets have a go) If you are intentionally trying to change (I’m a maybe on the Charles Bukowski croutons) the end result will still be you.

Doesn’t matter how you do it, but do it convincingly.

My mother will often ask me about performing music of certain composers and I mention how (big name composer’s big name piece) bores me to death.

“But Jay, doesn’t that affect your performance?”

“I’m a pro, mom. My job is to make the audience believe I’m enjoying playing that piece.”

…except stupid double tonguing with no musical merit. You already know I hate that shit with a passion.

As I stare at the screen, contemplating the best way to close this out, the loving and supportive cursor blinks with anticipation of my next consonant-vowel combo. Meanwhile, there’s a dozen famous writers looking over my shoulder, wondering what I’ll say next and who gets credit for it’s style, syntax and prose.

I do. They’re my words. That’s how I #KeepFuckingWriting.

Write on!