Lies of Omission: Coming to Terms With My Voice Through the Conceptual Creation of “The Seven Somers”

Nearly every piece of writing occupies both the authentic and the inauthentic space. On one hand, authors—whether purposefully or subconsciously—embed pieces of their own identity into their writing. Their characters, opinions, word choice, and even settings are fabricated from the experiences of the writer who lies behind the 12pt font. On the other hand, these pieces of self are often only small glimpses into the mind of this author; each slab of writing is like a door that is halfway open, displaying a tidy and partially obscured room to everyone who takes a peek. Well, at least that’s how I see it; a duality between authentic presentation and artificial creation. Authors sharing facets of their identity in controlled and highly edited bursts. This was a balance that I found difficult to explore in my own writing, but it is only through my struggles and eventual understanding that the conceptual underpinnings of my portfolio entitled “The Seven Somers” were born. But hang tight, as I describe my struggle and eventual solution to balancing authenticity in my voice.

My struggles with authentically portraying my voice began long before college; for a majority of my schooling, I was taught that writing’s singular purpose is that of a persuasive tool. 

 In fact, if I had to describe it, my early literacy education closely echoes the words of author Stephen Willhoit, who states that “at the heart of every assignment is the rhetorical situation—someone writing to someone about something for some purpose”(Wilhoit quoted by Melzer 20). While he is largely correct, my school took this to heart, heavily prioritizing standard rhetorical strategies over uniquity and creativity. Like most kids growing up, I was encouraged to write formulaically. We learned rhetorical tools such as ICE (introduce, cite, and explain) and structural tools such as the five-part essay (introduction, three body paragraphs, and conclusion) all in an effort to hone one particular voice. While this education effectively trained my academically persuasive voice, I found it increasingly difficult to share pieces of myself in my writing; I had sacrificed authenticity for consistency, a concession that benefited my grades, but was deeply harmful to my enjoyment of writing. 

I had believed that my distrust of my own voice would naturally pass as a transitioned from high school to college, but unfortunately, I found myself relying on the same literary crutches that I had learned years before. Before taking “Representing Thought” nearly every piece of my college writing assumed the same tired academic voice.  I would use similar words, incorporate meta-commentary the same way, and even slip in the word juxtaposed at every opportunity in an effort to sound “academic”. This wasn’t to say I was producing bad pieces of work. In fact, most of my writing—not to pat myself on the back too much—was well researched and put forth complex ideas. The issue was that I didn’t feel like I was saying them. I felt like I had done a bunch of research and then robbed someone of their voice, a voice that they were much more comfortable using.  As author Anne Lamott puts it, “The truth of your experience can only come through in your own voice. If it is wrapped in someone else’s voice we readers will feel suspicious as if you are dressed up in someone else’s clothes” (Lamott 199). I believe this was the central reason I was particularly self-critical in the development of my writing; there was a disconnect between what I wanted to say and what I put on the page. I wasn’t representing my true style but instead parroting the voices that I had success with previously. While this realization was always at the back of my mind, it wasn’t until nearly halfway through my freshman year that I was pushed to fundamentally reevaluate the way I approached writing.

My change in writing can best be described as a frustrated reaction to external influence. In other words, people in my life told me to write things I didn’t enjoy. My fear and anger culminated during what I will call the scholarship season. Among others, I applied for a summer Fullbright program. I was deeply excited, determined to write a personal statement so unique and filled to the brim with my identity that my acceptance would be given at metaphorical gunpoint. Looking back, as a freshman in college who could barely define what an adverb was, I was punching a little out of my weight class. But no matter, I tackled my first draft and created a questionable amalgamation of anecdotes, comedy, work experiences, lessons, family, and travel. I even managed to incorporate a vivid dream sequence into the draft. It was my first stab at the personal statement, not a masterpiece but definitively me. From there I entered the revision process, working with a Fulbright expert to ensure I had the best chance. When I met with the expert, her central criticism shook me to my core. “It needs to be less creative,” she stated bluntly as her main complaint. I was stunned and honestly a little confused; it sounded like she was actively recommending me to make my writing less interesting and personal. 

I grappled with her advice for weeks. She obviously had expertise on what makes a good personal statement, but the thought of intentionally sacrificing my writing’s creativity made me want to take a cold shower. Eventually, I caved and decided to rewrite my statement in a more digestible format. While unsurprisingly it produced a piece of writing that was more polished, I had excluded several important facets of my identity that I wanted to share. Upon reexamination, it felt like these idiosyncrasies that were present in my first draft were essential to understanding who I am. Without them, my writing was no more than lies of omission. 

This betrayal of both voice and identity was at the crux of my portfolio’s structure. 

In rejection of the compromises that I made during the scholarship process,  I wanted to showcase almost every different voice and context of my writing that I had produced in the last year. My betrayal of voice was deeply connected to my initial misunderstanding of the delicate balance between authenticity and performance. It is my hope that the division of my writing into categories will allow the readers to easily understand both the purpose of my pieces and the contexts in which they exist. While displaying the many contexts and environments in which my voice changes was most definitely an interesting trip for the reader, it also served the purpose of making me more confident in my writing as a whole. By presenting my work as a combination of academia, creative writing, poetry, and even photography, I feel far less defined by any singular piece of writing that I’ve constructed.

After completing my personal statement, I felt like I seriously neglected the role of identity in both my writing and my voice. I made the very deliberate choice to include as many personal and self-reflective pieces as possible. I made a category called self-reflection in an effort to share more aspects of myself directly through my writing and tip my balance back towards authenticity. Some of my categories are academic, some are creative, and some are autobiographical. It is my hope that each additional piece in my portfolio will crack the door a little wider for the reader, revealing maybe not the most perfect pieces of writing, but pieces that are unapologetically me. For example, I have a love of sci-fi, but I always found it difficult to incorporate into an academic setting. The open nature of our portfolio allowed me to introduce this writing while remaining thematically consistent with the way our voice changes. Readers can view the changes in my writing depending on formality, I strike drastically different tones depending on if I’m constructing a research paper, or making a blog about pirates. I also designed my website to be as cartoonish and playful as possible in a further rejection of having a singular academic voice.

When it’s all said and done, my conceptual design of the Seven Somers represents the realization that I should have published my original personal statement. Through this process, I realized that the most interesting authors are not afraid to take risks. As George Orwell concludes in his excerpt entitled “why I write”, “one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality”(Orwell 8). Your writing doesn’t always have to be polished, nor does it need to illustrate what a perfect person you are, but it does need to be unapologetically you.