During a recent critique group session, one member asked why I was concerned about improving my authorial voice, because “that’s never been a problem with your writing.”
“I think we differ on what is meant by authorial voice,” I responded. When he pressed further, I explained how my interpretation of received feedback points to a fundamental weakness in this area. What we were really debating wasn’t quality, but definition—what “authorial voice” actually means, and how consciously it must be shaped in fiction.
In my post How to Use Authorial Voice to Find New Reads, I provided insight into how I understand the concept of authorial voice. While my speaking and writing are strong and contain a clear style, I’ve struggled to incorporate the necessary modifications—conveying emotion, rhythm, and clear character motivations—required for fiction.
My goal is to reach a level of writing quality similar to Jodi Picoult or Walter Lamb—writers whose work aligns with my tonal and thematic aims for Hope and Madness. I’m less drawn to the more literary approaches of Toni Morrison or Anthony Doerr, whose priorities differ from my own.
As promised, below is my take on Humpty Dumpty, along with the AI’s creation inspired by my first chapter. One key difference is my penchant for puns and egg-cellent wordplay, which you won’t find in the AI’s version, as it’s not part of the Hope and Madness narrative.
I’d be interested to know who you think is correct, my critique member or me. Have I reached the point where my authorial voice works, or do I still have a way to go?
My version of Humpty Dumpty
Lord Humpty Dumpty scrambled past a guard and stormed from the feast. Laughter from the other lords followed him up the stairs. His peers constantly cracked jokes about him, taunting him for his ungainly physique and soft constitution, traits unbecoming of a Lord. Humpty’s mother counseled him to ignore their cruelty, chiding him for being too thin-skinned and brittle. Father told him to toughen up or the world would break him. Yet, as their only son, they kept him from the war, where the heat of battle would transform him.
His outrage increased with each step. By the time he reached the tower, his anger was at a full boil, hardening his resolve to prove the others wrong. He hatched a plan to prove his worth—he would leave the nest and join the fight. The parapet beckoned, strong and unyielding, bathed in the golden light of the fading day. Humpty’s chest heaved. He swung his leg over the stone ledge, stared out over the kingdom, and shouted, “I am Lord Humpty Dumpty and will not be coddled.”
Humpty felt, for a single dizzy second, wholly alive. A few peasants looked up and pointed at him. He waved. The motion tilted him slightly, causing him to wobble and tumble from the wall.
On the way down, an eddy of regret swirled in his gut. His last thought was how his dreams of validation and glory were crushed by an unfortunate twist of fate. He hit the ground with a crack, sharp as cannon fire, that reverberated through the kingdom.
All poured from the feast. Humpty’s parents knelt at the shattered shell of their son and wept. Lords and ladies averted their eyes, ashamed of the carnage their careless words caused. Through villages and manors, the tragic story of Humpty Dumpty’s demise was retold. His tale became a legend, a warning to instill, that words, like daggers, have the power to kill.
AI Rewrite of Humpty Dumpty based on my current first chapter
I include the AI-generated version not as a rival, but as a contrast—an example of how “voice” can be approximated stylistically while missing narrative intent, character agency, and tone.
Certainly! Here’s a reimagined version of “Humpty Dumpty” in the voice of the author who wrote the passage you provided, capturing the introspective and detailed style:
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Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall, a precarious perch that mirrored the fragility of my own life’s balance. The sun cast long shadows, stretching across the bricks like the unyielding expectations that had always loomed over me. He was a figure of whimsy, yet his fall was inevitable, much like the cascade of events that had brought me to this moment of reckoning.
When Humpty tumbled, it wasn’t just a simple fall. It was a shattering, a scattering of pieces that echoed the disarray of my own thoughts. The king’s horses and men, with their futile attempts to restore what was lost, reminded me of the countless times I’d tried to piece together the fragments of my own dreams, only to find them slipping through my fingers like grains of sand.
The wall, once a symbol of stability, now stood as a testament to the impermanence of all things. As I watched the scene unfold, I couldn’t help but reflect on the choices that had led me here, to this crossroads where past decisions and future uncertainties collided.
In the end, Humpty’s story was not just a tale of a fall, but a reminder of the delicate balance we all strive to maintain. It was a call to embrace the chaos, to find strength in vulnerability, and to seek solace in the knowledge that even in brokenness, there is beauty to be found.
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Seeing the two versions side by side clarified something for me: voice isn’t ornamental. It’s the accumulation of choices—what’s emphasized, what’s withheld, and whose interior life the story serves.