I watch a lot of movies.

Like a lot.

There’s something just so enjoyable to me about dimming the lights on a quiet Tuesday night, wedging myself into the sofa with a bucket of popcorn and spending 30 minutes rampantly flicking through Netflix like a dad at Christmas desperately hunting for the last Maltesers chocolate in the Celebration's box (and to all the productivity gurus on Money X - yes, I watch Netflix. Fucking sue me). 

And when it comes to movies, one of my favourites of all time is one I’m sure many of you are also familiar with:

Seven (or “Se7en” - I’m sure the billboard designers began shotgunning Bud Lights like dudes at a college frat party when someone realised they could use that clever pun). 

But you know the movie I’m talking about, right?

Brad Pitt’s the rookie but maverick detective that couldn’t give a fuck about following the rule book. Morgan Freeman’s the seasoned vet that wants to get the hell out of the shithole district of New York he’s currently stuck in. And Gwyneth Paltrow’s the sweet, loving wife of Brad whose beautiful head ever-so-famously gets guillotined to high hell and neatly packaged up into a FedEx box by Kevin Spacey’s character (clearly she pissed off the wrong movie director…)

And when I watch this movie, there’s one thing that always sticks out to me.

One thing that, even though at this point I can recite every single line and that, despite the fact that for the past 173 times I’ve watched the film poor old Gwyneth still ends up looking like a part of Liver King’s lunchbox, still has me regularly coming back for more:  

Every single actor in that film is so distinctive.

So memorable.

So utterly irreplaceable.

Brad's IDGAF attitude.

Gwyneth's kind, affectionate contrast.

Morgan's outrageously recognisable voice.

And when I thought about this film the other day it got me contemplating.

What is it that makes someone’s voice distinct?

What is it that allows them to stand out from the crowd?

What is it that allows them to rise to the surface in a sea full of noise?

Because I’m no actor (trust me - the last thing you’d ever want is to hear any more of my grubby Essex accent than is absolutely necessary).

But I am a writer.

And the one question that keeps coming up from the people I write for is this:

“How do I find my unique writing voice?”

It’s such a hard question to answer - believe me I’ve thought about it a LOT at this point.

Because the difference between writing and speaking out loud is that we can’t rely on the same cues that make our spoken voices so distinct.

We can’t use intonation.

We can’t show our body language.

We can’t rely on gesticulation to guide our listeners through our stories when we start to notice that glazed over look on our audience’s faces that suggests our words alone aren’t quite cutting it.

There’s no in-built feedback mechanism.

At least not to the same extent.

But, for better or for worse, people seem to find the way I write pretty memorable. Pretty distinctive.

And so I wanted to use this email to reflect.

To unpack.

To try to give you guys just one insight.

One novel perspective.

One simple cue you can use when you’re writing that might help you discover that distinctive, irreplaceable voice you’ve been searching for more eagerly than all the kids that’ll be hunting for Easter eggs in their back gardens when this Sunday rolls around.

So here goes.

Here’s the one thing I do when I write that, ever since I developed this habit of incessantly spamming words into my keyboard straight after waking every morning, has helped me craft an at least somewhat memorable writing style.

A tip which I think, (nay, I hope), might help you do the same.

You ready?

Let's go.

Don't write for you. Don't even write for your readers. Write for this person instead.

When you first get into the writing game, what’s the first thing everyone tells you?

Write for yourself.

Forget the outside world.

Forget your readers.

Forget everyone and everything around you and write for you and you alone.

And I get where people are coming from when they give this advice.

I think it’s well-intended.

I think the people telling you this genuinely do believe this is how you “find your voice”.

But, from my experience, I actually don’t think it’s quite right.

I don’t think it’s quite how it works.

I think it’s missing a subtle, but crucial detail.

Because when I write, it’s not for me. 

It’s not for my readers.

And it’s certainly not for the person I used to be a few years ago.

It’s not for any of these people.

When I write, I write for one person and one person alone:

I write for the person I want to become.

For the transformation I want to undergo in my own, real, whirlwind of a life.

Because when you think about all of the things which characterise my writing:

My confidence.

My no-worries, IDGAF attitude.

My weird, winding, hyper-specific metaphors that (at least on the surface) seem to make my stories at least somewhat entertaining for you guys to read.

These are, no doubt, all traits I have in real life.

But they’re nowhere near as accentuated as my writing would suggest.

Which is okay.

Because these are the traits that I’m constantly trying to develop further in my own life.

And this gives me something to strive for when I write.

I’m no longer playing darts with a blindfold on.

I have a goalpost to shoot for.

A strong, palpable desire to improve my existence on this weird fucking spinning ball we’ve all somehow found ourselves on. 

And I think when you do this something magical happens:

You experience this warm, wonderful, all-encompassing sense of flow that shrinks everything you are right now into nothingness and has you tunnel-visioned, laser-focused on the person you want to become.

And I think people can sense it.

I think they can feel that you’re writing with intention.

That you’re trying to become something bigger than the person you are right now.

And I think that these days, in a world full of people who feel more lost than ever before, people gravitate more intensely towards one thing than anything else in this entire world:

Purpose.

A sense of direction.

Someone that can offer just a small semblance of clarity about what the future might hold.

It’s hard to put into words (ironic, I know).

I can’t really explain it.

But if, with every single word you write, with every sentence you string together, with every long winding paragraph you orchestrate during this beautiful symphony that is writing, you can actively try to project onto the person you want to become?

Then that, to me at least, is how I found my voice.

And I think - I don’t know - but I think, it might just be how you find yours too.

Decide the person you want to become. And then lean into that like a motherfucker.

So take a few minutes today.

Don't think about the person you are right now.

Don;t think about the person you used to be.

But instead, think about the person you want to become over the next couple of years.

Write down their traits.

Their personality.

Decide how they speak, decide how they carry themselves and decide upon their true, unfiltered vernacular that allows them to cut through the noise and stand out from the crowd like an NBA player at Frodo’s house party.

And then accentuate the fuck out of that with every single word you put down on the god damn page. 

It’s still you.

You’re not putting on a persona.

You’re not pulling the wool over your readers’ eyes.

You’re not being disingenuous, inauthentic or any of that bollocks.

You’re simply undergoing a transformation. 

And isn’t that what good writing is all about anyway?

Talk soon,

Harry

PS. Want to learn more about how to tell better stories and find your unique writing voice?

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