Never before did I realize that I liked a particular writing because the writer writes like me. By this I mean they write in my voice. This morning I emailed my spouse part of a blog I liked. (Yes, even though we sit in adjoining rooms, rather than shout back and forth we use email. Once upon a time we used walkie talkies.)
She, rather than emailing back, actually came into my room to visit. Did you write this she asked me. I said no, another’s blog, did you like? Yes, I did she said, he writes like you.
Let me first say I recognize the compliment. I believe I responded with thank you. But never before did I consciously realize writing like me is a reason for enjoying someone else’s writings.
If we were describing thinking, rather than writing, this would disturb me because I like to think I like people who don’t think like me. You might say thinking is a symptom of writing and I would agree, but voice is an art style. I see a writer’s voice, but cannot mind-read. Voice is on the outside and, as with beauty, it is in the eye of the beholder.
So surely I would like a voice like mine even if we didn’t think alike. I can like eggplant in its presentation without liking eggplant. Never before have I understood this, do you?