Ever dreamed of being a journalist, but don't know where to start in an age when the boundaries of the profession feel increasingly blurred - when anyone with a platform can publish, when algorithms shape what gets seen, and when A.I. can generate copy in seconds? The question isn’t just how to break in anymore - it’s what journalism even is, and what it means to write something that feels vital, distinctive, and true.
In a new series, journalist Roe McDermott explores the human elements of writing that can’t be automated: voice, craft, instinct, and the slow, sometimes uncomfortable process of figuring out what you actually think. In a media landscape saturated with information but often starved of meaning, these are the qualities that still make writing matter - and make readers return.
In this instalment, Roe explores voice and identity.
When you encounter a piece of writing that creates connections between ideas that make you brain crackle, that gives insights or comes to conclusions you wouldn't have otherwise considered; when you read a piece of writing that challenges or provokes you, instils in you a new sense of understanding and lures you in with its language, making you appreciate its flow of words without distracting you from the content; when you read a piece of writing that feels like someone is speaking to you in a style and cadence that is distinctly their own – congratulations, you have encountered a voice.
A voice is a writer’s fingerprint, a culmination of all of their influences – the things they read growing up, their speaking style, the way they have learned to communicate ideas, the emotion they’re feeling or trying to evoke, all the internal biases and opinions and areas of expertise and ignorance that have led them to form their ideas and express them in a particular way. Most writers have several voices, an overlapping cacophony of different modes of expression depending on what they’re writing about and who their desired audience is (more on that next week), but all of their voices are shaped by their identity.
I'm open about my background, my interests, my biases in my writing, because I believe it’s important – and because I believe it creates a relationship with the reader.
We’re often scared of speaking about identity and writing, particularly in journalism. There’s an old myth of journalism being objective, and when it comes to certain forms of news broadcasting objectivity can be a worthy and admirable goal - but assuming that objectivity is inherent is dangerous. Watch Fox News for three minutes then tell me it’s not terrifying to pretend that those "journalists" are objective. Coverage of Gaza from even reputable outlets like The New York Times has repeatedly shown that objectivity is a myth – biases and leanings and sympathies are ever-present in both writing and editorial decisions.
And it comes to any form of opinion-based writing, whether it’s an opinion column, a review, a feature, aiming or claiming objectivity isn’t necessarily a strength.
Human beings aren’t objective creatures. We have strong feelings, blind spots, loyalties, fears, curiosities, lived experience that informs our view of the world. Pretending otherwise doesn’t make journalism purer; it makes it opaque. When a writer claims a view from nowhere, the reader is left guessing where the words are actually coming from. Voice, by contrast, locates the writer in the world. It tells you what they notice first, what they linger on, what they distrust, what they love. That knowledge doesn’t weaken the work; it sharpens the reader’s ability to engage with it critically and honestly.
This is where identity stops being a liability and becomes an angle. Not identity as branding, or as a checklist of demographic facts, but identity as lived context: the accumulation of experiences that determines which questions feel urgent and which answers feel insufficient. Two journalists can report on the same event with the same facts, or review the same piece of art and produce profoundly different pieces - not because one is lying or wrong, but because they are looking from different places. Voice is how that location becomes legible on the page. Voice isn’t how we tell the truth, it’s the way we express how we as individuals construct meaning, and that construction is entirely unique.
Owning your voice also means owning your bias. Bias doesn’t disappear when it’s ignored; it just goes unnamed. A writer who understands their own predispositions - political, cultural, emotional - can interrogate them, push against them, and signal them to the reader. Writers who own their identity and bias are more likely to be rigorous about where their conclusions come from, and humble about where they might fail. Voice, at its best, isn’t certainty - it’s an honest record of thought in motion.
Human beings aren't objective creatures. We have strong feelings, blind spots, loyalties, fears, curiosities, lived experience that informs our view of the world.
I write reviews of books and films, I write opinion columns, features that often have an arts-focused or human-interest angle, I also write personal essays and an advice column – and all of these are deeply, irrevocably influenced by my identity. I’m a white, cis woman raised in a middle-class household, which means that I have a particular experience of the world that leaves me with understandings and blind spots. I’m a feminist with a passion for social justice, and that lens shapes my interests. I’m a deeply nosy person with a background in qualitative research, so I love exploring the deep emotional landscape of people’s lived experiences. I’m an overthinker with academic training which means I love analysing both how structural forces impact individual experiences and also how art opens up much bigger questions about the world. I’m opinionated and strong-willed and also a romantic and idealist so my writing is usually forceful about the problems I see in the world and the urgency with which I believe we need to tackle them; empathetic and tender to people’s lived experiences; and sometimes a bit poetic because I believe art and beauty are what connects us and inspires us to keep going when the world around us is burning. These factors don’t just impact the way I think, but my writing style - the academic in me loves long sentences & a semi-colon; the poet in me loves an adjective and a tender conclusion. Sometimes a piece demands I connect with one particular aspect of my voice more strongly – an academic piece will be more formal and evidence based; a review will focus on analysis and opinion; a feature will be shaped by my interests and interviewing style but let my interviewees take centre stage; an advice column can be both blunt and tender; a personal essay will let me lean more personal and experimental.
I’m open about my background, my interests, my biases in my writing, because I believe it’s important – and because I believe it creates a relationship with the reader. Readers may not always agree with me (many don’t!) – but they know what they’re getting when they read my work. They know how my approach to topics, and even when they disagree with my conclusions, I’ve been transparent about how I arrived at them.
This relationship between writer and reader – the specificity of it, the type of intimacy that is informed through understanding a writer’s identity – is a strength, particularly in an era where LLMs like ChatGPT are now unavoidable. Machines can indeed approximate tone and structure with alarming fluency – but they don’t have a voice. There’s a reason we can recognise A.I. writing when we encounter it. There’s a blandness, a smooth, clichéd, mind-numbing quality that isn’t just down to a predictable writing style - it’s the lack of human identity behind it. A.I. can remix styles, but it doesn’t have stakes. It doesn’t have a history it’s accountable to, a life filled with experience and influence that shapes its ideas and expressions, or a future reputation on the line. It’s agreeable and polished, and utterly lacking in the idiosyncrasies, flaws, foibles and uniqueness of though and expression who makes us – writers but also simply humans – who we are.
Human voice carries risk: of being wrong, of being exposed, of being disagreed with, of revealing ourselves – for better and for worse. That risk is precisely what gives journalism its charge. Voice is not decoration layered on top of information; it is the means by which information becomes meaning. And in an age of too much information and disinformation and not enough meaning, voice is more vital than ever.
Exercise: Finding Your Voice
Step 1: Notice the Voice
Read a piece of writing that made you feel something - challenged, provoked, understood, irritated. As you read, don’t focus on the argument. Instead, ask: What does this writer care about most? What does the writer seem obsessed with? Where do they linger and what do they rush past? What assumptions do they make about the reader? Where can you feel their values, even if they’re not explicitly stated? What makes this sound like a person, not a press release?
Jot down a few observations about how the writer thinks on the page.
Step 2: Write From Where You Stand
Pick a small subject - a news item, a book, a cultural moment, a personal irritation. Write 400–500 words about it. Before you begin, write a private list answering: Why do I care about this? What do I already believe going in? What might I be wrong about?
Then write. As you write, don’t try to sound "neutral" or "journalistic." Let your instincts lead. Follow the connections your mind naturally makes. Use the sentence length, rhythm, metaphors, and level of certainty that feel most like how you actually think.
Don’t aim for objectivity. Let your biases, curiosities, and uncertainties surface.
When you’re done, reread your piece and underline one moment where your background or experience clearly shapes your perspective and one moment of uncertainty or hesitation.
When you’re finished, underline one sentence that could only have been written by you.
That sentence was created by your unique identity and interactions with the world. That sentence is the beginning of your voice.
Next: On the myth of a writer’s One True Voice...
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