Wildcard Wednesday #1: The Story That Failed

Wildcard Wednesday: The Story That Failed and the Voice I Found

Welcome to Wildcard Wednesday! Today, I’m stepping outside my usual storytelling to share a personal tale—not a polished fiction like A Dance of Time or The Collector, but a raw, messy moment from my writing life that changed everything. Every writer has a skeleton in their drawer, a story that crashed and burned, leaving lessons in its ashes. For me, it was a fantasy epic I wrote a decade ago, a sprawling mess that taught me to trust my unique voice. Here’s the story of that failure, the heartbreak it brought, and the tips it inspired to help you find your own authentic voice.

Ten years ago, I decided I had to write a fantasy novel. It was the era of dragons and chosen ones, and I thought, “This is what sells!” So, I crafted a 200-page beast filled with prophecies, sword fights, and a brooding hero named Kael. I spent months hunched over my laptop, fueled by Dr. Pepper and ambition, picturing my name on bestseller lists. But as I read the draft, my heart sank. Kael felt flat, the plot predictable, the world like a cardboard set. It just wasn’t me. My stories thrive on quiet, emotional moments—like Laura’s fluttering heart in A Dance of Time or the Collector’s gentle hand guiding Amy. This fantasy? It was someone else’s dream, a costume I’d forced myself to wear.

The failure hit hard. I’d poured my soul into those pages, only to realize they lacked mine. I shoved the manuscript into a drawer, vowing never to look at it again. But one evening, feeling brave (or reckless), I pulled it out. Reading it was like meeting a younger, unsure version of myself, one chasing trends instead of truth. That night, I started writing something new—a short story about a woman choosing an emerald dress, her heart trembling with hope. That became A Dance of Time, and it felt like coming home. I tweaked it to fit in yesterday’s The failure of Kael’s saga taught me that my voice—rooted in intimate, emotional connections—mattered more than any genre fad.

Here are three tips I learned to help you find and trust your own voice, drawn from that humbling experience:

1. Write What Moves You

Your voice shines when you write from passion, not obligation. After abandoning my fantasy, I realized I love stories of human connection, like the Collector’s compassion for a child or Laura’s courage on a first date. Ask yourself: What stories make your heart race? For me, it’s moments of vulnerability, often inspired by my love for picture books, where a single sentence can carry a world of feeling. Try this: Write a 100-word scene about something you love—a place, a memory, a dream. Let your emotions lead, and see what voice emerges.

2. Revise with Your Heart

Your first draft might feel like my failed epic—clunky, off-key. That’s okay. Revising is where you carve out your voice. When I reworked The Collector, I focused on the emotional truth of each soul’s transition, cutting anything that felt forced. Read your draft and highlight lines that feel authentic, that make you feel. Rewrite the rest to match that tone. A fun fact: I salvaged a single line from my fantasy flop—“a light like a summer afternoon”—and it became the Collector’s golden glow. Find your draft’s hidden gems; they’re your voice’s foundation.

3. Read Aloud to Find Your Rhythm

Reading aloud, a habit rooted in my love for picture books, reveals your voice’s cadence. When I read A Dance of Time aloud, Laura’s hesitant hope came alive in the pauses, the rhythm of her thoughts. My failed fantasy sounded stilted, like I was mimicking someone else. Try this: Read a page of your work in a quiet room, maybe in a character’s voice, as I do with picture books. Does it flow? Does it feel like you? Tweak until it sings. Bonus: I recommend The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore by William Joyce for its lyrical read-aloud magic.

That failed manuscript was my darkest writing moment, but it led to my brightest revelation: my voice is enough. It’s in the quiet ache of Laura’s memories, the tender weight of the Collector’s role. It’s in the stories I tell when I’m not trying to be anyone else. If you’re wrestling with a draft that feels wrong, know this: your failures are teachers. They’ll guide you to the stories only you can tell.

What’s a writing failure that shaped your voice? Share in the comments—I’d love to hear your story and maybe feature it in a future Wildcard Wednesday post. Keep writing, keep trusting your heart, and let’s tell stories that matter.

Shirley