Borrowing a Voice to Find Your Own

The world doesn’t need more copy-paste Christianity. It needs your voice—anchored in Scripture, seasoned with grace, and flowing with authenticity. It needs your faithful “yes” in this season, even if the outcome isn’t clear yet. — Kennita (Kay) Williams

I scan AI notifications. Most of them earn little more than a glance, but one recently caught my attention: ChatGPT starts blocking direct requests to copy an author’s style. ChatGPT will now instead offer a response that draws on the broad qualities of those authors while remaining distinct in its own voice.

That immediately raised a question. Does this mean I can no longer ask ChatGPT to mimic Shakespeare or Chaucer just for fun? The answer was reassuring. Shakespeare and Chaucer are different cases because their works have been in the public domain for generations. I can still ask for something written in a Shakespearean or Chaucer-like manner for study, experimentation, parody, or plain old amusement.

That’s good news, because if I ever decide I want to sound like Chaucer, I’m going to need help. If you haven’t heard of Chaucer, here’s the previous sentence written in his style: That is glad tydinges, for certes, if ever I determine me to speken as Chaucer did, muchel helpe shall I need.

A Literary Playground

There is something wonderfully useful about taking an ordinary idea and asking what might happen if another writer had tackled it.

What would Shakespeare do with writer’s block?

What would Mark Twain do with a pompous editor?

How might Edgar Allan Poe describe a deadline approaching at midnight?

What would Jules Verne do with a writer staring at a blank screen as though it were an unexplored continent?

These exercises can be hilarious, but they can also teach us something. When we imitate an older writer for practice, we begin noticing things we might otherwise overlook: sentence length, rhythm, vocabulary, description, humor, pacing, dialogue, imagery, and narrative distance.

We stop merely reading the story and begin to examine the machinery beneath it. And that practice can improve our own voice. Why is that important? Because chances are, your writing voice is how you learned to frame your message in school, too much like everybody else—and also a bit boring.

Public Domain Doesn’t Mean Every Work by the Author

There is an important distinction here. As of 2026, works published in the United States before 1931 are generally in the public domain. That gives us an enormous library of literature to study, quote, adapt, and experiment with. Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Edgar Allan Poe, Jules Verne, and many others give us plenty of material. Even some early works by writers such as F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, and Agatha Christie now fall within the public-domain period. But we have to be careful with the wording.

It isn’t really accurate to say that a writer’s style became public domain in 1931. Copyright protects particular creative works, not a general writing style. And an author may have some books in the public domain while later books remain protected.

AI companies can also establish their own rules concerning how closely their systems imitate recognizable authors, especially modern or living ones. Still, for writers interested in studying the masters, there is an enormous literary playground available.

The Goal Isn’t to Become Mark Twain

Suppose I took one of my chapters and asked ChatGPT to rewrite it as Mark Twain might have written it. I wouldn’t want to publish that version. I would want to study it. Why? Maybe Twain’s version would reveal an opportunity for humor that I missed. Perhaps Hemingway’s approach would show me that three paragraphs could become one. Edgar Allen Poe might expose possibilities for atmosphere. Fitzgerald might reveal places where imagery could carry more emotional weight. Agatha Christie might make me reconsider what information I’m revealing and when I’m revealing it.

The exercise isn’t about becoming another writer. It’s about discovering possibilities in our own writing. A piano student studies Mozart without trying to become Mozart. An artist studies Rembrandt without surrendering his own artistic identity. In the same way, writers can study the techniques of accomplished authors without becoming literary impersonators.

How I Might Write About Tom Sawyer

For sake of comparison, let’s look at how I might write about Tom who was stuck having to paint a fence.

“Wow,” Ben said. “You’re really stuck with painting that fence, huh?”

Tom leaned back and studied the section he’d just painted, squinting like an artist judging a canvas. He again dragged the brush across the fence and stepped back to inspect his work.

Ben came up beside him, crunching an apple.

Tom kept his eyes on the fence, his mouth watering for the taste of an apple.

“So,” Ben said, “I see you got stuck working today?”

Tom turned as if he had only just noticed him. “Oh, hey, Ben. Didn’t see you there.”

Ben grinned. “I’m heading down to the river for a swim. Bet you wish you could come. I guess you’re stuck here, having to work, right?”

Tom stared at him. “What makes you think this is work?”

“Seriously?” Ben looked mystified. “You’re painting a fence.”

Tom dipped the brush and went back to work. “Maybe it’s work. Maybe it isn’t. All I know is, I kinda like it.”

Ben laughed. “Come on. You’re saying you enjoy this?”

Tom kept painting. “Why wouldn’t I? How often does somebody get trusted to paint a great fence like this?”

Ben stopped chewing.

Tom brushed another smooth strip of white across the boards, then stepped back to inspect his progress. He tilted his head, added a little paint to one spot, and studied the result again.

Ben watched.

Tom made one more careful stroke.

Ben watched even closer. After a while, he said, “Hey, Tom.”

Tom didn’t look at him. “Yeah?”

“Let me try.”

What Mark Twain Actually Wrote

Here are his words:

“Hi-yi! You’re up a stump, ain’t you!”

No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then he gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result, as before.

Ben ranged up alongside of him.

Tom’s mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work.

Ben said: “Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?”

Tom wheeled suddenly and said: “Why, it’s you, Ben! I warn’t noticing.”

“Say—I’m going in a-swimming, I am. Don’t you wish you could? But of course you’d druther work—wouldn’t you? Course you would!”

Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said: “What do you call work?”

“Why, ain’t that work?”

Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly: “Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain’t. All I know, is, it suits Tom Sawyer.”

“Oh come, now, you don’t mean to let on that you like it?”

The brush continued to move. “Like it? Well, I don’t see why I oughtn’t to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?”

That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth—stepped back to note the effect—added a touch here and there—criticised the effect again—Ben watching every move and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said: “Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little.”

Writers Need Their Own Voices

Ultimately, every author needs a recognizable voice. Not the common writing style we learned in school. Not even the typical voices we so often hear in our culture. Each voice should sound unique for each situation, a different tone from anybody else.

Our voice should grow from everything we bring to the page: our experiences, beliefs, vocabulary, personality, sense of humor, observations, wounds, victories, and view of the world. Trying to sound permanently like someone else would weaken what makes our writing worth reading. But studying another writer’s voice can help us better understand our own.

• When I recognize why Twain makes me laugh, I can think more carefully about humor.

• When I recognize why Hemingway feels economical, I can examine unnecessary words.

• When I recognize why Dickens makes characters memorable, I can study characterization.

• When I recognize why Poe creates uneasiness before anything frightening actually happens, I can study atmosphere and anticipation.

We don’t borrow the voice. We borrow the lesson.

Editors Need an Even Better Ear

This becomes even more important for editors. When I’m editing another author’s work, my job isn’t to make that writer sound like me. In fact, one of the dangers of strong editing is that an editor can unintentionally polish every writer into the same voice. The sentences may become grammatically cleaner while the author gradually disappears.

A good editor has to ask a different question: How can I make this clearer, stronger, and more readable without removing the person who wrote it? That requires an ear for voice.

One author naturally writes short, direct sentences. Another author loves long, flowing descriptions. One uses understated humor. Another tells stories with enthusiasm and exaggeration. One sounds conversational while another sounds reflective.

Those differences aren’t necessarily problems to fix. They may be precisely what needs to be preserved.

Studying Style Builds Editing Skill

This is one reason experimenting with famous literary styles can be valuable for editors as well as writers. If I can identify what makes Twain sound like Twain, I’m strengthening my ability to hear stylistic differences. If I can recognize the difference between Hemingway’s restraint and Fitzgerald’s lyricism, I’m training myself to recognize how writers make different choices successfully. That skill transfers directly into editing.

Instead of unconsciously asking, How would I write this? I become better at asking, How can this author say it better in his or her own voice?

That’s a much better editing question.

Use AI as a Microscope, Not a Mask

Perhaps that’s one of the best uses of artificial intelligence for writers. AI doesn’t need to become the voice we hide behind. It can become a microscope that helps us examine writing more closely. Ask it to show you how different writers might approach the same scene. Compare sentence structures. Study pacing. Experiment with description. Look at different ways humor can work. Then put the examples aside and return to your manuscript.

The final question should never be: How can I sound more like Mark Twain? A better question is: What did Mark Twain understand about writing that can help me sound more like myself? That’s where imitation becomes education.

And that’s when borrowing another writer’s voice can help us discover our own.

For a practical guide to storytelling, check out Storytelling at Its Best

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