Does this mean that our ways of telling ‘true stories’ (let’s settle on that here, for simplicity’s sake) are limited? That we can only put words on the page that convey the facts with dry precision? No. Most definitely not, I’d say. Just because we’re writing a non-fiction book (or an article, or perhaps even a journal entry), we’re not obliged to make dull creative choices as to how to bring our (true) stories to life…

Let us circle back once more to that awkward little word: ‘truth’. For it strikes me as apparent that the way in which we tell our stories – our ‘voice’, if you like – also requires authenticity if we have any hope of drawing in and holding the attention of our audience.

We need to write in a way that is truly reflective of our self if we wish our readers to come along with us.

This is all well and good, I hear you say. But how? That’s the question! And it’s not a straightforward one to address*. There is only so much advice I can give you here, because only you can find your own voice, but here are a few pointers:

Find a narrative voice that feels natural to you, one in which you can write in a way that feels authentic to yourself, as opposed to a put-on accent or style that you might struggle to maintain. It is down to you to find this voice. Personalised voices are ever-more present in serious non-fiction. Books such as Edmund de Waal’s The Hare with Amber Eyes have met with huge success in blending an emotional personal account with a sober analysis of history.

Be assertive whenever possible: don’t write in the hesitant mode, don’t couch your claims in timid language (‘it seems likely’, ‘it appears he must have’, and so on).

If you become too worried about all the things you should or shouldn’t be doing it can paralyse your writing.  I’m definitely an advocate for paying attention to the overall feel, rhythm and poetry of your work. By all means invest in some grammar and style guides, but don’t think you have to follow every dictum that they give.

You often read that every sentence should have its own purpose and offer something vital to your narrative, but I think in practice this advice sounds better than it actually is. Not every sentence can be devastatingly beautiful or impart something of fundamental importance. As long as the sentences lead logically to the next it’s inevitable that some will be more mundane than others – it would be exhausting to the reader if they weren’t…

Don’t worry too much if your voice in parts of the books feels inconsistent with others – you are inconsistent, we all are. What matters is that your narrative voice feels appropriate to what you’re describing – that it rings true for the situation at hand. You can intuit the right voice for the right scene, just as you do in real life: your speaking voice reflects your multifaceted personality. In some situations you are sombre, in some angry, in some jovial; with some people you are respectful and cautious, with others you are relaxed enough to make jokes at their expense. Readers know that an individual will speak in different ways at different times, and this is fine so long as the various authorial tones feel like authentic facets of the same person.

Read to learn more? Come along and sign up for an online tutored writing course if you fancy the challenge. It’ll be fun. And the great thing – at least if you’re a fan of ambiguity – is that there’s no right or wrong answer. The key is to restrict those qualifications to instances where you really aren’t sure.

* There’s a pattern forming here, isn’t there? A confusing one in which narratives are slippery and hard to keep anchored down – very much, in this year of 2025, like truth itself…