I've been searching everywhere for it, but I can't find it. I've dedicated the greater part of a year to looking for it, trying every method I've ever heard recommended to finding it, but I'm no better off now than when I started. What is it I'm looking for? One of the most important things a writer can have - my own voice.

Some people will tell you that everyone has a unique voice all their own. They'll tell you it is very easy to find yours. Simply read books A, B, and C, and do writing exercises 1-12, and providing you've been dedicated enough, you'll magically discover your voice.

Other people will admit that its quite a difficult thing. They will be very vague and mystical about it, and they'll tell you about the agonizing struggle they went through to find it. You get the feeling these are the sort of people who turn every close call, like traffic jams and long lines at the grocery store, into tragic, near-death experiences.

It shouldn't be too hard to find one's voice, right? After all, everyone has one. Don't we? Truth be told, I'm starting to wonder about mine. Could it be that I don't have one? Maybe its just gone away to hide because it felt that I was picking on it and nagging the poor thing to death.

I could understand it wanting to pack its bags and go on an extended vacation - without me. The writing exercises - the ones designed to make your voice stronger, taller, healthier, more fashionable and remarkably like the author's example in every way - they are all kind of like being on a diet. You can't just write whatever comes into your head. You have to be on a program, or you'll never get anywhere. Like diets, these programs aren't much fun, and the promised good seems just about a difficult to obtain.

So, what is a voiceless writer to do?

I'm very tempted to go on vacation with my voice. We can lie in the sun together on some lovely beach, and threaten to toss one another in the ocean. We'll go to nice restaurants in the evenings and eat too much, but it won't matter, because we won't be on a diet anymore. Then, my voice and I can go on long walks together, talking about whatever we want, and get to know one another.

Then maybe I can try to tempt to be my friend, and stop running off without me.

There is a little garden, not far from here, that is the most perfect place to sit and read or write, as the fancy takes you. The roses, the big fat that seem to burst open and last forever, fill the air with a sweetness that cannot be compared to anything else. The light here always takes on a pearly, luminescent quality, as if it were always just a few minutes after sunrise, the sky in all its glory of blue, gold and pink to greet the new day.

This little rose garden is a wonderful place to find ideas, to discover small treasures, and dream new dreams. I always carry my notebook with me, and it runs as riotous as the roses that overflow their beds and spill their flowers along the walkways. Walk along the paths with me, and see what we can discover together.

Daily we are bombarded with information and controlled by an outer world. The inner life is in desperate need of resuscitation. This resucitation may take the form of musing and reflecting upon the world around us: just letting images wander into our mind and letting them determine our direction. This demands finding quiet time to be, instead of doing. We must give our imaginative life some space if our creativity is to flourish.