How Many Styles Can You Master?

I've often thought about my voice as a writer. You're supposed to have one. Do I? Do you? What should it be? Can it change? Can my next story or book sound different? When should I have settled on "my" voice?

As an experiement and as practice, I decided to try out some different styles. I wondered if I could sound legitimately different if I tried.

In the back of mind I was worried. What if one of the "joke" or "experimental" voices that I tried sounded better than "my" voice?

So here it is. Here's a paragraph in "my" voice.

A figure manifested from the flat, two-dimensional screen of bush, twenty yards from Kyle, right in front. He would have walked right into him. A kind of Mephistopheles emerged fully formed. Made available to Kyle for the corruption of his land and his being which was mutualistic with the land. It stepped from behind a hundred-foot poplar gum wearing camouflage combat gear and when the figure stopped Kyle nearly lost sight of it. He would have bearhugged him if the man hadn’t spoken. Kyle saw the muzzle of a Sig Sauer assault rifle, rightly aligned to his chest. Felt the brief panic of adrenaline. He felt the finality that came from that man’s finger on the trigger. Nobody could miss from that range. And this guy was clearly no lost tourist. This was something else.

What would that sound like if Cormac McCarthy had written it?

From the scrimshaw screen of brush stepped a figure, just twenty yards from Kyle's post, emerging like a Mephistophelean apparition. He appeared as a harbinger of corruption, poised to violate not only the land but also Kyle's very essence, inextricably linked to the ground on which they then stood. The figure materialized from behind a hundred-foot poplar gum, outfitted in the guise of a warrior, clad in camouflaged combat gear. When the man halted, Kyle almost lost sight of him. But then the man spoke and Kyle saw the muzzle of a Sig Sauer assault rifle aimed right at his heart. Adrenaline surged through Kyle's veins, and he felt the finality of the situation. The man had his finger on the trigger, and at this range, nobody could miss. This was no mere lost tourist but something more ominous.

What about Grisham?

Kyle froze as the figure materialized before him, seemingly out of the bushes themselves. The man, dressed in camo gear, appeared to Kyle like a devilish Mephistopheles, offering a twisted deal that could corrupt both man and land. Kyle's heart raced as the man raised his Sig Sauer assault rifle, the cold metal pointed straight at his chest. He knew in that moment that this was no tourist gone astray - this was a deadly serious threat.

Thomas Pynchon?

In the midst of the two-dimensional shrubs and leaves, a shape materialized, appearing as if from another dimension, some twenty yards distant from Kyle's position. It was the devil himself, or so it seemed, emerging from the ether, a harbinger of both Kyle's and the land's corruption. Clad in camouflage and bearing arms, the figure resembled a soldier. When it came to a stop, Kyle almost lost sight of it. He would have embraced the stranger, but for the ominous sight of the Sig Sauer assault rifle that the figure held, aimed squarely at Kyle's heart. Kyle's breath quickened, his adrenaline surging. There was no mistaking the finality of this situation; this stranger meant business.

I kind of like writing like Shakespeare, iambic pentemeter and all.

From the flat, two-dimensional screen of bush,

Twenty yards from Kyle, emerged a figure,

Right in front, as if it would have him crushed,

A kind of Mephistopheles, so obscure.

It came to offer Kyle the choice of doom,

Corrupt his land, his being, and their mutual fate.

From behind a hundred-foot poplar gum,

The figure emerged in camo, oh so great.

When the figure stopped, Kyle nearly lost sight,

But he saw the muzzle, rightly aimed to his chest.

Felt the brief panic of adrenaline's might,

And the finality that came at the man's behest.

Nobody could miss from that range, oh dire,

This was no lost tourist, but something far more dire.

I'm not sure what kind of novel I'm writing now. Maybe all of them.