I can do voices. Ask anyone that knows me. I can do southern truck driver (quite well actually) and Milwaukee farm wife (where the cow is god, not in a Hindu way, but the way that it gives cheese to the land and we are very thankful for cheese). For a few months I was stuck in a persona known as Vivian, who was clearly born and raised in some god-awful part of Brooklyn or another nearby New York borough. I have an amazing French accent, complete with real Frenchie nuances, so the very little French I do know (after studying it and living in Paris) sounds, well, parfait! Boston is easy too, and then there are definitely a few voices that are just unidentifiable... they come and go with friends and the weather, live and die, never to be heard again.
Now, I am writing for so many places, with such disparate themes and contexts that I'm beginning to feel a little schizophrenic with my "writer's" voice. On any given day, I could be a rap guy's girlfriend who used to attend ghetto parties where people got shot, a ditzy dumb sorority idiot who thinks a shopping site is gospel or a too cool for anything mass-produced geek who really just missed out on the fun things in high school. And it gets hard, who am I really? I am everyone but myself. I am mimicking these personalities, these voices that have been riddled out, chipped away at, sanded down and smoothed out to be exactly what any editor wants them to be, and then I come along and stick myself to this mold like a stupid snail, and very often, very, very often, it feels like I'm sliding down.
- Carly Pifer
- Born and raised under the Los Angeles sun and smog. At sixteen spent some time in LA County Juvenile Detention Center, although never really learned her lesson. Moved to Boston for the classic college experience. Spray painted graffiti in the Paris Metro during six month stay in the Marais. Survived an ultra fabulous and frightening internship at Vogue Magazine while living at a nunnery in Hell's Kitchen. Lived a year in Seoul, a city which can only be compared to a Disneyland theme park. Written four hundred sixty-four words of an undisclosed masterpiece novel. Currently pondering her next adventure and also the meaning of her memoirs from an artist's loft in dirty Brooklyn.