The importance of voice
Updated: Sep 9
I'll bet your heard the voice in your head as soon as you looked at the picture: The warm tone, the smooth cadences, the vibrant rhythm. It's indelible, powerful and inspirational.
Think of John Kennedy's speeches, or FDR's. No matter what you think of his policies, it's hard to argue that Ronald Reagan was a superb speaker—even his rival Jimmy Carter admitted that some years later. But great voice needn't be limited to speaking: Thomas Jefferson was a master of the pen and highly uncoordinated on the podium. And his voice helped make a country.
"Ten times a better writer..."
When Jefferson said he wanted John Adams to write the Declaration of Independence, the latter replied, "You must do it...You are ten times a better writer than I am."
Adams knew the importance of the right words, the right tone, the right rhetoric. And he, despite his outward modesty, was no slouch with the pen himself. But he knew Jefferson's prose was simply more memorable. It sure must be: We've been reciting it repeatedly since July 4th, 1776.
Which brings me to your grant proposal.
I see so many proposals, for wonderful programs that will change lives, reduced to a heap of limp words on the page, resembling broccoli that's been cooked for an hour.
Now, I get it. We're not writing fiction here (though I've done that too). Grant writing is, in many ways, an exercise in constraint. There are eligibility requirements to meet, character limits to respect, budgets to balance, outcomes to quantify, attachments to include, evaluation plans to explain and countless little boxes that must be checked before a proposal can even be considered. A grant writer has to understand the funder’s priorities, follow the application instructions precisely and make sure every claim can be supported.
In other words, grant writing is not exactly known for its creative freedom.
And yet, there is a danger in taking that too far. A grant proposal can be technically flawless and still fail to move anyone.
Because ultimately, a grant proposal is not being read by a spreadsheet. It is being read by a human being. That human being may have read dozens of proposals before yours. They may have encountered the same familiar language about underserved populations, community impact, measurable outcomes, stakeholder engagement and transformative change again and again. They may be perfectly capable of determining whether your program meets the eligibility requirements.
But the question is whether, after reading your proposal, they care.
That is where voice comes in.
Think About Martin Luther King Jr.
Back to Dr. King. (Because, really, can we ever get enough of that voice, of that speech that is music?)
Virtually everyone knows that sound. Instantly. That doesn't mean every sentence he wrote or spoke was poetic. It doesn't mean every speech was delivered at the same emotional pitch. And it certainly doesn't mean a grant proposal should sound like a civil rights sermon.
The point is something more fundamental: Dr. King had a voice that was unmistakably his.
His language had rhythm. It had conviction. It had moral clarity. It knew when to build momentum and when to become quiet and direct. Most importantly, his voice was appropriate to his purpose. He wasn't using beautiful language merely to decorate an argument. The language served the argument.
You could remove his name from much of his most famous writing and still recognize the speaker.
That is the lesson worth borrowing for grant writing—not King's vocabulary, rhetorical flourishes or cadence, but his command of voice.
Your Grant Should Sound Like Your Organization
A nonprofit serving children should not sound exactly like a food bank. A community health organization should not sound like an arts organization. A workforce-development program should not sound like a university.
Yet grant proposals sometimes flatten those differences. They become exercises in "grant speak"—a strange dialect in which every organization is "leveraging community partnerships," every program is "transformative," every participant is "empowered," and every outcome is "measurable."
Some of those terms are useful. Many are necessary. But when every organization uses the same language, the organizations themselves begin to disappear.
A strong proposal should make the reader feel that there is a real organization behind the words. You should be able to sense what that organization cares about. You should understand the problem not simply as a statistic, but as something that matters to the people doing the work every day. And you should come away understanding why this organization, rather than another one, is particularly well equipped to do something about it.
That doesn't require purple prose. In fact, it usually requires the opposite.
It requires clarity.
Facts Are What Make the Case. Voice Makes It Matter.
None of this means abandoning the factual side of grant writing. Quite the opposite. Facts are the foundation. A compelling proposal still needs credible data, clearly defined objectives, realistic budgets, sound methodology and measurable outcomes. You cannot substitute eloquence for evidence.
But evidence alone doesn't necessarily create urgency.
Imagine writing: "Last year, 37 percent of students in the district experienced chronic absenteeism." That's an important fact. But what does that number actually mean? It means students are missing instruction, falling further behind, becoming disconnected from classmates and teachers, and potentially seeing their educational opportunities narrowed before they have even reached adulthood.
The data establishes the problem. The writing gives the problem meaning.
That distinction matters. Grantmakers aren't simply investing in activities. They are deciding whether they believe an organization can produce meaningful change. Your job as a writer is to help them see that change—not through exaggeration or manipulation, but through a compelling and credible narrative.
Inspiration Doesn't Mean Hype
There is another important distinction here: inspiring writing is not the same thing as hype.
A proposal doesn't become stronger because every program is "groundbreaking," every participant is "empowered," and every anticipated result is "transformational." In fact, excessive superlatives can have the opposite effect. Experienced grantmakers have seen them all before.
Real inspiration usually comes from specificity. Instead of telling a funder that your organization is "changing lives," show what changes. Instead of saying that your program "strengthens the community," explain how. Instead of describing your participants as "under-served," tell the reader what barrier they are facing and what your organization is doing to remove it.
The more concrete the writing becomes, the more powerful it often becomes.
And that is another quality worth noting in King's writing: beneath the rhetoric was an extraordinary ability to make an abstract idea understandable and immediate. Justice. Equality. Freedom. Dignity. Big concepts became something people could see, feel and act upon.
A grant proposal has its own version of that challenge. You may be asking a funder to support literacy, food security, youth development, environmental restoration or economic mobility. These are broad concepts. Your writing has to make the particular version of that problem—and the particular opportunity to address it—come alive.
The Technical Requirements Are Not the Enemy
There is a temptation among writers to think that technical requirements somehow get in the way of good writing.
They don't. They're simply part of the assignment.
A good grant writer can work within a 500-word limit and still produce something memorable. They can describe evaluation methodology without putting the reader to sleep.
They can explain a budget without making the proposal feel like an accounting document.
The trick is not to choose between precision and personality. It's to make them work together.
The best grant writing is precise enough to be credible and compelling enough to be remembered. It answers the funder's questions without sounding as though it was written solely to answer questions. It satisfies the application requirements while maintaining a sense of humanity. And it gives the reader a reason to keep reading.
Give the Grant a Voice
Every organization has a story to tell. The grant writer's job isn't to manufacture a voice that doesn't exist. It's to discover the organization's authentic voice and make it audible within the constraints of the application.
That voice may be warm. It may be urgent. It may be optimistic, determined, pragmatic, compassionate or fiercely focused. Whatever it is, it should belong to the organization.
Martin Luther King Jr. didn't become one of the most recognizable voices in history because he discovered a clever formula for sounding inspiring. He had something to say, he understood why it mattered, and he developed a voice capable of carrying that message to the universe.
Grant writers face a much smaller—and considerably less historic—task. But the principle is similar.
You still have facts to establish. Requirements to satisfy. Boxes to check. And a limited number of words in which to make your case.
So check the boxes. Follow the rules. Get the numbers right.
Then do something more:
Make the reader believe that what happens next—saying yes—really matters.
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