Finding A Permanent Voice

I've written regularly for a couple years. Here (the nonesense mostly), journals, walls, napkins, panties. Basically, any medium that is permeable to ink I've tried to write on. And yes, the journey is still in the womb stage. I've long past the Picasso prodigal blooming. I'm hoping for a Cézanne-esque late brilliance. Best of all would be a long, steady climb like Hemmingway's or John Updike. I was thinking; aside from all the noted hoopla, Hemmingway was great because his words always carried weight. Reading most young writers or dead writers in their early stages the words are airy, light sometimes optimistic. Later writings, one notes the heaviness of life on the writer. Feeling, observing; year after year, a soldier of the arts. It can be as painful as any posting. Feeling, learning, submergence into the unknown is grueling work.
I am not poor. I am not hungry. I dress accordingly. My mental-health resources are probably near the top. That is; I can buy books, go see art if I wished, buy albums, watch movies, plays etc. And, maybe, one day after the story and I have gained enough backbone; the story of my self-laceration will be written. So far, after bouts of healthy and unhealthy living, normalcy, craziness, both, pain, love, love lost, force majeur passions and so on, it's been a brick on the foundation for my writing. And with so many bricks to go so a structure could be formed; it's long, strenuous work. My hopes for those I know and care for; in whatever you do to feel as fulfilled as I do when I get one sentence perfect.
It call comes down to; do you want your song sung? Do you need to have your say? Definitely, yes.