Wouldn't be a bad idea, I think—I like to be humble; acknowledge that my ideas aren't all great—to share my feeling about tone of voice; that something we're reading has a style; a kind of personality; that you can recognize when you pick up a book or an article or any other piece of writing.
I like to think—humble again—that my voice is recognizable; that reading anything I write—like this for example—is clearly me talking to you. Personally. One on one. The way I'd talk about something or describe someone; whatever; a few words or a lot of words. Me. It's me. Not anyone else. No costume; makeup; fake whiskers. It also involves my choice of words; of how I express myself; tell you about something; describe it; give you what I see. How I see it. My view. Whether it's a thing or a person or—my lifelong love—a dog.
To digress; me digressing; not unusual. Everything's connected to everything else; it's the That-reminds-me-of-the-time kind of way my mind works. It's hard for me to stick to what I'm talking about. My mind is filled with parallel tracks and intersections and redirections and elaborations. Truly—something I've mentioned before I believe; where? don't ask—ankle-bone connected to the leg-bone to the and so forth.
Back to the first digression; dogs.
No idea where it comes from but I'm convinced—and I don't think I'm alone in this—I have a sense of what a dog's thinking or worried about or feels about someone or something. There's a personality in there; differing from dog to dog. You know what I mean. You—I—-can feel it. Which is why I go nuts when I see someone being unkind to a dog or worse in which case I can't keep my mouth shut. My fantasy of course—again which I've referred to elsewhere—is the check-out scene in a supermarket and some big guy is being really bad to a dog and I pick up a beer bottle and crack it over the guy's head.
Same thing applies to kids.
Kids and dogs.
Easy description of that kind of feeling or response or behavior is probably characterized as identifying with the dog or the child. And I'd accept that instantly. You bet. And my response would be absolutely. Plus, why don't you?
And again I could go back to my childhood and the brutality I witnessed and was unable to intervene with and felt guilty about forever. And the simple fact that there was absolutely no way I could do anything. Still hard to accept.
And all certainly goes back to my children/dogs feelings.
Identifying, sure; and hounded—no pun—by guilt.
Anyway…where were we?
Tone of voice. Personality.
Being who I am.
You can count on it.
Catch me if I get fancy.