How are ya? No, I don't mean to be casual or informal. I'm sorry if my lack of pretense turns you off. I write the way I speak. That's my way, my authenticity. My real. I don't think that you can really know me unless you've heard me....the way I sound. My voice is like the sweet inside the honey. The gummy crumbly warm insides of a buttermilk biscuit. The sass that tickles your ears when you drink tart lemonade. My sound is my flavor.
My voice, I guess, is unique. It must be, I figure, because people always want to talk about it, and ask me about it, and demand that I say certain things like, "It's shake n bake and I helped...." Really? Like I would ever say that. I'm not from Georgia or Tennessee. I like grits and cornbread just fine, yes thank you, and I prefer sweet ice tea. There's probably a 'd' inside there, but I don't pronounce it. Perhaps it becomes part of the 't'. Ice'dt'ea. Something like that. Sometimes one syllable words puddle inside my mouth. Sometimes 'water' drips and drops with a 'u' and some 'dd's instead of an 'a' and 't'. Sometimes I say things that aren't words at all, like 'whooooowee' or 'shoooo-mmmmmmhhhh.' I click my tongue and roll my eyes to the left, and you know what I'm telling you, if you are watching. And, if I have to repeat myself, don't MAKE me repeat myself...if I have to repeat myself, I say-ed. When my thoughts turn in and emotion plops out, my words become more round and more full and they bubble into sounds and syllables, the pitch ever rising, the ending of every word snapping like a rubber band, no, a banjo string.
Inside myself I believe that my children remember my voice when they're in one place and I'm in another. When their hearts need me but physically, I'm not there, I hope my voice resonates inside their heads, lulling them, wrapping them up when my arm cannot. When they are older and I am old, my voice will remind them that they are special and strong and important and unique...that they are loved and loved and loved. "As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be...."
Some voices grate or stab. Some bounce and drum. And some soothe and rock us like a lullaby. S s sslither from the mouth and form into bubbles....sssssoooooooooooooo and then pinch in at the edges tttthhhhheeeee. Soothe. Forget the nasal drone monotone.
I don't know where my sound came from. My sound is unlike my mother's. Unlike my father's. Unlike my sister's. Unlike my son's, but like my daughter's. I'd hoped that she'd be lefthanded like me; instead, she got my sound. My voice is my history, my legacy, my real, but my sound just is. It is fitting, and yet it is curious and befuddling. My sound is more southern than my latitude, and yet, so is my soul. My soul floats like a seed puff in the breezes of hot summer. It wears a boa of Spanish moss and tilts and twirls with the twinkling starshine. My sound is slowandwarmandcomfortable like the banks of the river in July. My words beat a rhythm with the paperfans and porch swings and rockers and slide through the air and time and space like dragonflies.
If you know me, you're already doing it, aren't you? Perhaps it's subconscious, and I'm about make you aware. Perhaps you realized this long ago. Some of you have already, I know; we've talked about this, haven't we? (Wink.) You're reading this inside your own head, but you're reading it with my voice--Carrie's sound. Unless you and I have never spoken face to face, which is not likely, my voice is playing inside your head right (two syllables, right?) now. Hunh. Howaboutthat? You see? Imagine what it is like (two syllables) to beeeeeeeeeeeeee meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee....
Maybe, subconsciously, my reason for overusing the ellipses is because even when my thoughts don't, my words continue to resonate (their sound anyway) past the first period.....hmmm.
My students, current and former, are either captivated or thoroughly annoyed when I speak. Ha. Generally, I win over more than I lose. Sometimes the boys say that listeningtomereadmakesthemYAWWWNsleepy. But I'll tell you that they are the first to vote to hear me read aloud. We vote, their eyes closed, my eyes open. I ask, "raise your hand if you want to hear me read aloud." Someone peeks. "I say-ed no peeeekin'. Now, Cody/Bobby/Sean, close your eyes so we can get on with it...." They all raise their hands, except for the girl in the front who's already read the chapter silently to herself. Good for her. Gold star. I begin....
When I read, I make faces. I scrunch and shift and dart and drag. I roll and bounce and purr my words, and my hands, if free, draw scenes in midair. I love to read aloud almost as much as I love to write. I am George and Lennie, Ladies Montague and Capulet, Victor and his creation. I am Elizabeth Bennett and Scout Finch. And when I am them, my sound forms their sounds as best it can. When I read to my students, I interrupt myself to ask questions, to explain, to instruct. When I read to my children, they interrupt to ask questions, explain, and instruct. Never is there a complaint that Hagrid is sometimes a Scotsman, sometimes Irish, sometimes American. Never have I been accused of getting the sound wrong, thank you.
My sound does not define me, and yet, like the sweet inside the honey, it is innate and integral. Don't care? Okay. Don't believe me? Fine. But, consider this: reread this, or any of my blogs in any other voice--with any other sound, and you'll see....or hear rather, what I mean.
Night, ya'll (wink).
My voice, I guess, is unique. It must be, I figure, because people always want to talk about it, and ask me about it, and demand that I say certain things like, "It's shake n bake and I helped...." Really? Like I would ever say that. I'm not from Georgia or Tennessee. I like grits and cornbread just fine, yes thank you, and I prefer sweet ice tea. There's probably a 'd' inside there, but I don't pronounce it. Perhaps it becomes part of the 't'. Ice'dt'ea. Something like that. Sometimes one syllable words puddle inside my mouth. Sometimes 'water' drips and drops with a 'u' and some 'dd's instead of an 'a' and 't'. Sometimes I say things that aren't words at all, like 'whooooowee' or 'shoooo-mmmmmmhhhh.' I click my tongue and roll my eyes to the left, and you know what I'm telling you, if you are watching. And, if I have to repeat myself, don't MAKE me repeat myself...if I have to repeat myself, I say-ed. When my thoughts turn in and emotion plops out, my words become more round and more full and they bubble into sounds and syllables, the pitch ever rising, the ending of every word snapping like a rubber band, no, a banjo string.
Inside myself I believe that my children remember my voice when they're in one place and I'm in another. When their hearts need me but physically, I'm not there, I hope my voice resonates inside their heads, lulling them, wrapping them up when my arm cannot. When they are older and I am old, my voice will remind them that they are special and strong and important and unique...that they are loved and loved and loved. "As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be...."
Some voices grate or stab. Some bounce and drum. And some soothe and rock us like a lullaby. S s sslither from the mouth and form into bubbles....sssssoooooooooooooo and then pinch in at the edges tttthhhhheeeee. Soothe. Forget the nasal drone monotone.
I don't know where my sound came from. My sound is unlike my mother's. Unlike my father's. Unlike my sister's. Unlike my son's, but like my daughter's. I'd hoped that she'd be lefthanded like me; instead, she got my sound. My voice is my history, my legacy, my real, but my sound just is. It is fitting, and yet it is curious and befuddling. My sound is more southern than my latitude, and yet, so is my soul. My soul floats like a seed puff in the breezes of hot summer. It wears a boa of Spanish moss and tilts and twirls with the twinkling starshine. My sound is slowandwarmandcomfortable like the banks of the river in July. My words beat a rhythm with the paperfans and porch swings and rockers and slide through the air and time and space like dragonflies.
If you know me, you're already doing it, aren't you? Perhaps it's subconscious, and I'm about make you aware. Perhaps you realized this long ago. Some of you have already, I know; we've talked about this, haven't we? (Wink.) You're reading this inside your own head, but you're reading it with my voice--Carrie's sound. Unless you and I have never spoken face to face, which is not likely, my voice is playing inside your head right (two syllables, right?) now. Hunh. Howaboutthat? You see? Imagine what it is like (two syllables) to beeeeeeeeeeeeee meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee....
Maybe, subconsciously, my reason for overusing the ellipses is because even when my thoughts don't, my words continue to resonate (their sound anyway) past the first period.....hmmm.
My students, current and former, are either captivated or thoroughly annoyed when I speak. Ha. Generally, I win over more than I lose. Sometimes the boys say that listeningtomereadmakesthemYAWWWNsleepy. But I'll tell you that they are the first to vote to hear me read aloud. We vote, their eyes closed, my eyes open. I ask, "raise your hand if you want to hear me read aloud." Someone peeks. "I say-ed no peeeekin'. Now, Cody/Bobby/Sean, close your eyes so we can get on with it...." They all raise their hands, except for the girl in the front who's already read the chapter silently to herself. Good for her. Gold star. I begin....
When I read, I make faces. I scrunch and shift and dart and drag. I roll and bounce and purr my words, and my hands, if free, draw scenes in midair. I love to read aloud almost as much as I love to write. I am George and Lennie, Ladies Montague and Capulet, Victor and his creation. I am Elizabeth Bennett and Scout Finch. And when I am them, my sound forms their sounds as best it can. When I read to my students, I interrupt myself to ask questions, to explain, to instruct. When I read to my children, they interrupt to ask questions, explain, and instruct. Never is there a complaint that Hagrid is sometimes a Scotsman, sometimes Irish, sometimes American. Never have I been accused of getting the sound wrong, thank you.
My sound does not define me, and yet, like the sweet inside the honey, it is innate and integral. Don't care? Okay. Don't believe me? Fine. But, consider this: reread this, or any of my blogs in any other voice--with any other sound, and you'll see....or hear rather, what I mean.
Night, ya'll (wink).
Copyright © 2011. Carrie Ellen
Campbell. All Rights Reserved. http://carriellencampbell.blogspot.com. Please respect Carrie's intellectual property. Sharing
blog posts is permitted, but no part of this material may be copied,
downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Contact
Carrie at: carrieellencampbell@icloud.com.
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