Kathleen Kaska

A Voice That Resonates

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A Voice That Resonates

If asked to name writers with a distinct voice, I could rattle off a list: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Karen Blixen, Raymond Chandler, Jane Austen, Harper Lee, Stephen King, John Irving, Anne Rice. Defining “voice,” however, is far more elusive.

When I first started writing fiction, I went to a writers’ conference where the presenter described voice as the emotional connection between the writer and the reader. That idea stayed with me—and clarified something I had experienced but hadn’t named.

Early on, I focused on plot because I didn’t know how to build one. Voice barely registered until I picked up a novel by an unfamiliar author. It was his fourth book—and a bestseller. The characters carried me through more than four hundred pages. I immediately bought his earlier novels and struggled through them, finishing out of curiosity. The difference was unmistakable. In the fourth book, I could hear the characters’ voices. In the first three, I couldn’t. He hadn’t found it yet—or hadn’t learned how to sustain it. Since then, I’ve read everything he’s written. He’s now a favorite.

Voice isn’t plot, character, or setting—though it brings all three to life. It’s the writer’s way of seeing and presenting the world on the page.

Consider The Great Gatsby. From its opening lines, Nick Carraway speaks with an intimate, reflective ease, as if confiding across a café table. That conversational authority draws the reader in and keeps them engaged.

In To Kill a Mockingbird, Scout Finch views injustice through a child’s honest, questioning perspective. Her voice not only narrates the story— it amplifies its moral impact.

And in the novel  Rebecca the narrator—the second Mrs. de Winter—voice carries a quiet melancholy that settles over the entire novel, shaping how we experience Manderley before we fully see it.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter, for the way was barred to me. There was a padlock and a chain on the gate. I called in my dream to the lodge-keeper and had no answering and peering closer to the rusted spokes of the gate I saw that the lodge was uninhabited.

A strong plot, character, and setting are essential. But voice is what makes a story personal—what transforms pages into an experience. It’s the difference between a book we finish and one we remember. It’s the icing on the cake.

What are your favorite books with strong voices that speak to you?

https://kathleenkaska.com/

Kathleen Kaska

The Anthropomorphizing of an Octopus

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The Anthropomorphizing of an Octopus

I just finished reading Shelby Van Pelt’s delightful novel, Remarkably Bright Creatures. Van Pelt tells the story of an octopus named Marsellus who lived in an aquarium and befriended the elderly nighttime cleaning lady. Several chapters are written from Marcellus’ point of view. It is an excellent example of anthropomorphizing, the attribution of human form, personality, or emotions to something nonhuman.

This book brought back a lot of memories. My degree is in physical anthropology. I’ve only met two other people who also hold this degree. True, it’s not easy to find a job in this field, but I loved the coursework. When people hear the word anthropology, they think of the study of the development of human societies, cultures, languages, and social organization. They think of Margaret Mead. That is cultural anthropology. Physical anthropology is the scientific study of human biology, evolution, genetics, and variation, both past and present. It was a perfect field for me because I love these scientific fields. I could read a biology text as if it were a compelling novel.

One of my college courses was primate behavior. I was assigned to work with a professor who was studying vervet monkeys to compare their behavior with that of humans. My lab work involved observing and documenting monkey behavior, and I was instructed not to anthropomorphize, just to record their activity. Each monkey was assigned a number. My documentation went like this:

  • Number 1 ran up to number 6 and slapped it, then ran away. It was hard not to anthropomorphize and accuse number 6 of being a bully.
  • Number 18 stole number 4’s banana. Number 4 bit number 18 on the ear. I couldn’t report that number 4 retaliated by biting number 18’s ear.
  • Number 7 is sitting in the corner, nipping at any monkey who comes by. It was hard not to believe that number 7 was having a bad day or feeling sad for some reason.
  • Numbers 14 and 10 were inseparable. I couldn’t report that 14 and 10 were friends.

Needless to say, the class was the highlight of my day. Years later, I taught life science to middle school students. Watching those active preteens, I was often reminded of the vervet monkey I studied. Their behavior was not that different. My teaching curriculum covered the classification and taxonomy of living things, as well as evolution, so my degree proved useful. One of my lessons focused on the octopus, the most intelligent invertebrate. Other members of the invertebrate group include insects, spiders, clams, oysters, corals, and earthworms. Intelligence is not typically associated with these animals. It involves learning, problem-solving, and a higher level of understanding—traits usually attributed to vertebrates, animals with backbones. However, many studies have shown that octopuses can solve problems, remember, and respond to different situations; in other words, they demonstrate a higher level of thinking. I believe the octopus is a bridge species, and if evolution continues, it might eventually develop a backbone and join the class shared by other backboned animals.

Marcellus, in Van Pelt’s book, figured out how to escape his tank, roam the aquarium at night, and dine on his fellow captives: sea cucumbers, mussels, clams, and more. He could open locked cages, read, and respond to people’s emotions.

How often do we anthropomorphize? For example, saying your dog’s feelings were hurt when you stopped throwing him the ball, or that your cat shredded your drapes because you bought her the wrong cat food. The humanizing of animals appears in many children’s books and adult novels. Think of all the cozy mystery series featuring animals as the protagonists: Spencer Quinn’s Chet (a dog) and Bernie (his human) make up the Little Detective Agency series, all of which I’ve read. The stories are told entirely from Chet’s point of view. There’s also The Cat Who series by Lillian Jackson Braun, Rita Mae Brown’s Mrs. Murphy series featuring a cat and a Corgi, and The No. 2 Feline Detective Agency by Mandy Morton. I remember a Martha Grimes mystery, The Grave Maurice, where a horse’s point of view adds a touching depth to the story that a human character couldn’t express.

What about writing a series with an octopus as the detective? I could call it the Tentacle Tales series. I’ll add it to my very long list of projects to write, but if you beat me to it, that’s okay. I know I’ll read it.

Do you ever anthropomorphize in your writing?

Check out my Sydney Lockhart mysteries and my Kate Caraway Animal-Rights mysteries: Kathleen Kaska’s Books

Kathleen Kaska

Treasure Hunt: A True-Life Indiana Jones Saga

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Treasure Hunt: 

A True-Life Indiana Jones Saga

When you hear the phrase treasure hunt, you might imagine a chest of gold or a legendary artifact. But what if the treasure was a bird—and the hunter an ornithologist?

In the mid-1990s, I joined a field trip to Aransas National Wildlife Refuge on the Texas coast to see the endangered whooping crane. That experience changed my life. I became captivated by the crane’s story—and by the man who saved it from extinction. That fascination grew into a seven-year research journey and ultimately my book, The Man Who Saved the Whooping Crane: The Robert Porter Allen Story.

In the spring of 1941, the whooping crane population had dropped to just fifteen birds. Written off as doomed, the species survived because one man refused to accept extinction as inevitable. Robert Porter Allen, an ornithologist with the National Audubon Society, launched a conservation campaign unlike anything America had seen before.

Long before television or the internet, Allen ignited a nationwide media blitz. Posters flooded public schools. Children wrote letters to lawmakers. Radio stations tracked the cranes’ migration from their winter home near Austwell, Texas, to a mysterious nesting site somewhere in Canada. Life magazine published a rare photo of a whooping crane family, and even an oil company altered its operations to avoid disturbing the birds.

By 1947, fewer than thirty cranes remained. Their nesting grounds—hidden somewhere in northern Saskatchewan, possibly near the Arctic Circle—had never been found. Without protecting that site, the species would vanish. After two failed searches, Audubon turned to its most tenacious ornithologist: Robert Porter Allen, newly returned from World War II.

What followed was a real-life treasure hunt—one that helped save a species and changed the course of conservation history, ultimately paving the way for the Endangered Species Act.

The story of Robert Porter Allen is best described as Indiana Jones meets John James Audubon—and it remains one of the most inspiring conservation adventures ever told.

I wrote the book to pay homage to a man who was all but forgotten. My research led me on my own journey from Texas to Florida to Wisconsin and beyond in an adventure I like to call “On the Trail of a Vanishing Ornithologist.”

Excerpt:

It was April 17, 1948, in the early hours of a muggy Texas morning on the Gulf Coast. The sun at last burned away the thick fog that had settled over Blackjack Peninsula. The world’s last flock of wild whooping cranes had spent the winter feeding on blue crab and killifish in the vast salt flats they called home. During the night, all three members of the Slough Family had moved to higher ground about two miles away from their usual haunt to feed. The cool, crisp winter was giving way to a warm, balmy spring. The days were growing longer, and territorial boundaries were no longer defended. Restlessness had spread throughout the flock. 

            As Robert Porter Allen drove along East Shore Road near Carlos Field in his government-issued beat-to-hell pickup, he spotted the four cranes now spiraling a thousand feet above the marsh. He pulled his truck over to the roadside and watched, hoping to witness, for the first time, a migration takeoff. One adult crane pulled away from the family and flew northward, whooping as it rose on an air current. When the others lagged behind, the crane returned, the family regrouped, circled a few times, and landed in the cordgrass in the shallows of San Antonio Bay. It was Allen’s second year at the Aransas National Wildlife Refuge. He had learned to read the nuances of his subjects almost as well as they read the changing of the seasons.

            In the days preceding, twenty-four cranes departed for their summer home somewhere in Western Canada, possibly as far north as the Arctic Circle. This annual event, which had occurred for at least 10,000 years, might be one of the last unless Allen could accomplish what no one else had.         

            The next morning, when Allen parked his truck near Mullet Bay, the Slough Family was gone, having departed sometime during the night. That afternoon, he threw his gear into the back of his station wagon and followed.

The Man Who Saved the Whooping Crane was published by the University Press of Florida in 2012. It’s still available in bookstores upon request, Amazon,  Barnes & Noble, and University Press of Florida. It’s also from my website: Kathleen Kaska

Contact me at kathleenkaska@hotmail.com for information on my presentation of The Man Who Saved the Whooping Crane: The Robert Porter Allen Story