i don't like using capital letters because they jump out at me and shout, like drunken rude people at a party - except for proper nouns (where i think they might deserve it), or where i think it might avoid confusion . . or i might just occasionally use them for the hElL oF iT (to increase confusion) . . i don't think the beginnings of sentences deserve capitals or need them . . (you can tell it's a new sentence because it was preceded by a full stop, an ellipsis, or begins a new paragraph . .) . . neither do i think the first person singular nominative pronoun ('i') requires a capital because (a) it doesn't have one in French ('je' not 'Je'), (b) not to give it one suggests a certain humility on the part of the narrator, even though the self-conscious avoidance of the capital suggests the exact opposite by drawing attention to itself, i.e. a lack of humility (conspicuous virtue being frowned upon as suspiciously vain and egotistical), and (c) lower-case 'i' looks like a stick-figure (sort of) with the dot (also known as a tittle) being the head . .
sometimes i write about myself in the first person like i am now (you - yes you - being the second person in all this); at other times i will write of myself in the third person (him) . . . if i write about myself in the first person, it will force you (the second person) to identify with me and my thoughts and feelings in ways which give such impressions more immediacy and may invoke startling insights or novel cognitive experiences (such is the hypnotic power of words, the very basis of human second order consciousness, which, incidentally, is the minimum level of consciousness required to read and understand this) . . but of course there is the attendant risk that this identification will become tedious, dissonant and grating . .
sometimes i write about myself in the third person; so, for example, i would say: Alex writes about himself in the third person sometimes . . he likes to think this gives him much needed objectivity about himself . . but often another part of him suspects that it's merely a ruse to allow him to dissociate from thoughts, feelings, and actions which he finds uncomfortable . . .
again, sometimes, Alex does it for the sake of variety, for satirical purpose, or just for the Hell of It . . .
Marjorie was still in the bathroom, adjusting her bra-straps, doing make-up, hair . . whatever it was she always did that took so bloody long and made them late every time someone ever bothered to actually invite them out . .
Malcolm looked at his watch impatiently . . . "C'mon love," he shouted up the stairwell, trying to sound encouraging rather than angry . . "Hurry up Marj - we're running late . . And anyway, you can't polish a turd."
he knew as soon as he'd said it that this spontaneous and ill-judged attempt at humour would wound her deeply . . sure enough, there was a gut-freezing silence from upstairs, followed in short measure by quiet weeping . . Malcolm felt a sudden flash of rage; now they would be even more late whilst he attempted to console her . . then the hotness of his anger was replaced by the bitter coldness of his own guilt at having been so crass . . . rather than going upstairs to comfort his wife, Malcolm found himself suddenly very absorbed in fiddling with a loose bit of plastic giraffe excluder round the front door frame . .