‘Voice Confrontation’ is a thing, apparently. It’s the psychological term for that cringing feeling some of us experience when we hear a recording of our own voices.
I didn’t realise how badly I suffered from it until my book publisher insisted I do guest slots on podcasts and radio shows to publicise A Mind Beyond Words.
Ironic, really, given that I’d spent my entire professional life talking for a living. I’d been a schoolteacher, chuntering away to my students, reading them stories while they listened with rapt attention, addressing staff meetings, and giving presentations to groups of educationalists at conferences.
All that happened without the slightest degree of self-consciousness. I was just speaking. What mattered was the content. I didn’t give a second thought to the sounds I was making.
Once I slapped on a pair of headphones and had to record an interview, though, everything changed. Suddenly I became acutely aware of the London twang in the vowels, the nasal tone, the cracked sounds that were completely at odds with the Judi Dench voice I longed to produce.
The more self-conscious I felt, the more limited my vocal range became. A kind friend sent a link to a video of public speaking warm-up exercises. I discovered that my mouth was wholly incapable of some of the sounds produced by the on-screen tutor. How had I got through 70-plus years without being able to make a trilling sound, or even knowing that I couldn’t?
As luck would have it, the first show I was invited to record was hosted by an old friend. He confided that he’d had to fight similar demons to become a podcaster and was so welcoming that, once I’d got past the terror of stepping into his recording studio, we simply chatted about aspects of my book and laughed as much as we usually did.
Of course, I winced as I listened back to the adenoidal old woman my friend was talking to. I didn’t find my voice easy on the ear, but he professed himself happy with the result and stuck it on Spotify. It actually got me a surprising number of book sales.
That provided welcome preparation for the range of worldwide interviews that followed.
Gradually I became used to the process. My tongue ceased to feel as huge and dry as it had at first, and I found that as I focussed on the host’s comments and questions, my words flowed a little more easily.
Admittedly, I still cringed slightly when listening to the playbacks. Dame Judi I certainly wasn’t – but I did sound less strained and awkward as time went by.
Not quite.
A new memo arrived from the publisher, telling me I needed more sales and should be hunting down opportunities to be featured in mainstream media. My initial response was to kick that particular can down the road. This was my first media-free month in ages, and I was relishing the freedom. In fact, the very next day I decided to head off on a self-indulgent trip to a flower show in the south of my county.
The weather was glorious. My shopping bag was bulging with bargains and I was having a wonderful, carefree time breathing in the scents, enjoying the visual delights, and browsing the many stands.
Then it reared up amongst them: a neat little gazebo tent with purple-themed decor, bearing the logo of our county’s local BBC radio station.
“No!” my inner coward groaned silently. “This is a day off. I’m supposed to be having fun.”
“Synchronicity…” smirked the ever-vigilant part of my consciousness that nudges me towards helpful choices around my life’s soul purpose.
I won’t repeat the words my inner coward responded with.
I couldn’t un-see the BBC stand. It lurked there, taunting me. The stand wasn’t that much to look at: a couple of trestle tables and a few neatly dressed radio station employees handing out merch to passers-by.
I needed to do another full circuit of the field and a dozen or so displacement activities before I felt ready to approach them. When I was on the final approach, a man with a tray of drinks asked whether I’d like a glass of Pimm’s.
Would I ever?!
I gratefully downed the drink and walked up to one of the BBC staff. He sized me up — old dear in a floppy sun hat with a shopping bag — and asked whether I’d like a BBC keyring with a pull-out token for freeing shopping trolleys at the supermarket.
“I’d love one,” I lied. “Now, can you tell me how I can get a slot on your radio station?”
To his credit, the man was highly professional and managed not to laugh. He merely raised an eyebrow and asked why I would want such a thing. I explained that I had written a book and my publisher had suggested I find ways to promote it on local media. I added that I’d done quite a few international podcasts.
I’d done my part, so that smug, nudging part of my consciousness scattered some magic over the whole proceedings. The synchronicities started to flow again.
The BBC employee’s demeanour changed instantly.
“I present a weekly show featuring creatives,” he told me, sounding genuinely enthusiastic. “It will be easy for you to get featured. I’d like you to record a chapter of your book, and then upload the audio file to this site.”
He was scribbling hastily on a piece of headed notepaper. I was given clear instructions on how to select the correct local station from the dropdown list, and where on the form to include as much background information as possible about myself and the book so that he could ‘big it up’ on his show.
I thanked him, stuffed the keyring and the piece of paper into my shopping bag, and, feeling pretty smug myself, went back to enjoying the flowers.
I was on the journey home before it hit me. Record a whole chapter of my book?
Me?
Oh dear. This would take the voice confrontation to a whole new level.
The next day I researched how to record audio files. It was surprisingly easy. I asked friends to suggest which chapter to select. My narrow favourite was Chapter 2 — the one in which Asher, at the age of 6, headhunts me to become his assistant.
I have to say, here and now, my respect for the artists who record audiobooks has risen a hundredfold. It’s so difficult!
I remembered listening to Stephen Fry telling the story of how, when chosen to voice record the first Harry Potter book, he found one phrase (‘Harry pocketed it’) so difficult, that he phoned JK Rowling and asked whether he could change the wording slightly. Not only did she refuse, she also ensured that this same phrase turned up in all the subsequent books in the series, which he also had to read!
I only had to fight my way through a few pages, which I had written myself. It was far from easy, though. As well as not stumbling over words too much, I had to decide on a ‘voice’ for Asher — both the 6-year-old speech-impaired version and the telepathic adult.
Eventually, I managed a ‘take’ that wasn’t absolutely awful and duly uploaded it to the BBC. Perhaps, one day, it will turn up on my local radio station.
Meanwhile, I now have a sound recording of an extract from A Mind Beyond Words, my spiritual memoir of how my life was utterly transformed by an astonishing small boy.
Thanks to this helpful medium article by Linda Locke I discovered how to embed it here.
I couldn’t figure out how to add an image, but otherwise, there it is.
If you’re curious about the dreaded voice or would like to hear an extract from my story, feel free to listen. Just don’t ask me to do so!