Record an Audiobook? It Sounded So Easy….
November 27, 2025
There is one blissfully egocentric, thrilling moment: I am introduced as “the talent.” Granted, I ruin the moment by snorting and warning the sound studio team that I have never recorded anything before, let alone an entire audiobook. They nod; they are already braced for an amateur. “The talent” is their stock phrase for whoever is stuck behind the mic.
Still, the words rang sweet…. Until we began.
“Uh, let’s do that line again. Heard a little mouth noise.”
Mouth noise? I picture the guy one is stuck next to on long flights, slurping and gulping and snorting. What, did my tongue smack? Or were my lips sticking? Again and again, the sound engineer—gentle, deft, used to such horrors—urges me to take a sip of water. Next session, I drink tea all morning and make an extra vat to bring along, glugging in a liberal dose of honey and a squeeze of lemon. Now I need to let it cool, because according to my internet search, the liquid must be tepid, not hot or cold. “Room temperature water is best for keeping vocal folds hydrated and pliable; cold water can constrict muscles and limit flexibility, while hot beverages may cause swelling or discomfort.”
One could go mad with such precautions.
At least my tea is herbal. Caffeine “can cause dryness, tightness, or excess mucus.” Also: “avoid highly acidic or sugary drinks as they may irritate or promote excess mucus.” Mucus, mucus, everywhere. No wonder we have Mouth Noises. How did I ever speak without self-consciousness? Online, I find more rules. No dairy! No caffeine! No spice! No sugar!—my entire diet. Might as well join a monastery. Especially since, when my husband stretches out naked on our bed and lifts one eyebrow, I gasp, “Oh my God no! I can’t have sex tonight! I’ll pant, and that will dry my mouth out even more!” Also I am too nervous for sex. How in God’s name am I going to get through eight chapters when in the first session we only did two?
I read more online, now about posture. As usual, the world wants me to sit up straight. And is there any endeavor for which no one will preach, “Engage your core”? Next, cosmetics, and only now do I realize that all my lip color is either sticky goo or matte that is intended to last a millennium and sets as dry as the Mojave. Finally, this breathing thing. When I was little, my bossy aunt urged my mother to take me to a speech therapist because I seemed to have a sort of stammer. Actually I kept stopping to gulp air, because somehow I was convinced I could not get enough of the stuff. My mother just smiled and said I would outgrow it, and I did.
Until now.
“Breath control is integral to smooth, clear audiobook narration. Regular practice of breath awareness, diaphragmatic breathing, and script marking improves phrasing coordination, helping maintain vocal stamina and a natural sound that engages listeners.” How did I get myself into this? I said yes. That thing life coaches tell us all to do all the time. Say yes to the world. Take risks. Say yes to everything.
I should have said no. And now I am stuck. This has to be done, and on a tight deadline, and they cannot switch narrators midstream. But hey, no pressure.
If I had a flask, I would bring myself a wee dram of Scotch. That would loosen me up. But Scotch, too, is verboten: “Alcohol can irritate the throat and cause hoarseness.” Also, I have to eat. The audio engineer warned me the first time that they can hear everything, chuckling that he will even hear if my tummy growls. But I must avoid “food that leaves residue or increases mouth noise, such as chocolate, sticky snacks, or anything fatty.” Warm broth is good, they add. But I will tell you right now, that will not be enough to stop the gurgling.
“Before recording, warm up the voice by stretching jaw, neck, and shoulder muscles, doing deep breathing, lip and tongue trills, vocal sirens, and vowel exaggerations.” Lip and tongue trills? I cannot even blow bubblegum, or roll a Spanish R. “Glide smoothly from your lowest to highest comfortable pitch and back, mimicking siren sounds.” The neighbors will be so pleased. “Descend on nasal consonants like ‘onion’ or hold prolonged Z sounds to open nasal passages.” Oh, I am so going to open my nasal passages in front of strangers. The only bit of all this advice that makes sense to me is to do what dogs do: yawn, to lower tension.
But all the tension flies back when I manage to come down with a horrid cold, smack in the middle of the two weeks we need to record. Now I sound like Rudolph before his fake nose blew off. A cold is exactly what I dreaded. Does dread make things happen? Did the angst of possibility zap my immune system so strategically that the fear became reality?
An amuse-bouche of Guanifisen, with a chaser of gulped saltwater to avoid needing the loo every fifteen minutes. I must be feverish, because I keep fantasizing about going off script and saying whatever I want instead of trying to read the words on the page. Why the hell did I write these long, breathless sentences? And why am I having such trouble pronouncing sh- words? The sound engineer remains blessedly patient, but meticulous, insisting that I articulate every consonant. He calls all the re-do’s “pickups” and suggests another “for safety’s sake,” a gentle way to avoid saying I fucked it up again. He urges breaks even when I am saying, “Oh, let’s just keep going,” and the break makes a marked difference every time. I need him as a life coach.
Finally, on the last possible day, we finish. I drive home gurgling and making mouth noises just because I can. Never again will I roll my eyes over some diva’s behavior. Other people needing something from you that requires a certain physical condition you cannot control? Is hell. If “the talent” wants only M&Ms of a certain color, or grapefruit juice fresh squeezed by hand, I say give it to them.
