Talking is hard

Human existence is nothing if not bizarre. To illustrate this, I have recently completed recording my second audiobook, “Blow the Man Down,” due for release in a few weeks. Just typing those words is exceptionally odd. Two audiobooks! Only eighteen months ago, I hadn’t written any books at all, let alone two, and now I’ve recorded audiobooks for both of them.

Life is weird.

But through this process, I discovered an unexpected truth: Talking is hard. Like, insanely hard.

OK, let me clarify that a little: Talking with vigor, excitement, emotion, proper diction, putting the em-PHA-sis on the correct syl-LA-bel, and without using a seriously noticeable North Carolina mountain accent and messing up repeatedly is insanely hard.

I’m not sure what I was thinking when I agreed to do this.

“You should narrate your books yourself!” they all said.

“It’ll be fun!” they all said.

From now on, I’m telling them to shut the f*** up and mind their own business.

Check, check

I’m not talking about recording a free-flowing podcast or making a live speech or presentation. I’m talking about a studio-recorded audiobook or voiceover. It’s a whole ‘nother beast.

If you’ve never tried this, you should, just out of morbid curiosity. Get yourself situated in a darkened studio, surrounded by all sorts of sound-deadening objects, put your computer in front of you, put a big fancy microphone in your face, and slap some equally big and fancy headphones over your ears. Finish out the set-up by having a very serious and professional sound engineer sitting on the other side of the glass, watching you intently while turning lots of knobs, as if doing something important.

Then, say something dumb like “Check, check” into the microphone.

Inside your own head, you will then hear an odd, unfamiliar voice (the same one you’ve had your whole life) as it instantly travels through all kinds of filters, cables, and electronics into a central mixing board, out of that, back through myriad wires, into the headphones, and back into your noggin. Your first thought will be, “That can’t be me.”

Such is the world in which we live. It’s just weird. And my voice sounds dumb.

It’s not just me, either. In the entire, better-than-a-Century history of recording, nobody — but NOBODY — has ever been happy upon first hearing their recorded voice. Seriously. I bet the first time he listened to his voice, Sam Elliott thought to himself, “Why do I sound so wimpy and whiny?” It’s a strange phenomenon.

“But Mark,” you protest. “You were a big fancy musician for a long time who recorded lots of music. This shouldn’t be a big deal for you!”

Ahh, you would think! But here’s a scary little secret: recording the spoken work is much different than singing in a studio. I think it’s harder.

No roadmap for speaking

Stop rolling your eyes! It’s true! Think about it. The songwriter has already given you the game plan; all you have to do is execute it. A song has a specific melody, which you learn before you record it. With a few minor exceptions here and there, that melody remains the same no matter how many times you sing it unless we’re talking about an R&B singer singing the national anthem at the Super Bowl, in which case, the melody is arbitrary. My point is, your voice knows what to do to sing that song. This is why people who stutter when speaking can often sing with no problem. Their brain is confident because it already knows what to do, as opposed to speaking a brand-spanking-new sentence, made up only a millisecond earlier.

The recorded spoken word comes with a strange set of problems because there is never only one way to say something. Every single time you speak a sentence, it will be a little different. Which approach should you choose? Who the hell knows??

But that’s not the most challenging part. Here’s a little exercise for you: Try having a conversation with someone — or even reading a book aloud — without messing up, if only a little. You won’t last long. It’s not that I doubt your ability, I’m just stating fact. It occurred to me the other day while watching “The Natural” for the 400th time that speaking is the baseball of human existence. In baseball, if you hit the ball correctly three out of 10 times for a career — put another way, if you screw up 70 percent of the time — you still end up in the Hall of Fame.

In much the same way, every human conversation is riddled with mistakes, but nobody really cares. Think of all the uhs and ums and starts and stops that happen in a normal conversation. Oh wait, you can’t, can you? Here’s why.

Unless you’re Richard Nixon, they aren’t recorded! They simply pass from mouth to ear and on into the Used Words Ozone Layer, wherever that is, dissolving into spent sound waves soon to be repurposed by falling rain, chirping crickets, or, God forbid, the caterwauling of some delusional teenager during “American Idol” auditions.

The bottom line is, all human beings end up in the Speaking Hall of Fame.

Exxxxx-cept when you’re recording an audiobook, where those words last forever, and people are listening carefully. This is an environment where every single word must be pronounced correctly, without rushing or dragging, there’s no stops and starts, no giant sighs, no tiny burps, hiccups, farts, buzzing flies, meowing cats, creaking knees, humming HVAC systems, whistling noses, or swishing britches. Every word is sent into the recorder like a silent satellite hurtling through the vacuum of space.

George Lucas is frustrated

Now that I’ve done two of these projects, I listen to every other audiobook or movie voiceover in a different way and with newfound appreciation. As talented as those people are, here’s a dirty little secret: They’re screwing up. Over and over. Tom Hanks is screwing up. Steve Carell is screwing up. Morgan Freeman is screwing up. I guarantee you that, in ruining Luke Skywalker’s life, James Earl Jones (as Darth Vader) had to say, “I am your father,” at least 15 times in the studio.

James Earl Jones, in the vocal booth: I am YOUR father.

George Lucas, in the control room: Uh, no. Try again.

James Earl Jones: I am (*fart*) your father.

George Lucas: Uh, no. Again, please, James, without farting.

James Earl Jones: Sorry about that.

George Lucas: It’s OK. Go ahead when you’re ready.

James Earl Jones: I AM your father.

George Lucas: Uh … no.

Even with the magic of audio editing, at some point, you have to actually say it right.

So, the next time you enjoy an animated movie, a narrated History Channel program, or an audiobook from Audible or Apple Music (hey, you may want to try “Doofus Dad Does Everest Base Camp” and the soon-to-be-released “Blow the Man Down,” both read by the author) be gentle. Just when you’re about to judge, picture the poor voiceover actor, fists clenched and face purple, trying desperately to sound natural and casual while saying the words “Chapter 12” or “Have a muffin” or “I am your father” without dissolving into a nervous breakdown and collapsing onto the studio floor in a sweaty heap.

Talking, after all, is hard.