Don’t doubt yourself

There is almost always a taker……

It’s easy to surmise you got a bit of voice acting success by accident. Maybe it was a fluke — a flash in the pan.

Feelings like these can occur when you walk away from your passion for a while. Such was the case when I stopped auditioning in preparation for our much-awaited month-long trip abroad. Annoying little voices harrassed me as I walked among the ruins of Rome, floated upon ancient waves of deep Aegean blue, and visited with friends and relatives in Greece — my beloved imagined second home. The nasty whispers were saying things like, “Face it: Nobody will want your voice narrating their audiobook again.” Or, “By the time you get another narration job, AI will have taken over the industry.”

Seriously. Even when telling strangers I’d meet on our trip about what I did for a living, impostor syndrome easily ruined the excitement of explaining it.

Fast forward to a day after our return. I’m jetlagged — awake and sleepy at all the wrong times. Unpacked clothes have not begun their migration to the washer. And I know I won’t be leaving the house for a few days because of my post-trip funk.

So I check my computer to see if there is anything interesting to audition for on ACX/Audible. I want a future. I NEED a future.

Now I’m scrolling through an unexciting collection of self-help books. I sigh. So I keep scrolling for something fun and interesting. There are a few spicy romances and lots and lots of books looking for male narrators.

Just as I am about to leave the site, I catch a cute book cover. I download the audition script, which was listed the day before — the day of our 21-hour-long Chinese water torture return from Europe in coach class.

I yell to my husband (who is zombie-ing out in front of the TV trying to catch up with the first games of college football he missed while we were gone): “Turn it down. I’m going upstairs to record an audition.” He complies, but looks at me like I am certifiable. “I can’t pass this up,” I say with a knitted brow, as if needing to make an excuse. “Even if I’m a mess right now..”

My voice is a tad raspy and low-pitched, but I begin the narration anyway. There is no affectation in my delivery whatsoever because my energy is low. Besides, in my mind I’m reading a story out loud to a room full of teens, aged 14-17. (It’s a YA novel).

It’s fun. It’s inventive. I finish the audition, perform edits on the spot, and make the sound file into an MP3 for ACX. Then I head down to my home office, upload it to the site, and try to forget about this fluke of an audition. After all, it’s not unusual for me to audition for a dozen books and hear nothing, so what are the chances the first author I audition for after the vaycay would perk up to my somewhat raspy rendition of her story?

That was a Thursday. By Sunday I get an email from ACX telling me I’ve got an offer to look at. What? Authors on ACX no doubt receive 30-60 auditions within 24 hours of listing their books. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there for us no matter how you cut it.

I open the email only to find a lowball offer that is a tenth of what I charge for an hour of finished narration. Sweet, but no cigar. I message the rights holder, thanking her and naming my rate. I turn down the offer and wish her well, saying if I didn’t think her book would be a fun one to narrate, I never would have auditioned. I feel flattered and I want her to feel the same.

Within minutes she responds to my message, saying “I was not familiar with what narrators charge. I will pay your rate. Will you reconsider?” My jaw drops as I suddenly get another offer.

Now I am on my guard. Okay. That happened TOO easily. Who is this author? Does she exist? Does the book really show up on Amazon? After accepting the job, I begin hunting around online. I dig for her socials only to find she doesn’t use them much — at least under her name. Yes — her book just got listed on Amazon. So my next step is to send her my “welcome letter” — outlining how I do my work, what she should expect, ask her for specific requests before I narrate, tell her when payments are due, and on and on. Then I get started on selecting a 15-minute checkpoint as another sample of how I would narrate the manuscript— a requirement of ACX before the contract goes forward.

And? Crickets. She isn’t responding to my ACX messages because their messaging system sucks. So I find her Facebook page and message her there. That works.

We are now on our way, convinced I haven’t completely lost it. I do my Sally Field award speech as I realize someone out there likes me — they really like me.

And my post vaycay work begins. But I know the moment I finish her book, impostor syndrome will reappear. If you’re a creative, you know what I mean.