The Rapturous Garage Sale (as promised)

I’m behind on my blog. And my book. And reading for pleasure. And my diet. And my attempt to learn authentic Peruvian cooking while doing the hula (not that they go together). At least I’m caught up with teaching. So far.  

I’d like to tell you about the Dream Planner Kealoha and I met while looking for a place to have our wedding, but I’ll start with the garage sale. I'll save The Dream Planner for another day.

The best thing about the garage sale was watching Kelaoha get ready for it. Two nights before, I could hear him giggling to himself. I went down into the basement to see him cracking himself up over the ad he was writing. He was right; it was pretty damn funny. In fact, like four people came to the garage sale and shook his hand. One guy wrote for the Business Journal Of Grand Rapids and he said: “I just had to come to your sale because I wanted you to know I appreciate your work.” It was hysterical.

Then Kealoha giggled over his sign making skills. It involved massive magic markers, gaff tape and obscure references to movies.

The morning of the sale came and Kealoha wasn’t giggling anymore. Neither was I. We were focused. We were determined. And man, what a lot of work. We were setting things up by 8AM and immediately a woman stopped by. “We’re not quite ready yet,” I said. “We were planning on opening in an hour.” She said, “Oh, I won’t bother you. I just want to look.” Then she proceeded to ask a ton of questions and “How much is this?” and “Do you have kids’ clothes?” I was irritated and said, “In an hour when we’re ready you can come back and check it out.” Kealoha was more diplomatic. He talked to her. Gave her prices. Sold $2 worth of stuff.

I was immediately reminded on why I wasn’t good at retail. I just don’t like people, especially when they interrupt my routine.

There were lots of characters at the garage sale (not just us). Many of them were lonely types, looking to have lengthy conversations about how they have belts at home just like the ones for sale, or how an old lampshade remind them of an aunt who committed suicide back in 83. You know, weird stuff.

It was busy. Chaotic. Around 11 we celebrated that the Rapture had happened and we could benefit by collecting more stuff from the people who’d been taken. A few minutes later a van pulled up. I’m not kidding here. Out crawled a family of six or seven. The daddy figure had a long beard, and his oldest teenage son was wearing a shirt that said PRAYER IS COOL. They were depressed. Moping even. Kealoha and I felt bad. Maybe they’d planned on being raptured, and here they were, having to troll garage sales to replace the stuff they’d given away. They didn’t buy anything. I hoped they might like some stuff from the Elvis table.

Later a friend of ours who is an atheist showed up. He came with his very cool family of women. We chatted and the girls played. He was wearing a t-shirt that said “Have You Hugged An Atheist Today?” The writer in me really wished that the prayer guy and the atheist guy had met in the aisle of our garage sale, surrounded by the ephemera of Kealoha’s and my life: the old toys, the tiki mugs, the weird hula pictures. There would’ve been a showdown of staring, I’m sure of it.

Sadly, it was not to be.

It started to rain around three and I was grateful. I was exhausted. The kids were pooped. Kealoha was a walking zombie. We closed up shop, loaded our cars and dropped things off at the Goodwill.

All in all we made a couple of hundred dollars. It gave us a week of groceries and a Wii system, so that’s pretty cool.

I’m not sure if it was worth it, exactly, but I’d do it again just to hear Kealoha giggling over writing an ad. I’m trying to think of more things he can advertise to see if he can work his magic again. One of my books, maybe. Hmmm…

Random Thing #4: NOISES

#4  

I occasionally make very weird sounds. Sometimes, if I’m really tired, and I’m just about to drift asleep, I make this guttural UUUUGGGHHH sound. I’m not kidding. It’s a sound you might think would come from a might lumberjack, and not some late-thirties writer chick. It’s so loud and deep, it wakes me up. Kealoha thinks it’s hysterical.

Yesterday while opening a Netflix, I looked at the title and immediately raised my pinky to my mouth and said “oooooh” like Dr. Evil. You have to understand. I was not consciously mimicking Dr. Evil. I did this NATURALLY. Then I looked up at Kealoha and we both started laughing, because I’m just so weird.

“When people ask why you love me, tell them that I make strange noises, will you?” I said.

He said, “Yeah. It’s incredibly sexy lying next to a sleeping woman and hearing her go GAAAARRR!”

I nodded. I nodded because it’s true.

Random conversation with my son. This is how we talk.

Sometimes conversations or bits of conversation happen in my house and I just start laughing. It’s like I can step outside of myself and hear myself say something, but I can’t stop myself.  

Consider the below. Louis is 6. Keep that in mind.

ME: Louis, eat your crepes.

LOUIS: No. I won’t do it. I won’t eat my crepes.

ME: Do you know how lucky you are? How many kids do you think get crepes in the morning? I mean besides French kids. Most kids get like poptarts. Maybe. Eat your crepes.

LOUIS: No! I don’t want crepes! They’re yucky.

ME: You wanted crepes. I made you crepes. You specifically asked for crepes three times. Eat your crepes. All you get today is crepes. That’s it.

LOUIS: Then I guess I’ll starve.

ME: I guess so.

LOUIS: And you’ll go to jail and you’ll be sooooo upset because you killed your son.

ME: Well. That will be a sad end to our story, won’t it?

Louis came down from his room half an hour later. We apologized to each other. He ate his crepes. I won. I’m #1!! Yay!!

PART TWO

Louis was in my lap, kissing me and then he started nuzzling my neck like our emotionally disturbed three-legged cat Peanut does.

ME: Louis, stop suckling me.

LOUIS: Why? I like suckling you. ME: Yeah. But you’re too old for that. You shouldn’t suckle anyone until you’re at least eighteen. Probably older.

LOUIS: (blink blink blink) Okay, Ma.

What You Might Not Know About Narrators And Audiobooks

This morning I went to Audible.com to refill my iPod so I could listen to another audiobook. I’ve always loved audiobooks, even before I started narrating. I love being told a story. My favorites are mysteries…because I think the heavy plot and action lends itself well to a good listen.

I made a little mistake though….I clicked on some of my own books to see what people thought. I’m constantly trying to get better as a narrator, and I’ve certainly improved over the years. In the beginning, I tried to sound like a man with the male characters, but eventually dropped that for more subtle reads. When I listen to an audiobook, for me, I don’t expect the narrator to sound like the opposite sex. For me, it’s about characterization. How does a character speak? Are they fast, slow, do they upspeak, are they breathy, are they kind? And if you listen to people, really listen to them, there’s a whole range of voices. Women don’t always speak high. Men don’t always speak low. Anyway, for one reviewer in particular, this was the worst choice ever.

Most of the books I’ve narrated are rated around 4 out of 5 stars. It’s hard to know what they’re rating. Are they rating strictly the storyline or the narrator’s performance, and how do you separate the two?

Anyway. This one reviewer listened to a series I recorded and book after book said I was horrible, paused in weird places, and my male characters were too feminine sounding. She was venomous in her review. And, you know, it did hurt my feelings a bit. I also felt terrible for the writer. Had I failed her? Did she wish I hadn’t narrated her book? It also made me question my choices as a narrator. I’ve certainly made some missteps…but am I the worst narrator out there? I’m not the best, I know that. I know that my voice is well-suited for fiction with strong women characters. I do well with romances and mysteries.

I’m not going to defend myself. I’ll just keep trying to improve. But the comments did hit a sore spot. All of this got me thinking about the industry, and some of the reviews criticized things that are beyond a narrator’s control. So…here are some things you might not know about narrating. This is my experience, and might not be true for everyone, but here it is.

1) Narrators are not allowed to contact the author. I wish this weren’t so. I’d love to talk to the author and ask them what they want. I’d even try some voices for them for characterization, but I’m strictly forbidden to contact them. The most I can do is send them a tweet or reply on their website…and even that could get me in trouble. Directors can sometimes talk to the author, but rarely.

2) Some reviewers hate women who try to sound like men. Others hate it when women don’t sound enough like men. What’s a narrator to do?

3) Narrating is incredibly difficult. I have people coming up to me all the time saying “I should be a narrator. I read to my kids all the time.” I smile. I nod. Maybe they would be great…but…you have to read, interpret, perform, do characterizations, accents, differentiate between sexes, sometimes read foreign phrases, and read every single word as written all while making as few mistakes as possible. It all comes down to time and money. Read this paragraph aloud. Cold. Try to not take breaths between commas or periods. Try not to make a single mistake.

4) I get usually three days to record a book. There isn’t time to practice and finesse. You read and hope it’s good. If you make too many mistakes and they have to add a day to record, you probably won’t be hired again.

5) I prep all the books I record, but sometimes I’m only given a script a few days in advance. Most of the times, this is because of issues from the publisher. Everyone’s got a deadline and when one person is late, it affects everyone in line.

6) The director decides if a word is pronounced correctly. I’ve had many discussions and debates over words and names with directors. You’d be surprised how different a word sounds with a different accent on just a syllable. I have to defer to the director. Sometimes they want me to say foreign phrases with the right accent. I feel ridiculous doing it, but they want it right. Authentic. I’ve been slammed for narrating a book in an accent. I didn’t want to do it. The director insisted I do it. I did it. The fans of the book and the author hated that it was read in an accent. The blame fell on me. I was never hired for that author again, and lost three years of work because of it.

7) People rarely review products they love. They might give it stars, but they don’t write a review. If people hate a book, they’ll send venomous reviews. Reviews matter. Bad reviews matter more. I guess this is good because as a listener you have a lot of power. But a series of bad reviews can get a narrator fired. For real.

8 ) I put my heart and soul into every recording I do whether I personally love the book or not. I love the sound of words aloud. I love getting lost in characters. I love telling stories. It’s why I’m also a writer.

I guess this has turned into a little bit of a defense on my behalf. Maybe it’s because it plays on that whole “I’m not good enough” thing I have sometimes. So, I am taking these reviews to heart…but just in the sense that I’m trying to get better. The more reviews I read, the more it seems like the pendulum is swinging back to people preferring big differences between male and female characters. I’ll try it. We’ll see what happens.

If you’ve actually read this really long blog (sorry about that) I hope, if anything, it makes you think a little more about the business of producing an audiobook and what goes into it. By all means, post reviews and be critical. There’s a difference though between critical and hurtful.

I’m going to go post some positive, supportive reviews of books I’ve read and listened too. Got to cleanse the palate.

The Case of the Missing Tree (True Story)

THE BACK-STORY

Before I tell this story, I need to tell the back-story. About ten years ago (wow) I was living with my friends Brendan and George. They took me in after I moved home from living in NYC and helped me get on my feet. While there, we had great meals, fun talks, and just plain weird experiences. One of those was a day that Brendan and I were hanging out in the backyard. George had been at his cottage all day and came home. And he came home pissed. His face was red, smoke pouring out of his ears, that kind of thing. “Where’s my tree?” he asked angrily. Brendan and I just looked at each other. We asked, of course, what he was talking about. “Someone took my beautiful tree out of the front yard!”

It was sort of a crazy thing to say since that tree was like thirty feet tall and massive. You don’t just take a tree. And anyway, we’d have noticed, right? The three of us walked to the front of the yard. George pointed to a spot in the middle of the yard that was covered with fresh dirt and seeds and, indeed, no tree. During the day, someone had come and taken the entire tree…and Brendan and I never noticed.

We found out later that a tree company messed up. They were supposed to take and dispose of a diseased tree down the street, but someone transposed the address and they ended up taking Brendan and George’s tree instead. Still, a crazy thing to have happen. It made me realize though, that weird shit does indeed happen.

THE NOW STORY

Flash forward ten years. I’m staring at my backyard looking perplexed. Kealoha looks at me and says, “What’s wrong?”

I turn to him and I say… “I can’t believe this but there’s a tree missing in my backyard. Look! Look at that stump!” I point to a tree in the yard that is no longer a tree but a stump. In my mind, I remember lush green foliage. Someone came into my yard, probably in the dead of winter, and decapitated my tree, mulched the evidence and took off.

“Are you sure?” Kealoha asks in a way that makes me sort of question myself.

“Weird,” I say. I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong.

TWO WEEKS LATER

Mom has come over to look after the kids. When I get home, she’s staring at my backyard with a perplexed look on her face.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

“There’s a tree missing from your backyard. Look! Look at that stump!” She says. (I swear to God this is true.)

See? See! I want to cry out! Someone stole my tree. They done stoled it!

I begin immediate research. Research, meaning, I stare at the stump and try to come up with a possible story. I think the neighbor behind me did it. She never liked that tree. Said there were branches falling into her yard. And didn’t she have a tree company come and trim her tree? Yes! She did! I remember! She trimmed her tree and then she had them consume mine!

I am just about to find a gauntlet and go over there and smack her across the face and challenge her to a duel. Or at least a bake-off.

Then it occurs to me that maybe I’d better double check. I scroll through pictures taken a year ago when I moved into the house. And the evidence I need is there. The solution to the mystery. CASE SOLVED

There in front of me is a picture of my yard over a year ago, when I moved in, and there is the tree…that is not a tree but a stump. A stump! There was never a tree there! I made the whole thing up!

Worse, is that my mom made the whole thing up too. We were both certain that someone had snuck into my yard in the depths of winter, probably in a burglar costume, sawed down that tree and took it, just to freak me out.

THE VERDICT

It’s official. I may possibly be some sort of splice or clone of my mother…which would also explain the sudden attraction I have to collecting boxes.

Hmmm.