A Fractured Author Publishes her Novels On Audiobooks
I bought myself a Rode microphone with a pop filter. One of the best on the market. I built myself a recording booth in the conservatory. I up‑ended an old table, lined it with towels to absorb echoes, clipped a camping torch inside, and printed my scripts in large type. With a mixer and sound‑editing software, I had created my own little recording studio.
I had ventured into the world of audiobooks. And the learning curve was steeper than Mount Everest.
My recording studio in 2015. (Image taken from my book Mirror Image Shattered).
My Split Identity Speaks Through My Audiobooks
Knowing nothing about sound recording, I had to learn from scratch. Faulty equipment, buzzing wires, mysterious hums, and endless mishaps meant three months passed before I recorded a single syllable. Eventually, I began with short stories to practise vocal technique before tackling my so called ‘novels’.My book, Mirror Image Shattered explains. At first, the project thrilled me. I anticipated every session. But highs and lows cost dearly, and soon a robot seemed to take possession of me. Almost every day for ten months, I recorded, re‑recorded, and edited for hours inside my studio. Online tutorials became my lifeline: noise removal, click elimination, equalisation, breath control. I waited for aeroplanes, tractors and lawnmowers to pass. Every time I solved one problem, another appeared.
Disclosure via the Voices in my Head
Recording character voices meant mastering regional accents and vocal timbre. Minor characters needed test recordings to ensure each sounded distinct. Tongue‑twisting sentences demanded constant re‑takes. I omitted words due to fatigue. But gradually, my personas found a voice. My split identities are speaking through me.I had drawn them, painted them, written them — now I am speaking their voices, the voices in my head.
The voices had to satisfy the blueprint imagined, the old ‘knoll’ of my subconscious. Not any accent would do. I test‑recorded endlessly, only to discover my vocal range was limited. Narrating my own books felt right — some female narrators manage male voices beautifully, but I had to stretch my humble vocals as far as they would go.
Gradually, I began to ‘feel’ the characters as their dialogue reeled out. Aidan of The Lessons had a tight, guttural sound. Caleb of The Locked Door was brusque and clipped. Luke of North Window was proper and sardonic. Vincent of Nadia carried a don’t‑care burr, peppered with irony. I knew their mannerisms, quirks and inflections instinctively.
My split identities.
My book Mirror Image Shattered.
My Flashbacks During Audiobook Recording
During long sessions, I began seeing an unconscious face lying on the conservatory floor, sunburnt, its youthful skin cracking and peeling away. As the weeks, passed, this face got uglier and more distorted. What is this vision? What could I do but ignore it? I ignored and ignored it. Another ‘episode’ I couldn’t understand was gathering. It was unrealised complex PTSD.The storyline always took centre stage. And so did my obsession with perfection.
Family commitments clashed with studio time. Mum had become bedbound with a serious illness, and my siblings and I organised a rota for her care. The robot inside me insisted on squeezing in recording hours, but the mother in me upheld my family duties. My old values prevailed.
I recorded late into the night. The camping torch glowed until two in the morning. Twice, I worked through the night editing. I hated that robot, but I couldn’t stop. I wanted the project finished. And the robot demanded perfection.
My Mental Breakdown Whilst Recording
One morning, after hours of recording, nausea washed over me and I collapsed on the kitchen floor. When I came to, my vision blurred. I dragged myself to the phone and called an ambulance. At the hospital, I learned I had dislocated my shoulder. Gladly, tests came back normal. I went home, rested for a few days — then returned to the studio with my arm in a sling. The burnt face on the conservatory floor kept haunting me. Why won’t it go away? The robot had dragged me this far; I might as well finish.As summer ended, I worked flat‑out formatting the sound files for release. Publishing terrified me. When uploads began to rack up, my stomach churned every morning. Would there be returns? A slating review? Mixed reviews arrived in a string — each one firing adrenaline through me. A rollercoaster seized my gut, pitching me up and down until I felt burnt out and shell‑shocked.
Shellshock Due to Obsession
The aftermath left me in a wasteland, far from the nineteen‑year‑old who first dreamed of writing a bestselling novel. I was searching for something and I kept getting further away from it by the day.I pulled my audiobooks.
Forty‑eight hours of recording retreated into a locked cabinet. Silence. Thank goodness. Silence. I told myself the sound quality wasn’t right; the voices were off. Maybe I’d republish later. In truth, I couldn’t bear my secret personas sitting under judgment.
Shortly after pulling my audiobooks, I became ill.
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