Do you like the sound of your voice?
It’s a simple question, with a predictable response.
Are you kidding? I hate the sound of my voice.
I thought about that question, and about the usual response, after watching a documentary last month. It’s called Do I Sound Gay? and was released in 2014. Directed by David Thorpe, the film includes Dan Savage, David Sedaris, George Takei, Margaret Cho and Tim Gunn.
Thorpe, a recently single writer in New York City, is uncomfortable with his voice, which has a slight lilt and precise diction. In other words, he “sounds gay,” and he doesn’t like it. But while watching the movie (which includes theories about why some gay men have a particular kind of voice) I began to wonder if Thorpe’s anxiety wasn’t shared more broadly.
In other words, who actually likes the way he or she sounds? My suspicion is very, very few people.
That’s odd, if you think about it. We humans are anxious about so many facets of our appearance and personalities, and we talk about those anxieties all the time. We exercise and diet to shed excess pounds. We pop antidepressants and benzodiazepines to sand off our rough edges.
But how many of us would go to a vocal coach, as Thorpe does in his documentary? How many of us would admit to feeling uncomfortable with the very way we produce our words?
So I decided to ask people who talk for a living. I reached out to several public radio professionals and asked about their experiences with their voices. Maybe they would be the exception, I thought. Maybe they would feel overwhelming confidence in their speech.
As it turned out, they’re just like the rest of us. They’ve just had to overcome the discomfort.
Avishay Artsy used to work for New Hampshire Public Radio and is now with KCRW in Santa Monica, Calif. “I didn’t like my voice when I started in radio,” he wrote, “but in the dozen years since I’ve become accustomed to it and have grown to like it.
“It’s distinctive and unique in its imperfection. I’m overly critical of other aspects of my work but my voice is something I’m pretty happy with. Sometimes it bothers me that I lisp a little or have a hard time saying words like ‘rural’ or ‘February’ or ‘rarely’ but those words come up . . . not often. I was worried at one point that my acceptance of my voice was a sign of vanity or narcissism, or that I had managed to develop a ‘public radio voice’ that I then needed to break, but I think I’ve managed to overcome those feelings and just feel good about my voice.”
Brady Carlson is a fixture on NHPR (and a newly published author). He simply focuses on acceptance.
“I figure my voice is what it is – I’ve been able to strengthen its sound and improve my delivery over the years, but mostly my voice just sounds the way it sounds,” he told me. “The best thing I’ve done is learn not just to accept its strengths and limitations, but recognize them. Complaining about one’s voice is a little like complaining that pianos don’t have red keys along with the white and black ones.”
Perhaps the most interesting response I received was from Virginia Prescott, host of the NHPR program Word of Mouth. I’ve been a guest on the program and sat across from Virginia in the studio many times.
Her voice has always struck me as strong yet warm, imbued with curiosity and intent on bringing listeners along. But she also confessed to anxiety. Virginia at first thought she sounded uncannily high-pitched – a common reaction of people hearing their recorded voices.
“At first, I dug deep for a huskier register, which was exhausting. But I thought it served me,” Virginia wrote. “I was on the radio in New Orleans and didn’t want to sound like the naive Northern white girl that I was. I also have a mimic’s ear, so I tend to adopt accents even when it’s impolite. I can’t bear to hear recordings from that time because I sound lethargic, or like Marlene Dietrich straining to play Blanche Dubois in a community theater production.
“It wasn’t until I moved to New York that I went to a vocal coach who taught me how to relax my throat and tongue and to breathe and speak from my diaphragm. It seemed like a paradox at the time to be encouraged to access my authentic voice while also being taught to smile widely just before you get on the mic. It projects energy, they told me, which goes a long way on the air. And you must rev your voice up at the end of a sentence. Short, declarative sentences.
“That confers authority and confidence. So does a consistent tone that doesn’t waver. It’s better for editing tape. Plus, my editor told me that sources will think they have to call you back.
“I still struggle with some of that advice. Sitting alone in a dim studio, smiling, and kicking up at the end of a sentence can feel sing-songy and fraudulent. Especially when public radio has become a haven for quirky, ironic voices.”
So like Thorpe, Virginia decided to avail herself of the services of a professional. But just because you have the knowledge doesn’t mean you automatically apply it.
“I still don’t always like my voice. I often think I sound tired,” she told me. “I can sometimes hear the frustration of trying to connect with a guest. But one of the reasons I love radio is because I believe that the human soul is revealed through it. Imperfect, though it may be.”
There’s science behind our dislike of our voices.
According to an explainer from the Washington Post last year, we simply hear ourselves differently than others do. Yes, some of the sound of a person’s voice comes through the ears. But vocal cords also vibrate in the throat. That reverberation moves through the bones of the skull, making our voices seem deeper and more resonant.
When we hear ourselves recorded, then, we’re surprised. We don’t sound right.
I experienced this first-hand when the Monitor introduced a podcast about politics last summer. Each week, I was forced to listen to and edit recordings of my voice. Sometimes, I sounded fine. Other times, I sounded like a confused, Midwestern chipmunk.
Our voices are uniquely close to us as people. We watch our bodies change and age, so we know that they’re somehow separate. We can change the style and cut of our clothes at a whim. We can even change our personalities and behavior if we want. There’s a galaxy of therapists and pharmaceuticals to help us better ourselves.
Our voices, though, resist change. Our voices – in some profound, persistent way – are us. To accept the way we sound, to embrace it, we have to accept ourselves. Not the way we look, not the way we think, but the way we exist and communicate in the world.
That’s not easy. But if we talk about it, we just might manage.
(Clay Wirestone can be reached at 369, 3305, cwirestone@cmonitor.com or on Twitter @claywires.)