Hear Me Roar, Hear Me Read

I’ve always liked to read my work out loud. 

And it’s not because I enjoy hearing the sound of my own voice.

Nope. Not at all.

Hearing as opposed to seeing a piece of writing lends a new level of comprehension, if you ask me. For the listener, if all goes well, it’s like being in the grips of a good storyteller.

You don't read articles or books or magazines around the campfire, you listen to well-told tales.

For the writer, reading your own work aloud, either to a mirror or to some patient unsuspecting soul, allows you to feel the rhythm of the words and phrases, sense both the verbal gaps and the hidden roadblocks, assess what needs to be added and what needs to be cut.

I love how poets recite their work. They read stylistically, often hanging on a single syllable, reading words and groups of words fast and then slow, riding that wonderful lyrical wave of the English language.

Like a good actor reciting his lines.

Because these are performances. We’re all actors in this life, I suppose.

And so, starting with this post, I am adding a new auditory feature to my website — with the blog posts and stories I publish here.

You can click on an attached link and hear me read them aloud.

Of course, I’m no silky-voiced NPR correspondent. Rather, like some sixth-grader in a school play, I will undoubtedly stumble, read too fast, mumble my words, lapse into horrifying inarticulateness.

There will be awkward gaps and mispronunciations, but I will move past them and hopefully reduce these missteps as I gain more experience. And confidence.

But there’s an interesting history to my preference to reading things aloud.

Can I tell it?

Thirty years ago, I worked for a newspaper in San Diego and knew a fellow journalist whom everyone called Buddy.

He was smart and well-read and whenever I needed a listener for one of my stories, I would call him, often when he was on deadline.

“Buddy, can I read you a lead?” I’d ask.

Many reporters and writers of the era, and perhaps even now, dislike reading their work aloud. I remember passing colleagues in the newsroom and asking, “What are you working on? Read me your lead.”

And they would cover their computer screens and tell me to go away. 

They weren’t done yet. The work wasn’t ready for prime time.

But I wanted listeners.

And for that, Buddy often made fun of me.

We’d get together for coffee and a walk on the beach some Saturday and he'd imitate how I would clumsily mention some story I was working on and then suddenly, conveniently, pull a paper printout from my pocket.

“You know what?” I’d say. “I just happen to have a copy with me.”

He’d roll his eyes, but he would listen.

Often he would single out mistakes, unfortunate word choices or structural weaknesses that I wouldn’t have seen in a million years. Other times, I’d catch a few typos or an awkward phrase that I'd somehow continually passed over despite reading -- and rereading -- the story in my head.

Once, Buddy took a solitary vacation to northern Europe. He was kind of a loner and wrote me a postcard while sitting on some desolate wind-battered beach, staring out at the North Sea and feeling empty.

But there was a silver lining, he added:

He knew that perched there, even feeling down and out, he didn't have to worry about his phone ringing, with me on the other end, asking — no, begging:

“Buddy, can I read you a lead?”

Sigh, comedians.

Not long afterwards, I began an enduring professional relationship with Steve Padilla, known throughout the LA Times and just about everywhere else as a writer’s editor.

Steve can feel stories. He finds holes, senses that precise moment when the narrative, the tale, goes astray.

And that’s when he’s merely reading them.

But in the 25 years since Steve began shaping my copy, he and I have have developed an odd little practice that seems to work for us and us alone.

I call him on the phone and read him my leads, and often entire stories.

One reason is that we’ve rarely, if ever, worked in the same office. The telephone is how we’ve always communicated.

And here’s the magical part: Steve doesn’t have to actually see the words; that will come later, after I file the story. 

At this point, he just listens.

Many times, when I’m done reading he’ll say something you’d never expect from a harried editor unceremoniously interrupted by some neurotic writer.

“Read it again,” he'll say.

And so I will; twice, sometimes even a third time.

Before I published this essay, I called Steve and read the entire post to him out aloud.

He made a few suggestions, questioned a word choice (I changed it). Meanwhile, I found some typos I hadn't seen.

Once again, it worked, our odd work habit, our little telephone dance.

Perhaps I should point out that Steve is also a professional singer. He can detect false notes. He has professional ears.

But you don’t need operatic ears to hear — and hopefully appreciate — my work.

Just click on the link and hear me roar, hear me whisper, hear me articulate.

Sit back. 

Listen to me read aloud.