In recent months, I’ve discovered a way to fill otherwise lackluster moments with snarky comebacks, intrigue and crisp accents.
Mindless tasks suddenly became opportunities. Getting a cup of coffee while listening via my headphones to an audiobook became my stolen moment, just two taps away from immersion.
I relished each escape with the glee of the addicted.
I was moved to tears by Neil Gaiman’s narration of his own book, The Ocean at the End of the Lane (he somehow managed to describe both the helplessness and hopefulness of childhood), and was thoroughly entertained by Wil Wheaton’s narration of John Scalzi’s Redshirts. Roy Dotrice lead me through George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Fire and Ice with his vast array of voices, breathing life into the characters in a way few can ever hope to achieve, and Craig Wasson kept me awake with his brilliant narration of Stephen King’s 11.22.63 — to name just a few.
As any true addict, I can recall the first time I ever heard a book being read aloud (by someone other than my parents). I was in second or third grade and the British librarian read to us from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang in her crisp accent. I was hooked, and soon sought an outlet for my newfound hobby by subjecting my younger sister to my own narration of the various books we had. Before long, another avid listener was born. Cue witch-y cackle.
When I started writing my own books, I would ring her up and share my works through a myriad of mangled accents. My sister once again proved quite a sport.