Voice and Character

I've been thinking about voice these past few days. I'm working through my third draft in between slaving away on my copywriting and, oh yeah, rehearsing for a play in which I play a lesbian therapist. Yup. Did I mention the on-stage orgasm? Jesus help me. Actually, the fact that I'm creating character as an actor AND as a writer right now puts an interesting spin on the whole idea.

I'm thinking about the dialogue and how these characters sound. And how the people in my life sound. There are a few people in my life, past and present, who have really distinctive voices. The kind that stick in your head. Or even in your mouth. In the sense that you can't help yourself from imitating them, even just to try on the shape of their words.

I had lunch with a couple of these vocal inspirations today: Heather and Hilary. H&H. Heather told us about her romantic billowing white nightie, sighing out her words as she does.

Only, the best way to really get a good dose of Heatherspeak is to chit-chat with her on the phone. She has a way of prefacing whatever she's about to tell you by sighing your name in a kind of sardonic groan. "Oh, Mel...," she begins, and then she tells you some godawful this or that which has transpired, followed by an, "Oh my God." Everything she says has a world-weary quality that is undercut by a bone-dry sense of humour. It's lovely.

And Hilary has a way of curling her mouth around words. It's the only way I know to describe it. Accompanying the incredible way she speaks words, there are languid cat-like head movements. So, everything about her speech is smooth and unruffled. I remember her telling me once how much a certain someone drove her crazy. "I'm enraged," she said placidly. Her tongue wrapped around that R so deliciously, rage was suddenly the most succulent emotion in the world. Honestly, I could listen to Hil be enraged all day.

An old dance professor of mine was one of those that I couldn't help but imitate. She was from New York, but her accent was so faint that it was more of an inflection than anything. A kind of generic American tinge really. Her voice was breathy and emphatic. As though she exhaled her words one at a time.

And each of these words was filled with such a force of expression, it was like every one was a tale in and of itself. She. Would tell. These...STORIES. In such. A dramatic. Way. That you. Couldn't. HELP. But be. Drawn. IN. To all the. DRAMA. And everything she said ended in, "Y'know." Not a question, but a statement with a looooong, drawn out 'y' that actually sounded more like an 'e.' Eeeeeee'know.

The last of these vocal muses is my friend the dentist. Dr. Mel (her name is also Mel) has a way of punctuating stories with a very particular brand of one-liner. A kind of off hand summary-meets-conclusion-meets-punchline. These punchline summations always begin with 'And.' A drawn-out, soaring 'And' finished with a two-syllable machine gun pay-off. It's like the 'And' is the whistle as the bomb hurtles toward the earth, followed by the one-two punch of the explosion.

Aaaaaand...we're done. She'd say about some relationship gone terribly, terribly sour. Aaaaand....divorce. She'd say about another relationship (mine) gone just as sour. And...I'm drunk. (After three bottles of wine and a hot tub.) And...you suck. (Regarding a mass murderer.)

I immediately launch into And-ism when I'm around her. Yesterday I wrote her an email which included the line: And...fade to psycho. Although it's only just now I identified the two-syllable finish. 'Fade to psycho' is three. Not as effective. Although really quite clever if I do say so myself. And...I'm out.