I do not have a proper voice for reading steampunk fiction. The genre demands a deep, steady male voice with a slight growl lurking below the surface, and you simply cannot ask for more than Captain Robert's voice of Abney Park and the perfection of his reading The Wrath of Fate.
I, alas, am neither male nor possess a British accent so my reading of Chapter One of my book was predictably insipid. No matter how firm and pleasant my voice sounds to my ear, hit the play button and out comes a mushy, slightly nasally string of sentences as if I was subconsciously pinching my nose and breathing in shallow breaths during my recitation. Then there was the small matter of recording said voice in my friend's sweltering hot house which is buried in a very bad part of our town where were were lucky the camera did not pick up any distant gunshots. The small, irritating cat twirling around my ankles and mewing for attention also did not help matters much, nor did the roaring thud of gansters rolling past the house blaring rock music from their low-slung vehicles.
The disheartening sound of my own recorded voice was somewhat abated when I got to view some footage from last week and saw just how tiny my waist can be with a proper corset. At certain angles, my waist looked about the same circumference of my head, which was a tremendous ego boost and helped me gleefully ignore the fact that this shoot was before I decided to buy two boxes of Magnum ice cream bars and steadily plow through them. My voice may sound stupid, this entire bookwriting venture may go nowhere, but at least I looked skinny. Females can put up with a surprising amount of defeat and trauma if they have at least a few good skinny pics lying around for moral boosting.
And now, it is time to stop writing about my book, video shooting about it, and thinking about it, and actually sit down to a practice session. After another Magnum bar, of course.