Recording: Please do not disturb
You can’t always tell what someone does for a living from how they look. Sure, a thin clean-shaven man in his 30s probably works middle management, finance, or sales, but it’s also entirely possible he’s an out-of-work sex toy designer bouncing between interviews for less risque silicone engineering careers.
Shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, they say.
Take me, for instance. I’m hardly 5’3” in heels with impossible-to-maintain blonde curls and the most irritatingly adorable dimples you’ve ever seen. The southern accent doesn’t help, either – I hate country music, don’t give two shits about any sports team, and can’t even drive much less tell two cars apart.
So when I tell people I record horror sounds for film and television, the conversation usually grinds to a halt.
Just the other day a neighbor knocked on my door asking about the sign I leave posted when I work, reading “recording horror noises – please do not disturb or call the cops.” Surely it was a joke of some kind.
Only joke is my check at the end of the month, am I right?
Once they accept my offer of showing them around my apartment, they warm up. It’s just a cute girl with a quirky interest, proven by walls lined with acoustic insulating foam and a buttload of microphones and assorted instruments.
Still, they drop by on occasion. Despite the overwhelming evidence there’s always a lingering disconnect. I get it. I’m used to it. And giving the odd couple a pair of twenties to go see a movie while I work on the creepier shrieks can always be billed to my clients.
It would be nice, once in a while, to be accepted for who I really am. The book beneath the cover. You’d never even guess I dropped out of med school first, would you? Doubtful. And people hardly ever ask.
But you wouldn’t imagine how helpful that experience has been for my work. Or how much more clients are willing to pay for videos proving the screams I record are the real deal.