Subject: RE: CASANOVA, LLC–and hello!
Hi again,
Okay, finished reading the first three episodes. Enjoyed it! But, as I warned you, I have a significant number of questions （attached）。 Also sending along a sample of what I’m thinking of doing with the voices. Let me know if these work for you.
Best,
Sarah
From: Brock McNight
To: Westholme, Sarah
Date: December 14, 10:27 AM
Subject: RE: CASANOVA, LLC–and hello!
Good questions. Made notes in the attachment. Character samples sound PERFECT.
Brock
SEWANEE WAS LOADING the dishwasher with the usual lunchtime detritus when she saw Mark come out of his office and hit the button for the house’s ancient intercom system.
“May I have your attention, please. The e-mail . . .” He gave his best dramatic pause. “。 . . has arrived.” Sewanee stopped loading, retrieved a stack of clear plastic cups from a cabinet, and unstacked them on the island. Mark went to the garage and returned with two bottles of Kirkland brand sparkling wine.
Normally, the house was library-silent during the day. The rotating narrators and engineers were ensconced in the four bedrooms and the editors were sitting at desks in the living room listening to raw audio files. If conversation happened, it was murmured lowly in the kitchen or more volubly in the garage; on the deck you could laugh without being heard. But now, the floorboards above Sewanee’s head creaked, doors opened, and footsteps made their way down the thickly-carpeted stairs. The editors pulled off their headphones.
The herd gathered in the kitchen, Alice among them. She rarely came to the studio anymore, but her home booth was currently out of commission. Most full-time narrators had home studios, so Mark’s place usually hosted new narrators, old holdouts, actors who only did audiobooks occasionally, and celebrity or author readers. It was nice to see a familiar face.
Alice slipped her arm around Sewanee’s waist, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Sewanee moved to throw her right arm across Alice’s shoulders, but she’d never regained full range of motion. She substituted a snuggle into Alice’s side. “How you?” Alice whispered.
“Good,” Sewanee murmured back. “You? What are you recording?”
“They’re unicorns. Except when they’re humans. Then they screw a lot.”
“Hear ye, hear ye!” Mark cried, pulling a folded raft of papers out of the back pocket of his Dockers. He liked to preserve tradition whenever possible and he particularly enjoyed this one. He’d be damned if he read this off a screen. “I have in my hand the sacred scroll! The communique from on high! The fates of every living being! Gather ’round to hear your fortuity!”
Alice and Sewanee snorted.
“For the uninitiated, the Audies are the Oscars of the audiobook world. And we have among us, here, in this very kitchen, gods of the realm. Your Meryl Streep of Romance”–he looked to Alice here–“your Daniel Day-Lewis of Sci-Fi”–a nod to Brian, a narrator who insisted on wearing a tie in the booth because it made him feel like he was at work–“your promising-newcomer, the, shall we say, Adaku Obi of Faith-Based and Inspirational . . .” Sewanee laughed as Mark gestured to a baby-faced woman she thought might have been named Carly. “And, of course, your Cate Blanchett of Fiction and winner of last year’s Best Female Narrator award, Sewanee Chester.” A tip of an invisible hat.
“Don’t forget yourself,” she called out. “The Katharine Hepburn of History and Biography.”
Mark curtsied amid the hoots, but continued, “Now, the Academy Awards might have a celebrity-strewn televised announcement of the nominees, but we aren’t nearly as fussy, are we? Nay! We are humble artistes, who prefer our accolades to arrive via electronic mail, on an awkward mid-week afternoon right before the holidays.” More chuckles. “This year’s ceremony will take place on . . .” He scanned the paper. “。 . . Wednesday, March 10th. Now, the ceremony. Ahhh, the ceremony. First and foremost, arrange transportation because each ticket includes not one, but two drink coupons!”
Mark said louder, over the laughter, “The event is black tie, so leave your sweatpants at home, mon amis. Shave all the parts no one usually sees. Decide which footwear you’ll spend the evening complaining about!” He looked back to the paper. “And what is this? Do mine eyes deceive me? Hark! This year, the event shall take place here, in the City of Angels!” At this, a victorious cry went up. “Los Angeles, rejoice! New York, pack your sunblock!” The entire group applauded and whistled. “And so, without further ado, while I read the categories and nominees, une petite Blanchett over here will distribute the bubbly.”