The Hidden Art of Listening

Or: An Ode to Mike, the Sound Engineer

It’s 6 days to the release of my Audible Original memoir debut!

You Will Not Recognize Your Life is a sharply funny, deeply relatable memoir that follows one earnest overachiever's quest to become flawlessly lovable - and her discovery that sometimes the best things in life aren't on a vision board. To celebrate next week’s launch, this week’s Story Letter is a little behind-the-scenes about the making of this project.

Pre-order now for December 12th!

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Here at the Story Letter I talk a lot about the telling part of storytelling— crafting a story, engaging an audience, finding your voice. But this week I want to remind you— and myself— that great storytelling requires great listening. Being present to someone’s story makes that story better— and sometimes makes it possible.

I do a lot of listening as a story coach, as you can imagine. And I love it. But I've also been thinking about being listened to. Especially this week, as I’ve been getting ready for the release of my Audible Original memoir next Thursday. (By getting ready, of course, I mean I’m buying snacks to stress-eat on launch day and writing weird little affirmations for myself on Post-it’s all around my house.)

You Will Not Recognize Your Life is a unique form of audio story: it’s mostly scripted, but it’s still “storytelling.” So it’s not quite an audiobook, it’s not recorded live, it’s not even a chatty podcast. And that made it pretty challenging to record.

Usually when I perform stories, I'm sharing them with a live audience—in theaters, classrooms, people’s backyards, Zoom meetings. And when you’re live, you get immediate feedback. You can feel when something lands or when it needs adjusting. That feedback loop between teller and listener becomes part of how the story takes shape.

But recording this memoir was different.

Instead of recording in the studio, Audible helped me set up a home recording kit. They sent me what looked like a nuclear football—a giant black plastic suitcase locked with zip ties and full of very nice recording equipment.

The suitcase in question. I expected it to show up with a man in a suit and aviators.

The engineers took a virtual tour of my house on Zoom, to help me find the perfect spot for a makeshift studio.

And then I found myself alone, in a room draped with extra curtains and comforters, speaking into a microphone with just two people in my headphones: my producer Rachel, and Mike, the sound engineer.

Glamorous AND soundproof. In case you’re wondering, the Audible engineers were VERY impressed with my diligence in setting up. They even told my editor I did a good job. I’m even chasing the gold star in this kind of thing, apparently??

Mike was quiet. He introduced himself at the start and then mostly stayed silent, speaking only when necessary. And this made me nervous. Here I was, sharing deeply personal stories—some of them pretty intimate—with a stranger I'd never even seen. He was just a presence in my headphones, listening.

Rachel made sure to be as vocally supportive as she could be without wrecking a take, but I had no way of knowing if Mike was smiling at my jokes or checking his email.

Then something shifted. A few chapters in, on a break from recording a particularly vulnerable section about a women's empowerment class, Mike's voice came through softly: "Um, I know I'm not the demographic for this book, but I just want to say, I'm really enjoying it?"

Later, during a chapter about eighth grade, I had a crisis of confidence. I stopped recording and wondered out loud if I needed to preface the chapter with some kind of disclaimer—you know, acknowledge that everyone has a hard time in middle school, that I wasn't special. Or cut the chapter altogether?

And Mike spoke up again: "Um, I don't want to butt in here, but I do think this chapter is really important? Because it really helps us understand where all of those insecurities come from?"

MIKE! He’d been listening! Really listening. Not just to the technical aspects of the recording, but to the story itself. And his listening got me through that moment. He was right. And his careful attention helped me through my self-doubt. What a wonderful, lucky thing, to have an audience listening like that.

By the end of those two weeks of recording, saying our goodbyes felt like the end of summer camp (to me, at least!). Mike was still quietly enthusiastic. He was very kind to me about my narration (he’s heard a lot of authors narrate their own books). And he suggested he’d be talking to his girlfriend about some of the things he’d learned in our sessions.

(If you want to know what kind of insider knowledge Mike gained— well, pre-order the Audible Original here.)

I guess what I’m saying is: even though I've never seen his face, Mike was an essential part of bringing this memoir to life. And not just because he ran the recording equipment.

So here's to Mike, and to all the careful listeners out there, who help stories find their way into the world. It’s you that makes storytelling possible.

Respectfully and enthusiastically yours,

Micaela

P.S. How about you? What are your experiences with meaningful listeners in your life? Have you ever had someone's careful attention help you through a moment of doubt or vulnerability? What kind of listener are you? Share your thoughts in the comments below!