in my ten years of being a radio and television producer—calling politicians, wildfire experts, or survivors of the most harrowing experiences, asking them pressing questions about the world and their lives, then translating it all into a story that would air the next day—I grew tired of phone calls. Then came the pandemic. I live alone and could communicate with people safely only by phone or video call, and I began to hate the immediacy.
Now, my heart sinks almost every time my phone rings. Often I will let calls go to voicemail, where my greeting strongly suggests sending a text instead of leaving a message. My favourite way of communicating is by voice note.
Long before iMessage and WhatsApp could capture an instant voice message, one of my good friends and I would record audio on our phones and send the files via email as memory-rich attachments. I rejoiced when the apps introduced functions that allowed you to hold down the record button and speak while you walked or did the dishes (always with apologies for audio quality: “Sorry, this is a two out of ten production wise, but I’m making dinner for the kids!” my friend regularly says. No apology necessary, I say, even if I have to strain to make out some parts.
I’m listening to the texture of her life, bearing witness to the small moments that make up her world.) The audio messages are helpful for short bursts. Sometimes I just need to say, “Hey, I’m running late, I’ll be there in ten minutes,” or.
