Writers Life | From Books on Tape to the Voices in My Head

Anyone else remember when audiobooks were called books on tape?

My first audiobook was Winnie-the-Pooh, narrated by Lionel Jeffries, on cassette.

I wore that tape out. Literally.

At some point it stretched and degraded so badly it stopped playing properly, and I remember opening the cassette to splice the tape and coax it back into place on the cogs, just to keep it playing. I also had the paperback and could read perfectly well on my own—but I often followed along in the book while listening.

I wasn’t just listening to a story being read aloud.
I was in the Hundred Acre Wood—tracking a heffalump, setting out on an expotition to the North Pole, following Pooh and Piglet and Christopher Robin wherever they went.

The story didn’t sit at a distance. It wrapped around me.

I think some stories are meant to be heard.

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A Lifelong Love of Listening

That cassette was the beginning of a long love affair with audiobooks—one that’s only become easier to indulge as the formats have changed.

I’ve listened through Audible over the years, carefully agonising over how to spend a single monthly credit. (If you know, you know.) I became an expert at choosing omnibus editions or super-long listens—twenty hours or more—so the decision felt worth it.

I also spent time with Everand, which I loved… until the subscription model changed and the maths stopped working for me.

Audiobooks, wonderful as they are, can be expensive. And when you listen a lot, that matters.

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The Realisation That Took Me by Surprise

Somewhere along the way, I realised something I’d never quite articulated before:

Audiobooks didn’t just shape how I consume stories.
They shaped how I tell them.

When I write, I hear the dialogue in my head.

I hear the cadence of a line. The weight of a pause. Whether a sentence needs to breathe or be clipped short. That instinct didn’t come from nowhere. It came from years of listening to stories told aloud—stories that lived in the ear as much as on the page.

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Listening as a Way of Life

Once I recognised that, it made sense of how central audiobooks had become to my everyday life.

I’m currently working a part-time job that’s physically demanding but mentally free—the perfect conditions for listening. Long hours where my hands are busy and my mind is wide open for story.

Right now, I’m using Kobo Plus Read & Listen, which honestly feels like an absolute steal given how much I listen. It’s abundance instead of rationing. And that matters when stories have always been a companion, not a luxury.

I do wish there were more Christian fiction available there. I hope that changes with time.

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The Work Behind the Listening

There’s a reason there are so many more books available as eBooks than as audiobooks.

An audiobook isn’t just words, transferred into another format. It’s rhythm. Cadence. Breath. Performance. It asks something different of a story—and of the person telling it.

Every sentence has to sound right, not just read well on the page. Dialogue needs space to live. Emotional moments need restraint as much as emphasis. Silence matters as much as speech.

That’s why audiobooks take longer to produce, cost more to create, and why so many books—especially by indie authors—never make it into audio at all.

For authors like me, there isn’t one single path. Some hire professional narrators and studios. Some work with publishers or audio-first platforms. Some record their own, juggling microphones, editing software, and the steep learning curve that comes with learning an entirely new craft alongside writing.

Every route involves trade-offs: time, money, control, reach.

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Narrating My Own

In my case, that path led me to narrate my own audiobook. I’m currently in the thick of producing my second.

That isn’t the right choice for every author—and it certainly isn’t the easy one. Narrating your own work means standing completely exposed in front of it. Every awkward sentence, every emotional beat that doesn’t quite land, every place where the rhythm needs more care becomes immediately obvious when you have to speak it aloud.

You don’t just read. You perform restraint. You learn where not to emote. You discover how much silence can carry. You realise very quickly that what looks fine on the page can feel clumsy in the mouth.

But for me, it also felt deeply fitting.

Because I’ve always heard my stories before I ever see them. When I write dialogue, I hear the voices in my head—the pacing, the inflection, the spaces between words. Narrating my own audiobook wasn’t about control so much as continuity. It was about letting the story sound the way it always had, long before it reached print.

It was challenging. It was humbling. And it gave me a renewed respect for audiobooks as a craft in their own right—not an add-on, but a translation into another language entirely.

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Listening, Full Circle

Because I chose to narrate my own audiobook, the way it reaches listeners looks a little different from the traditional publishing path.

Right now, Home Town Melody is available to listen to on Kobo Plus, as well as directly through my own website. That means it can reach listeners who, like me, weave stories into the ordinary rhythms of their day—work, walking, hands-busy hours where listening feels natural.

The one place it isn’t available yet is Audible, due to publishing delays that are outside my control. These things take time.

What matters most to me is this: if you’re someone who loves listening the way I do—if stories have accompanied you through long days and quiet moments—then I’m glad to be able to offer my work in a form that honours that experience.

From books on tape to the voices in my head, this feels less like branching out into something new—and more like coming full circle.

(If you’re an audiobook listener and curious to hear how this story sounds, you can listen to a sample of Chapter One here.)