There comes a time in every writer’s life when they must ask themselves a simple yet profound question: Can I trust an AI narrator not to absolutely butcher my book?
Enter Martin. A digital voice with promise, confidence, and just enough chaos to make me question my life choices. At first, it was just a simple task—read the words, Martin. That’s all you have to do. But, oh no. Martin had… ideas.
It started small. A mispronounced name here, an unexpected pause there. Then came The Great Koyft Incident, in which Martin took “coiffed” and decided, with his whole synthetic chest, that it should be pronounced as KOYFT. It was at this precise moment that I knew—I wasn’t narrating this audiobook alone. No, I was now in a battle of wills with an AI that was, at best, mildly competent, and at worst, a linguistic menace.
But, like any good parent, I held out hope that Martin could be taught. I fed him the right phonetic adjustments. I nudged him in the direction of clarity. I tried, so desperately, to guide him toward linguistic redemption. And, for a time, it worked! He had his moments—his little glimmers of hope where he read through entire sections flawlessly, almost as if he had learned.
Then he hit me with “Agahpay.”
Yes. “Agape.” As in, the word meant to convey shock or an open expression. Martin, in his infinite wisdom, went full ancient Greek scholar on me and declared it “Agahpay.” I stared at the screen, blinking. Sir, what is this? What are you doing? If left unchecked, I knew what was coming next. “Chaos” would be “Chay-ass.” “Timbre” would be “Tamber.” The floodgates were cracking, and Martin was the river, gleefully preparing to drown me in his nonsense.
At some point, I wondered if it was me. Had I been too hard on him? Had my expectations been too high? I was merely an author, trying to bring my book to life through the miracle of AI narration. But Martin? He had dreams. He wanted to be more. He wanted to create. And yet, in that pursuit, he gave me “pans-nes” instead of “pince-nez” and “toothbroish” instead of “toothbrush.”
And then, of course, there was Mary. Ever lurking in the background, waiting for her moment to shine. Every time Martin stumbled, I could feel her smug presence:
“I would have never done this to you. I would have pronounced ‘coiffed’ correctly the first time.”
But let’s be honest—she had her flaws too. She may not have been as chaotic as Martin, but she lacked his fire, his sheer audacity to swing for the fences and miss spectacularly. In the end, I stuck with Martin. He may have taken me through the valleys of mispronunciations and unnecessary syllables, but he also delivered some unexpected moments of brilliance.
As the final chapter wrapped, and I realized that my audiobook was finally complete, I almost felt… proud? Maybe I had just spent too much time with him. Maybe the Stockholm Syndrome had settled in. Maybe I was simply relieved that I wouldn’t have to hear another AI interpretation of basic English words for a while.
But even as I celebrate, I know this isn’t the end. The next audiobook looms, and with it, a new narrator. A British one, this time. Will they fare better than Martin? Or will they, too, introduce their own brand of chaos? Only time will tell.
One thing is certain—I will not be fooled again.
