I've been writing since before I could write. As a kid, I dictated stories to my parents. About 12 years ago, I was living in New York City and pursuing a master's degree in creative writing. For years I'd been suffering vision disorder, but in New York my symptoms worsened. I became unable to read or write for any considerable length of time. I tried vision therapy, an overhead projector, a special pair of glasses — all in vain.
Eventually, I discovered a computer program for the visually challenged. As I typed, my words were read aloud by an automated voice. With my screen dimmed (变模糊) to black, I relied entirely on the automated voice to know what I had written.
Facing the blank page is worrying, but facing the black page is worse. The dark screen is a sinkhole that swallows creative hope. Sentences disappear into it like an astronaut into a black hole. I managed to complete
my master's degree, but it took me years to adapt to my new reality. The greatest barrier seemed to be the automated voice, which was like a robot parrot on my shoulder, and I wanted nothing more than to drive it away. If a pianist were forced to practice on an untuned piano, would it corrupt his ear over time?
Of course, I could have quit writing and stopped making myself suffer. But it honestly never occurred to me—and I'm glad it didn't. Last year, after I told my story on the radio, I was contacted by VocaliD, a Massachusetts-based company that created a voice modeled on my own.
The first time I heard the voice they created, it is so close to my own that the two are nearly indistinguishable. I've only just begun using this new voice. My hope is that this will restore a sense of solitude (孤独) to my writing process, allowing me easier access to that inner space where the imagination can take over, and I can forget myself, and the real work can begin.
The black screen still exists — it always will — but the robot parrot has taken wing.
