I like looking at the characters. Seeing them always brings up

Host:
The studio light buzzed faintly, the kind of sound that hums at the edge of thought. In the recording booth, sketches of wild and tender things were taped to the glass — animals, monsters, robots, clowns, and creatures only imagination could invent. Their faces stared out in silence, waiting for someone to breathe sound into them.

It was late — past midnight, when the world outside had gone quiet and the building belonged to ghosts and echoes. The smell of coffee, warm circuitry, and worn-out dreams filled the room.

Jack sat before the microphone, his grey eyes fixed on the drawing of a fox taped to the soundboard. He ran a thumb over his lower lip, thinking. His voice had carried war generals, detectives, and demons — but tonight, it refused to come.
Jeeny stood behind the console, her dark eyes alive with mischief and warmth, her posture both precise and gentle, like someone orchestrating emotion through silence.

The room seemed to hold its breath between them.

Jeeny: (softly) “Frank Welker once said, ‘I like looking at the characters. Seeing them always brings up some voice or attitude. I am much more visual, and that works so much better than having someone tell me what the character is all about.’”

Jack: (half-grinning) “Of course he did. The man who gave life to a thousand voices — and he starts with pictures.”

Jeeny: “Because pictures don’t lie, Jack. They don’t tell you who to be — they invite you to imagine.”

Jack: (leaning back) “You think imagination’s more honest than instruction?”

Jeeny: “Always. When someone tells you who a character is, they’re giving you their truth. But when you see them — their eyes, posture, silence — you’re discovering your own.”

Host:
A lamp flickered, casting shadows that looked almost alive — as though the drawings on the walls were breathing in their own quiet rhythm.

Jack: “But imagination is dangerous. It’s subjective. What if you misread it? What if the truth of the character gets lost?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then maybe there isn’t one truth. Maybe every version of a character is a mirror of the person creating them. That’s what Welker was saying — he didn’t invent voices, he uncovered them.”

Jack: “Uncovered? You make it sound like archeology for the soul.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what art is? Digging through layers of noise until you find something that sounds like belonging?”

Host:
The microphone gleamed under the dim light, its metallic surface catching every flicker of emotion from their words. Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far away — faint, rhythmic, like applause from the heavens.

Jack: “You know, when I started doing voice work, I needed control. I’d write pages of notes about who a character was supposed to be — their childhood, trauma, fears. Everything calculated. But when I looked at the sketches…” (he gestures at the drawings) “…sometimes one expression would undo all my planning.”

Jeeny: “Because the eyes told you what the words couldn’t.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Jeeny: “That’s why children understand cartoons better than adults. They don’t analyze; they see.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “And hearing becomes seeing again.”

Jeeny: “That’s the heart of it. The voice has to come from sight — not instruction, but instinct.”

Host:
A pause stretched between them — long enough for the hum of the equipment to feel like part of the dialogue. Jeeny stepped closer to the glass and pointed to one of the sketches — a small alien with oversized eyes and a grin that teetered between mischievous and kind.

Jeeny: “What voice does he have?”

Jack: “He looks like he’s pretending to be brave — maybe a bit squeaky, but defiant. Like a kid playing soldier.”

Jeeny: “See? You didn’t think. You just felt. That’s what Welker meant — the visual whispers the truth straight into the imagination.”

Jack: “But doesn’t that mean the actor disappears? That the character replaces you?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the goal — to disappear beautifully.”

Host:
Jack chuckled, low and warm, as though her words had hit something he wasn’t ready to admit. He leaned toward the mic, cleared his throat, and spoke a few lines as the alien — the voice that came out was trembling and bold, full of fear disguised as courage.

Jeeny listened with her eyes closed. When he finished, she nodded slowly.

Jeeny: “There. That wasn’t you, but it was honest.”

Jack: “So maybe the best art isn’t about control. It’s about surrender.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To the image. To the moment. To what’s already waiting to be born.”

Host:
The light above them dimmed as the storm outside thickened, wind scraping softly against the windows. The sound engineer’s chair sat empty — it was just them now, and the characters on the walls, silent witnesses to creation.

Jack: “It’s strange, though — how something drawn on paper can pull a whole new being out of you. You look at a sketch, and suddenly, you’re ten different lives deep.”

Jeeny: “Because imagination isn’t invention — it’s recognition. Somewhere inside, we already contain every voice we’ll ever need.”

Jack: (quietly) “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every soul is an orchestra — we just forget to listen.”

Host:
The words lingered like smoke. Jack’s eyes flicked toward a drawing of a dragon, its scales reflecting light in deliberate strokes of ink. He stood, walked over, and stared at it for a long moment.

Jack: (softly) “And some voices… are ancient. You don’t find them — they find you.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Yes. The ones that come when you stop forcing sound — when you let silence choose the pitch.”

Host:
The rain hit harder now, the sound syncing with the rhythm of the quiet breaths in the room. The air pulsed with creation — the kind that feels like prayer disguised as play.

Jeeny: “That’s why Welker’s words matter. He’s not just talking about cartoons. He’s talking about vision — about seeing before speaking. About listening with the eyes.”

Jack: “Seeing with the heart, speaking from the soul.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly.”

Host:
Jack returned to the mic. The alien sketch stared back at him through the glass — daring, grinning, waiting. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and began again.

This time, the voice that came wasn’t forced or deliberate — it was alive, trembling with all the contradictions of being human. The alien wasn’t fiction anymore; it was emotion, cloaked in sound.

Jeeny didn’t interrupt. She simply watched, tears glinting at the edges of her eyes, as the magic of creation unfolded quietly in real time.

When he finished, Jack turned, breathless.

Jack: “That… felt real.”

Jeeny: “Because it was. You didn’t imitate life — you gave it permission to speak.”

Host:
The storm outside had eased. The city was wrapped in that deep, reflective silence that only follows thunder.

And in that small, glowing studio, Frank Welker’s words found their echo — not as a lesson about acting, but as a truth about life itself:

That understanding comes not from being told, but from truly seeing,
that imagination is the soul’s translation of sight,
and that to bring anything to life — a character, a dream, or a person —
you must first look deeply enough to hear their voice before they ever speak.

Host:
The rain stopped. The sketches rustled faintly in the breeze from the air vent, as if applauding in paper whispers.

Jeeny smiled. Jack leaned back, eyes closed, the ghost of the alien’s courage still in his throat.

And in that dimly lit room —
half art, half prayer —
vision had become voice,
and silence, once again, had learned how to sing.