The Absurdities of Being a Singer - A Tired, Honest, Uncomfortable Love Letter to a Voice That Never Does What You Ask ebook

INTRO

Everyone wants to be a singer.Until they become one.

From the outside, it looks suspiciously simple.You sing.People listen.Someone claps slightly too long.Money appears in mysterious ways.

From the inside, it looks like a long conversation with yourself about whether this was ever a good idea.

Being a singer is not a profession.It is a lifestyle disorder with a microphone.A condition where your self-worth depends on sound waves bouncing off indifferent walls and occasionally returning as applause.

You don’t wake up thinking, “I am an artist.”You wake up thinking, “Is my voice tired or am I just emotionally dehydrated?”

• You measure time in gigs, not years.• You measure success in reactions, not income.• You measure failure in silence that lasts half a second too long.

The absurdity starts early.Usually before anyone is paying attention.

You sing because someone once said you were good.Possibly drunk.Possibly lying.Possibly your aunt.

From that moment on, you are trapped.

You will spend years chasing that first sentence.Trying to recreate it.Trying to prove it was real.Trying to hear it again, but louder.

Being a singer means constantly explaining what you do to people who already decided it isn’t real work.

• “So… what do you do during the day?”• “And this pays the bills, or…?”• “Have you thought about something more stable?”

You nod.You smile.You pretend stability was ever part of the plan.

Your voice becomes public property.Everyone has an opinion about it.Most of them didn’t ask.

• You’re too loud.• You’re too quiet.• You sound better on that one recording from three years ago when you had a cold and low expectations.

You learn to hear yourself through other people’s faces.Through raised eyebrows.Through phones that stay in pockets.Through phones that appear immediately, but not for you.

Singing is the only job where people applaud and still don’t pay.It is the only skill people expect for free because it is “your passion.”

• Exposure is offered instead of money.• Gratitude is suggested as compensation.• A beer replaces an invoice.

You start calling unpaid performances “opportunities.”You start calling exhaustion “commitment.”You start calling anxiety “stage readiness.”

At some point, you stop asking if this makes sense.You just adjust your breathing and go on stage anyway.

Because being a singer is not about singing.It is about waiting.

Waiting for the sound engineer.Waiting for the crowd to quiet down.Waiting for your cue.Waiting for your moment.Waiting for something to finally click.

• You wait backstage wondering why you agreed to this.• You wait on stage pretending you’ve always wanted this.• You wait after the show pretending you’re not counting reactions.

You learn to love applause while distrusting it completely.You learn that silence hurts more than criticism.You learn that compliments fade faster than self-doubt.

This book is not about music theory.It is not about technique.It is not about success.

It is about the strange mental gymnastics required to stand on a stage, open your mouth, and believe—just for a moment—that this matters.

It is about the absurdity of choosing a life where your instrument is your own body and your audience is sometimes the room, sometimes the algorithm, and sometimes absolutely no one.

If you’ve ever sung into a microphone and thought, “Why am I like this?”You’re in the right place.

And if you haven’t—You’re about to understand why singers look tired even when they’re smiling.

Chapter 1 – Everyone Thinks They Can Sing (Except You)

At some point, you realize something deeply unfair.

Everyone thinks they can sing.Except the person who actually does it.

The audience is confident.The relatives are confident.The drunk guy near the bar is extremely confident.

You, meanwhile, are standing three meters from a microphone, wondering if your voice has always sounded like this or if it quietly broke sometime during soundcheck.

• You trust your voice the least when it matters the most.• You doubt it most right before using it publicly.• You analyze it like it personally betrayed you.

Singing professionally means living with permanent suspicion toward your own throat.

You know too much.That is the problem.

You know how fragile it is.You know how easily it changes.You know it can disappear because of stress, air conditioning, sleep, weather, emotions, or a single badly timed sneeze.

Meanwhile, people who have never warmed up a day in their lives will confidently sing over you at parties.

Loudly.Incorrectly.With joy.

• They never worry about pitch.• They never question tone.• They never replay their performance in their head at 3:17 a.m.

They sing once, forget it forever, and sleep peacefully.

You sing once and remember it for years.

Because when singing becomes “your thing,” it stops being casual.It stops being fun in the simple way.It becomes observed.

Every note now carries consequences.

• That note sounded strained.• That note was fine, but not great.• That note will be remembered by exactly one person: you.

The audience hears a song.You hear a performance review unfolding in real time.

And the cruelest part is that the more experienced you become, the worse it gets.

Beginners are fearless.They don’t know what can go wrong.They don’t know what they’re supposed to sound like.

They sing freely.Incorrectly, but freely.

You, on the other hand, are haunted by invisible standards.

• The version of your voice from last year.• The version from that one perfect rehearsal.• The imaginary version that exists only in your head.

You chase that version relentlessly.You almost catch it sometimes.Almost.

Everyone around you assumes confidence comes with skill.

It doesn’t.

Skill brings awareness.Awareness brings doubt.Doubt brings control issues.

You start negotiating with your voice.

Just don’t crack.Just don’t dry out.Just don’t suddenly sound like a completely different person.

• You drink water like it’s medicine.• You avoid conversations before shows like you’re fragile equipment.• You become socially distant for vocal reasons no one else understands.

“Why are you so quiet?”Because I am preserving myself.

People assume singers love hearing themselves sing.

This is incorrect.

You tolerate it.You monitor it.You endure it.

Listening to recordings of yourself feels like reading your own messages from ten years ago.

• Why did I do that?• Why did I sound like that?• Why didn’t anyone stop me?

Yet you listen again.And again.And again.

Because maybe this time it won’t hurt.

It always does.

The absurd thing is that while you doubt yourself endlessly, others are completely unbothered.

They sing karaoke with full conviction.They sing off-key with confidence.They sing loudly and incorrectly and feel nothing but joy.

You sing correctly and feel exposed.

Because when singing becomes part of your identity, it stops being something you do.It becomes something you are judged by.

• You’re not “having a bad day.”• You’re “not in good vocal shape.”• You’re not tired—you’re “off.”

Everything is personal now.

A cracked note feels like a moral failure.A missed phrase feels like a personality flaw.A bad show feels like proof.

Proof of what, exactly, is unclear.But it feels definitive.

You learn to read rooms not emotionally, but acoustically.

• Is the room dead?• Is the ceiling too low?• Is the crowd absorbing or reflecting sound and dignity?

You adapt constantly.You adjust mentally before adjusting vocally.

And still, there is always that moment.

The moment right before you start.

Where everyone else thinks, “Sing.”And you think, “Please work.”

It’s not fear of the audience.It’s fear of inconsistency.

Because you know the truth no one else sees.

Your voice is not a fixed object.It is a mood-based system with opinions.

Some days it cooperates.Some days it negotiates.Some days it quietly refuses.

• It remembers stress.• It remembers sleep deprivation.• It remembers things you wish it would forget.

And yet, despite all of this, you keep doing it.

You step on stage anyway.You open your mouth anyway.You trust something unreliable anyway.

Because somewhere between doubt and sound, something still happens.

For a few seconds, it works.The room listens.The note lands.

And for that brief, fragile moment, you understand why you keep coming back.

Even if everyone else still thinks they could do it too.

And you quietly know why they couldn’t.

Chapter 2 – Your Voice Is Your Brand (Unfortunately)

At some point, you stop being a person who sings.You become a voice with a legal name attached.

Your voice is no longer just sound.It is an identity asset.A recognizable pattern.A thing people feel entitled to comment on.

• “You sound different today.”• “I liked your old voice better.”• “Have you tried singing like yourself again?”

You would, if you knew exactly who that was.

Because once your voice becomes your brand, it stops belonging to you.It belongs to memory.To expectation.To other people’s emotional bookmarks.

They remember one version of you.Usually from one good night.Possibly from a recording you secretly hate.

And now you are expected to reproduce that exact sound forever.

You age.Your voice does too.Only one of you is allowed to change.

• You are expected to evolve as an artist.• You are expected to remain identical as a product.• You are expected to do both simultaneously, without effort.

Every deviation becomes suspicious.

Too raspy?You’re tired.Too clean?You’re “trying too hard.”Too emotional?You’ve changed.

Your voice becomes a public relationship that needs maintenance.

You warm up not just for sound, but for consistency.You drink water not for health, but for brand protection.You rest your voice like a company protects intellectual property.

• You cancel conversations.• You avoid smoke-filled rooms.• You silently judge people who shout near you.

Not because you’re fragile.Because your instrument is exposed.

A guitarist can change strings.A drummer can replace a skin.You wake up every day hoping your body didn’t update overnight.

And when it does, you notice immediately.

You hear it in the first word you speak in the morning.You feel it in the space where resonance should be.You panic quietly, professionally.

Because your brand woke up in a bad mood.

People assume singers love compliments about their voice.

They don’t realize how specific those compliments are.

• “You sound just like that singer.”• “You remind me of someone else.”• “I couldn’t tell it was you at first.”

None of these land well.

You didn’t spend years finding your sound to be mistaken for a reference.

And yet, comparison follows you everywhere.

Your voice is never alone.It is constantly measured against other voices.Better voices.Younger voices.Trendier voices.

You start hearing imaginary producers in your head.

• Too raw.• Too clean.• Not commercial enough.• Too commercial now.

Even when no one says anything, the silence speaks fluently.

You record yourself obsessively.You listen critically.You delete takes that were technically fine but emotionally wrong.

Wrong for who, exactly, remains unclear.

Because when your voice is your brand, you start performing for a version of yourself that no longer exists.

The past version.The idealized version.The one who sang that one note perfectly once.

You protect your voice from life.

You avoid laughing too hard.You limit late nights.You calculate every scream, cough, and whispered secret.

• Is this worth it?• Will this affect tomorrow?• Can I afford this sentence?

It’s exhausting in a quiet way.

You smile less loudly.You react more carefully.You become aware of how you exist in rooms.

And the strangest part is how invisible this all is.

To everyone else, you’re just being dramatic.Or disciplined.Or “taking it seriously.”

They don’t see the mental spreadsheet running constantly.

Tracking hydration.Tracking tension.Tracking damage you may or may not have caused.

Because your voice doesn’t just represent you.It replaces you.

When people talk about you, they talk about sound.

• “I like their voice.”• “I don’t like their voice.”• “Their voice changed.”

They don’t mean you.But it feels like they do.

You start separating yourself from it emotionally.

You refer to your voice like a coworker.

Sometimes reliable.Sometimes difficult.Sometimes mysteriously absent.

You defend it in public.You criticize it in private.You blame it when things go wrong.

Because if your voice is your brand, it has to carry everything.

Your mood.Your health.Your identity.Your worth.

And yet, despite knowing how unfair this is, you still protect it fiercely.

You warm up.You focus.You prepare.

Because even when you hate the concept, you still want it to sound right.

You still want that moment when someone recognizes you—not by your face, not by your name—but by the sound you make when you open your mouth.

And even if it’s exhausting, you accept it.

Because if your voice is your brand,It is also the only thing that ever truly felt like yours.

Even when it betrays you.

Chapter 3 – Soundcheck Is Where Hope Goes to Die

Soundcheck is not rehearsal.It is not preparation.It is a controlled disappointment simulation.

It exists to remind you that nothing will sound the way you imagined.

You arrive optimistic.Not loudly optimistic.Quietly.Professionally.

You tell yourself this is just technical.Neutral.Necessary.

You are lying.

• Soundcheck determines your mood for the next six hours.• Soundcheck decides how much you will enjoy the show.• Soundcheck plants thoughts you will spend the entire night trying to ignore.

The room is empty.Which already changes everything.

An empty room does not forgive.It reflects.It exposes.It makes your voice sound like a stranger you didn’t invite.

You sing one line.It comes back wrong.

Too dry.Too sharp.Too honest.

You immediately blame yourself.

• Maybe I’m not warmed up.• Maybe I slept badly.• Maybe this is just one of those days.