The Voice of a Mime
Dorothy Archer has no voice. She is a warm-hearted, intuitive, generous individual, who was born with a disability that left her unable to speak, and it’s my fault.
You might wonder how I live with the knowledge that I am the cause of such a devastating life sentence of silence? How do I sleep at night knowing that, if not for me, Dorothy would live a life complete with girlish giggles, squeals of excitement, bellows of frustration, startled screams of fright, and delighted peals of laughter? Why I deprived her of long conversations with friends, arguments with family, kind words of comfort for those in need…
What sort of monster steals such a basic form of communication from someone when they have the power to make them whole?
The answer is me, I do, and I sleep just fine.
Please allow me to explain. While I willingly take the blame for Dorothy, Dot to those who care for her, being mute, it wasn’t entirely my fault. She honestly came to me that way. It was the first thing I knew about her when she arrived, unannounced and with little fanfare.
She did not come to me as a fully formed person but chose to show herself in dribs and drabs, small pieces at a time.
Her dark hair, deep brown eyes, large frame, and lumbering gait all revealed themselves slowly, not unlike an old-fashioned fan dancer who teases the audience with parts and pieces, covering one area while exposing another.
Dot has lived with me for many years, and throughout all of these machinations, one thing was clear, Dot was mute, always.
She is not like Marcel Marceau, the French mime who became famous for choosing to use expression and gesture as opposed to words to communicate; Dorothy has no choice. It’s as integral a part of who she is as her appearance or her personality and, no matter what I do, I am entirely unable to hear her voice.
It comes with challenges, the inability of a character to speak, but it also brings many benefits.
I had to learn to let go of dialogue tags such as she said, asked, whispered, bellowed, intoned, all of the usual standbys. In taking away Dot’s ability to speak, I had thrown away my most comfortable form of communication as well. I had put myself into the awkward position of having to figure out another way to express my character’s thoughts and feelings to other characters.
Dot taught me how to write with physicality, to use body movements and facial expressions in place of dialogue. I learned to appreciate the power of an arched brow, a sardonic smile, a glowering rebuke. I had to work to find a teasing sparkle in her eye, a lip lifted in disgust, a shoulder shrug of indecision. It was difficult at times, and writing a character with that type of limitation is not for the faint of heart. While I enjoyed the learning process, I would be reluctant to volunteer to do it again.
I will continue to write Dot’s character in the future because she lives in my head and demands an audience and because I genuinely like her, but I sure wish she had come with a voice.
