People always ask me, “How do you come up with all those voices?” Truth is, I don’t think of it as coming up with a voice. I think of it as finding it.
Every character’s got a little bit of truth in them—even if they’re a cyborg squirrel with a bad attitude. You start with the script, you look for the clues. Rhythm, tone, energy. Sometimes it’s in the punctuation. Sometimes it’s in what’s not said. And sometimes you just have to get weird and see what happens.
Start with the Text, Then Let Go
Back in the day, I’d show up to a session with five or six variations in my head. But the best stuff usually came when I tossed all that out the window. That’s when something clicks. Your mouth opens, and this whole new personality comes out. It’s still you—but warped, stretched, twisted into something else.
I voiced Rasputin the Mad Frog in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He was unhinged. Gleefully chaotic. That voice didn’t come from sitting down and planning. It came from letting go and having fun.
Same thing happened with Cyberswine—a half-pig, half-cop character that sounds like he eats computer chips for breakfast. One of the weirdest gigs I’ve ever done, and one of the most fun.
That’s the sweet spot: when you stop thinking and just become.
The Hard Part Isn’t the Voice—It’s the Choices
Here’s the thing most people don’t realize: voice acting isn’t about doing voices. It’s about making choices that feel real.
What’s this character’s intention? What just happened before this line? What do they want?
You don’t need a thousand voices to book work. You need one voice that knows what it’s doing. That’s what I try to teach in my animation classes—especially with newer actors who think range is about pitch.
It’s not about how different your voices sound. It’s about how specific your choices are.
Barking Like a Dog, Talking Underwater
Every now and then, I get asked to do something completely ridiculous: sneeze like a baby. Talk as if I’m underwater. Bark like a dog who’s also slightly annoyed.
These are real directions I’ve gotten. You roll with it. You say, “Okay, let’s try a few.” And you don’t take yourself too seriously. If it’s in the script, it matters to somebody.
I always say: if you’re not willing to make a fool of yourself in the booth, you’re in the wrong line of work.
Animation, Audiobooks, and Games All Play Different
Animation is big. Big choices. Big energy. But it still has to be grounded, or it turns into noise.
Video games? That’s where things get subtle. You’re reacting to things that aren’t there, or you’re voicing 20 different battle grunts without blowing out your throat. One of my recent roles—Governor Glen Hurst in Starfield—was a guy with power and secrets. That takes restraint.
Audiobooks are different again. It’s just you and the story, for hours. You need to hold attention, switch characters, stay consistent. And your performance needs to disappear. The listener shouldn’t hear you. They should hear the world.
We Get Paid to Play
At the end of the day, I still love walking into the booth and saying, “Okay, who am I today?”
There’s a reason I keep doing this after 40-plus years. Because it’s still fun. Because the moment you get into character, and the line hits just right, and everyone in the session goes quiet—you know you nailed it. That feeling doesn’t get old.
We get paid to play. And I plan to keep playing as long as I can.