That Sounds Fun
Podcast Studio
I WAS LAUGHING so hard I was crying. While driving. Which isn’t great. Except it WAS great. Sophie Hudson and Melanie Shankle were my first friends to have their own podcast—The Big Boo Cast. And it was just pure hilarity (still is).
In case the word podcast is foreign to you, I think it would be best described as an audio conversation or story that you can listen to on demand, through an app, on your phone, or via the internet. Imagine an old-time radio show when the whole family gathered around to listen, but instead of it airing Sunday nights at seven, once a podcast is released, it is available any time you want to listen. And it never goes away, so you can listen multiple times.
I lived in Kennesaw, Georgia, the first time I heard their podcast, and I remember hitting play on The Big Boo Cast as I turned out of my driveway on the way to work. I taught elementary school at the time so it was an early morning on the way to my classroom. I started laughing before I was even out of my neighborhood, and I was hardly breathing by the time I rolled through the stoplight.
Sophie and Melanie were telling a story about college football, if I remember correctly. That part has left my memory as it was probably twelve years ago or so, and it’s definitely not the most important detail to remember about this story. Because what happened NEXT is incredibly memorable. I saw the light turn from yellow to red through tears of laughter, and I also saw the blue lights of a police car click on right behind me.
The weird part, or best part, about that day is that I couldn’t stop laughing. I mean, I slowed down, of course, as I was getting pulled over. But I couldn’t get my phone to stop the podcast, I couldn’t find my insurance card fast enough, and I couldn’t stop thinking of the story that Sophie and Melanie had been telling as I ran the light. So I just kept giggling—that church kind of giggling, where you KNOW you are supposed to stop but in no way do you know how to stop. And the added layer of weird is that it was 6:30 a.m. Anyone who is “church giggling” alone in their car at that time deserves to be pulled over. I respect that.
As the officer walked to my driver’s side door, I was able to calm myself down and hand him the correct paperwork. When he asked why I ran the red light, I told the truth. I was listening to a podcast and was laughing too hard to pay attention.
I got a ticket.
(My friend Michael has told me a story of getting out of a ticket after being pulled over while listening to Drew Holcomb music because the cop also liked Drew Holcomb. Unfortunately for me, the particular policeman who pulled me over that day did not yet know and love The Big Boo Cast.)
But in spite of the fine I was charged, there was just something special about the conversation between two friends, playing through the speakers of my car, that felt like something I would love to be on the other side of too. I didn’t know Melanie and Sophie very well at the time, but it sure felt like I did because of that podcast. I listened and felt like I could speak right back to them. They were friends of mine, whether they knew it or not.
YEARS LATER, the opportunity to start my own podcast showed up in my life in an incredibly unexpected way. Let me back up a little. You need to know that I am a huge fan of author Ted Dekker. His novels keep me up at night and make it impossible to do anything besides read at stoplights and while I’m drying my hair and pretty much any minute I can. After reading the first Ted Dekker books that came my way, I remember feeling like this author was equal parts brilliant and terrifying. That’s a good writer.
In early 2014, my friend Jenn, who works for Ted, called me. I don’t know how she knew that I loved Ted’s writing, but she did. She told me he had a new novel coming out and asked if I wanted to interview him.
Of course, “interviewing” was not something I did on a regular basis back then. I didn’t have a radio or television show. But a few years before that, someone had told me to always say yes. Even if you don’t know how to do the thing someone is asking you to do (I didn’t), even if you feel underqualified (I did), even if you are scared (I was)—if you want to try and the opportunity is in front of you, say yes, then figure it out. In sporty terms, you miss all the shots you never take.1 I figured interviewing Ted was a shot I could miss and totally screw up, but I was at least going to try. So I said yes to Jenn. Of course I wanted to interview Ted Dekker.
At the time, I had a blog and a few social media accounts. I asked Jenn what she wanted me to do with the audio. She shrugged. I asked her how she was planning to release it. She said I should release it. I told her I didn’t really have a platform for that, and she said, “Well, have you ever thought about starting a podcast?” And hand to heaven, I responded, “That sounds fun.”
So the podcast was born to an amateur. It felt like the perfect name because that question—have you ever thought about starting a podcast—and the answer that came out of me, have been very directive in my life. The opportunity for fun, and the idea for fun, is always going to get a good and easy yes from me. It’s the kryptonite and the invitation. Fun is what gets me up early and what keeps me up late.
I went home that day, googled “that sounds fun,” and when I saw that no one had jumped on that title for a podcast, I did. Because, like I said, it just sounded fun to me.
I had no idea where this thing was going to go, but I wanted to make some early decisions, even if this was just going to last a few months. I made a few rules for my new podcast.
- 1. All the episodes would be thirty minutes long. (This has absolutely NOT remained one of the strong tenets of the show. My apologies.)
- 2. I would release one episode a month. (This has not remained the rule either, but I do not apologize for that.)
Jenn set up the interview with Ted Dekker in a tiny recording booth in a nondescript Nashville building where 21st Avenue meets Belmont Avenue. I made a list of questions I wanted to ask him, carefully numbered in order. (By the way, that is the most prep I’ve ever done for a podcast to this day—all has gone downhill since then.) Ted and I wouldn’t be talking face-to-face, as he’d be calling in from his home in Texas and I’d be in the building on Belmont. I was given an early copy of his most recent novel and had absolutely devoured it. The downside is that it just increased my feeling of super-fandom toward him, which embarrassed me a bit and made me worry that I would never ever be able to be cool and professional in the interview.
It went fine. Ted was a very generous and thoughtful interviewee, and I didn’t embarrass my friends and family with my fan-ness. The next day, the recording engineer sent me the raw file of the hour-long conversation, though I had no idea what to do with it. I turned to Google and started asking questions about how to edit and what programs to use and how to make a show out of this file. Because I wanted to have thirty-minute shows, I chopped Ted’s interview into two parts and released them two Mondays in a row. I shared it on my blog and social media platforms, and a few hundred people downloaded and listened and seemed to really enjoy the recording. So I planned to do a few more. I called musician Dave Barnes, my friend and fellow author Emily P. Freeman, and one of my best friends Connor Harrell, who was playing professional baseball at the time. I bought a microphone off Amazon that was recommended by a friend, and I read an article on the internet about the best podcast-recording supplies. Suddenly I was set to create a podcast that would be released regularly.
IN THOSE FIRST TEN EPISODES or so of the show, I was doing every part of every episode—scheduling the interview, doing the interview, editing the interview, putting the show together (intros, interview, outro, and the music going up and down, which I am TERRIBLE at), uploading the show, sharing it, and doing the show notes. All of it. But I loved every second, even if I was terrible at some of the parts. It was just so fun. I loved the conversations the most. I worked hard at the rest of the show because I wanted to get to keep talking to people and sharing those chats. An amateur for sure, not making any money, not sure it was going to work, but having the world’s very best time.
I never dreamed that being a big talker and an annoying question asker would ever turn into anything like this. It was just something that lived in me that I absolutely loved—talking to my friends, whom I find endlessly entertaining, and asking all the questions I’ve always wanted to ask. With a microphone there is added permission to keep asking. I knew I was an amateur. I hadn’t taken any podcasting classes or interviewing courses. I didn’t know how to use GarageBand well (or at all, actually). But what I knew, as the shows continued releasing to the world and as I kept falling more and more in love with this media medium, was that I wanted to keep going. I was fine being an amateur, doing something I loved for the pure joy of doing it.
Now we are years in and hundreds of episodes have been recorded and shared. You may have picked up this book because of a podcast episode that mattered to you, that connected us in ways you know. I often feel that connection too. You may be one of the very reasons I keep making episodes. (If you’ve listened to even one show then, yes, you are one of the reasons.) But I wonder if there is something in your life that you love enough to try it and share it with us? You don’t have to be a professional, and it doesn’t have to make you any money, but when you embrace the amateur in you, the things you love can start bubbling up and flowing out to the rest of us.
If you and I are already friends in any way (and even if we had no relationship before this book, I hope you feel like we’re friends by now), here’s one thing I know about you. You want to make a difference on this planet. You want to feel like you have FOUND THE THING and are DOING THE THING and that YOUR LIFE MATTERS.
One of my best friends called me the other day and said, “I don’t know why I’m on Earth.” It wasn’t a suicidal statement; it was just her realization that she’d been on this planet for thirtyish years and had jobs and loves and homes and pets, but she wasn’t sure why her life mattered. Why God made her in the first place.
We’ve all felt that, because, again, if we go back to Eden, we remember that part of what we were always supposed to do here is cultivate, grow, create, and tend. And there are days when we look at our lives and while we may have gone to work, done a good job, eaten a healthyish lunch, worked out, and then met friends for dinner, when we get home and crawl into bed, did any of it change the world? The day is gone, but did it matter? Do we matter?
Part of what we lost when we lost Eden was the simple understanding that our lives have purpose. The serpent still whispers, like he did in Eden, asking if we are SURE of what we know. Are we sure of what God said? Are we sure His promises are true? Are we sure that life has any kind of meaning beyond sunrise and sunset? (Spoiler alert: it totally does.) So listening to that urge inside your guts that says, “THIS is the thing that makes me feel most alive” matters, whether it stays amateur in your life or goes pro.
SOMETIMES STAYING AMATEUR is the exact right thing to do. I’m not saying you can’t go pro with the thing you are loving as an amateur. (In fact, I have in some things.) But asking “Am I supposed to be a pro or am I supposed to be an amateur?” is the wrong question. The right question is “What brings flourishing in my life and the lives of the people I love?”
That’s the goal here. To find what makes your heart flourish. It will feel like hard work and smell like long days and sometimes make you cry or throw your phone or swear you are going to quit at night, just to remind yourself in the morning that you didn’t really mean it. But if your heart flourishes, if the enemy is silenced from telling you that your life doesn’t matter, you know that even the tiniest steps toward something your guts are saying you are made to do are worth it.
Amateur or not.