Why I can’t stop WhatsApp voice messaging - and why I don’t want to
My name’s Bita and I’m a WhatsApp voice message addict.
It started about three years ago. I can’t remember how exactly but I know it began on the WhatsApp group I share with my two best friends. A year later I was sending them to everyone - why would anyone text when you can just lock and speak? The reactions were mixed; ranging from ‘Oh I love that you sent a voice message’ to ‘I didn’t know you could send voice messages on here’ to replies that might as well have read: ‘What the fuck?’ Some tentatively voice-messaged back in hushed, uncertain tones - careful to keep it brief, most ignored it and stuck steadfast to analogue texting, a few (my favourites) jumped straight in.
The thing about voice messages is they’re a world away from texting - it’s like comparing jam and pickled onions (the only real similarity is they both come in jars). Firstly there’s the convenience aspect: just flick up the microphone button and you can talk while you carry on cleaning the floor or chopping an onion (try to contain your excitement), instead of having to drop everything and thumb away, painstakingly correcting the autocorrect before you accidentally send a sticker of a maniacally smiling unicorn. Secondly, it eliminates the age-old problem with written messages: the potential for misinterpretation. You can’t misconstrue spoken tone. I can verbally call you a bitch from hell 10 times and you’ll know I’m joking - but one clumsily punctuated ‘bitch’, or a cold full stop instead of five exclamation marks and three smiley faces - and the fallout could be devastating.
But, my friends, these things are merely fringe benefits - the icing on the communication cake. So what’s the cake? The real gift of voice messages is the unique way they let you communicate; the rich, and often surprising, content they let you create. They’re refreshingly authentic. I like to think of them as a kind of spoken essay - or verbal diarrhoea. Either way, there’s a freeflow nature to voice messaging that simply doesn’t exist in text or emails.
Texts are curated, sculpted, manipulated versions of what we want to say. We don’t write how we speak. When we communicate in text form, we tend to say what we need to - no more and no less. We read texts back before sending. We replace the heartless full stop with a kissy face. We delete the line that sounds judgemental, we send a follow-up message saying ’Joke!!!”. Texts are fine, they serve a purpose. But why have ‘fine’ when you can have authentic? If texting is you at a wedding, all plucked and polished and Kardashian’d, voice messaging is you on the sofa in your joggers with Brian May hair and melted chocolate on your neck that your husband mistakes for a new mole. It’s real. And it’s fun.
Once you’ve experienced the sheer joy of saying what you need to say, then describing what you’re doing (cleaning the floor or chopping an onion), then ranting about Covid, then saying: do you remember that time you threw up in your knickers and slapped me in the face with a handful of vomit, then extolling the genius of your latest Netflix find - you’ll never go back. That’s the beauty of voice messaging: you just talk. It’s like a mini podcast. The recipient gets to be part of a live moment in your day. Three minutes of you speaking is worth a million texts because it’s unfiltered and meandering, because it’s just more.
So why not call? I hear you cry. It’s surely just the same as a phone call isn’t it? No, it really isn’t. A dialogue is not the same as a monologue. When you talk to someone, you respond, you both steer the conversation, you take cues from each other. Like texting, it’s (perhaps less consciously) curated. Mood, tone, judging the other person’s comfort levels with certain topics, their vibe (sorry for saying vibe), all come into play. It’s a parachute jump with a crash mat at the bottom. A voice message is a freefall; it’s uninterrupted thought. You speak, undiverted, unsteered. Where will you go? Who knows.
Receiving a voice message - especially a juicy ten or twenty-minuter - feels a bit like getting a brand new copy of your favourite magazine or buying a custard doughnut. It’s something to enjoy, to savour, to indulge in. But unlike a magazine or a doughnut, it’s been made just for you. The person speaking is speaking directly to you, sharing their thoughts - both the inane ones, and the profound.
During Original Lockdown my friend Harry and I sent long messages to each other almost every day. I’d save the longer ones for my morning run. The exchanges went down almost every lane you can think of, many of which had been unvisited for twenty years, or never visited before: the intricate dynamics of mutual friends, what we love about our friends, Lockdown cocktails, family, chocolate bars, why we love tequila, why we love The Royle Family, the ultimate breakfast, the endless virtues of custard, the most excruciatingly embarrassing moments of our lives, armpit hair, the joy of having two dinners, funny sexual experiences, that moment in that film, comedy, misery, coffee, seven minutes on ice creams, 10 minutes doing every accent you can think of, 13 minutes on why Succession might be the best TV show of all time, 22 minutes on your favourite foods, on waking up in the countryside, on what it feels like to sprint until your legs are going to fall off, on why we love voice messages. None of this would have happened in phone conversations or texts or emails. All the stories we shared, all the reminiscing, all the narrow alleyways we travelled down would have remained unvisited, unexplored.
What’s the net value of all this? Why do I need to know about a type of ice cream you ate on holiday in France as a child - almost like a Fab but different? These little stories that we stumble upon when we let our thoughts become words, they all contribute to the overarching narrative of who we are or who we once were. They lie like a hibernating bear: forgotten and unvoiced until we prod them and wake them up. By sharing them we surprise, delight or illuminate the recipient - and often, ourselves.
‘That’s all good and well’, you say, rolling your eyes, ‘but what about when you just want to say: “I’ll meet you at 10 outside Sainsbury’s”? Even then, I choose voice messaging - every time. Because you’ll never say just that. When we speak, we always elaborate - even if it’s just a tiny bit. The person listening will hear your voice, they’ll get a sense of what you’re doing, of where you are. Even if it’s 36 seconds long, you’ll tell a tiny story, a vignette of a moment; you’ll share something of yourself. That’s why I’m amending my earlier statement to this: My name’s Bita and I’m happy to be a WhatsApp voice message addict. If you haven’t tried voice messaging, put it on your list for 2021 - I promise you won’t regret it.
