Chapter 99 — The Audition Day
While juggling school and work, squeezing in some self-practice whenever I could, the days flew by in a whirlwind—and before I knew it, the audition day had arrived.
I was wondering if I might need to take a day off from school depending on the audition time, but since it started in the evening, I could make it right after school. Perfect timing. I thought I’d just catch the train straight from school to the recording studio, but it turns out Yoko-san would be driving me there as usual.
Grateful for the offer, I hopped in Yoko-san’s car. She parked in a nearby paid parking lot and we headed inside together. Parking spots for short-term stays are pretty scarce compared to the late Heisei era in my previous life. Tokyo’s still easier to find spots in, but back home, most places only offer monthly parking. Some people park on the street, but honestly, paying parking fees is cheaper than dealing with parking fines.
Pushing open the studio door, I found a waiting area with sofas and tables nearby—it seemed to be the reception and waiting room for auditionees. Before entering, Yoko-san handed me a sheet of paper to give to the reception staff. When I handed it over, I caught a glimpse of my name, career history, and which role I was auditioning for.
“Um, Matsuda Nozomi?”
“Yes, that’s me. Nice to meet you.”
When my name was called, I greeted them with a slight bow.
Actually, when I first decided to try voice acting, I talked it over with Yoko-san and Azusa-san about using a stage name. I proposed having separate names for my acting and voice acting work. At first, they didn’t really get why—I remember their confused expressions, like “Why bother with that?”
I had thought about it a lot while debating whether to pursue voice acting. In my previous life as an anime fan, I noticed there was a strong negative vibe when actors known from dramas or movies guest-starred in anime. Of course, there were a few celebrities praised for doing a good job, but most were criticized. That’s one reason I wanted to keep separate names for my acting and voice acting roles—not because I was afraid of criticism, but because I figured it’d be tough for anime fans who love the medium to view my voice acting with an open mind if they knew I was primarily an actress.
If my acting was bad, and people said, “You need to practice more,” I could take that in stride. But being told, “You’re just an actress messing around with voice acting—quit already, you’re terrible,” was a whole different story. In my past life, I actually saw comments like that online. Some critics just wanted to tear someone down to feel better themselves.
And I imagine, on the production side, people might think, “Well, she’s from another world,” and if the actor didn’t break the mood or disrupt the story, they might give a pass even if the quality was only just okay. Again, that’s just my speculation.
For me, I decided to challenge voice acting because I wanted to improve my skills and broaden the kinds of work I could do. Sure, it was also a childhood dream, but mostly I wanted it to help me grow. If my child actor background meant I got easy passes on auditions, that would defeat the purpose of the challenge. I realize I might be overthinking and getting carried away, but in my past life, it was common for idols and child actors who switched to voice acting to change their stage names. So if I did the same, it wouldn’t seem odd.
After I explained my reasons, Yoko-san and Azusa-san were initially hesitant but eventually respected my decision. The only request was that when I’m out with them, if someone calls me, they want either my last or first name to be the same, so they can tell if I’m with someone from the acting or voice acting side. They’re used to calling me “Sumire,” so they wanted me to keep that, but personally, I thought my first name left a stronger impression. If people associate my face with “Sumire,” it might be easy to guess who I am, so I decided to change my first name and go by “Matsuda Nozomi”.
Another big reason was that after appearing in a daytime drama during summer break, I occasionally got recognized on the street, with people asking, “Weren’t you in that daytime drama?” Although my age group was the main target audience, it was mostly housewives who knew me better—but maybe some kids watched it with their moms.
“Please take a seat over there on the sofa and wait. We’ll call you in order. Sorry, but there aren’t enough seats for accompanying persons...”
The receptionist’s words were a bit vague—probably meaning something like, “Please stand by the wall or somewhere nearby.” There were five other people reading papers on the sofa, but I bet there were more auditionees, and they staggered the times to avoid crowding the small lobby. From what I saw, I was the only one with a manager. Everyone else looked like adults, but I was a genuine middle schooler in both looks and status, so having someone accompany me wasn’t strange.
Yoko-san didn’t complain and just gave me a calm “Do your best” before stepping back to the wall and flipping through her planner. She must be used to these kinds of situations. Maybe she also wanted to avoid causing a fuss that might hurt my reputation.
I sat down and looked over the stapled sheets the receptionist gave me. The first page had formal greetings and the schedule. The next two pages showed the lines and brief character descriptions for the heroine and her best friend. There were no typos or corrections, so it looked like I just had to act normally.
A staff member came out and started calling people one by one. The auditions seemed to last about 10 minutes each. My turn came about an hour after I arrived.
“Nozomi Matsuda, please come in.”
“Yes!”
Finally my turn. I stood up and was about to signal Yoko-san with “I’m going,” but she was talking to an unfamiliar man, so I didn’t want to interrupt. I passed by and stood by the studio door.
When the staff opened it, I saw the old CRT monitors and several standing microphones. Studios are usually divided into the acting booth and the control room for sound directors and crew, separated by a big glass window and a door.
“Excuse me!”
I bowed and stepped inside. Through the glass, some people were smirking and looking at me. Maybe they found it amusing that a middle schooler in uniform suddenly showed up.
“I’m Matsuda Nozomi from Oshima Production. Nice to meet you.”
“Alright, good. We’ll follow the script you have. When the count starts, introduce yourself again, say the role name, then begin acting.”
A cold male voice came through the ceiling speakers with those instructions. I guess they say the same thing to everyone, so they keep it brief. But I felt a tense, almost hostile vibe from behind the glass—maybe they were running late or dealing with some trouble. I’ve dealt with staff treating me coldly when schedules got pushed back before, so this didn’t surprise me much. And people laughing at me on the first meeting was unpleasant but nothing I couldn’t handle. It’s typical for higher-ups on set to treat talents that way.
I stood in front of the mic—but it was clearly too high. Not out of meanness, just because I’m shorter than other participants. Should I adjust it myself?
“Excuse me, can I lower the microphone?”
“You’re new, so listen carefully: in dubbing, multiple people share one mic. Do you really think you can adjust it for your height? You should adjust yourself to the mic, rookie.”
The irritable voice responded from the ceiling. Sounds like, “We don’t intend to use you much, so just get it done and get out.” I didn’t understand why he was so annoyed, but I figured his words weren’t that harsh given the time period. I’d heard voice actors talk later about seniors getting upset over mic use, so maybe the production side had to be cautious to avoid conflicts. A mic height might seem trivial, but back then, this kind of power harassment was normal.
“Understood. Sorry for being disrespectful.”
I bowed deeply toward the people behind the glass, then quickly scanned the studio. There was a folding chair. If I’d known I couldn’t adjust the mic, I could have used the high heels a staff member once gave me to boost my height at a shoot. But no use wishing now—I had to make do with what was there.
I brought the folding chair to the mic, took off my shoes, and stood on it. Now my face was too high above the mic, so I bent slightly to position my mouth properly. It felt embarrassing, almost like sticking my butt out toward the glass, but relief at finally being able to act was stronger than my shame.
“Please start the count!”
“Uh, wait a moment…”
A confused voice came over the speakers, but I didn’t respond, waiting for the count. I was a complete rookie, and production staff held the power in those days—no doubt about it. But being treated unfairly without explanation was frustrating, no matter how much I tried to stay calm.
Somehow, I felt I might’ve bowed and accepted everything in the past. Has something changed inside me? It might make enemies to confront unfairness head-on, but at least I’d accept the consequences and feel less stress. That said, adults like Yoko-san would handle the fallout, so I wanted to keep it reasonable.
Still, this time the guy’s attitude was way too unreasonable. So I decided to stand my ground.
Eventually, the production team gave in and started the count. I introduced myself again, “I’m Nozomi Matsuda from Oshima Production,” and began acting.
The heroine was a shy girl who can act boldly to catch the attention of the boy she likes; the best friend was usually quiet but daring when it counted. Both roles were fun to play. In my previous life, there were many characters like these to reference, so I put my own emotional touch into the performances—and I think I did pretty well.
“Okay, that’s good…”
I heard a hesitant voice through the speakers, so I quietly stepped down from the chair, bowed deeply toward the glass, and said, “Thank you very much.” Some gave me strange looks or scowled, but I was satisfied with my effort.
After putting the chair back, I left the booth and saw the man who had been talking earlier was gone. Yoko-san stood alone by the wall, so I quickly went to her.
“Good job, Su… I mean, Nozomi. How was your first audition?”
“I really enjoyed acting. But I think I probably didn’t pass.”
I gave a vague answer to avoid upsetting Yoko-san, who might have gotten mad about what happened. She seemed to sense it, though, and gave me a small smile.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get better. We just need to keep trying.”
Her words made me feel warm inside. The audition was tough, but I was glad I’d taken the step.
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