Readerly Report Podcast Out today!!

Today on the Readerly Report, we talk to prolific audiobook narrator Therese Plummer about our favorite books set in summertime. We also get into the relationship between audiobook narrators and listeners, and weigh in on the eternal debate: does listening to a book count as reading it? (YES!) Hosted by Gayle Weiswasser and Nicole Bonia


Super duper excited to announce Thérèse Plummer has received 5 nominations for this year's Audies Awards hosted by the Audio Publishers Association (APA) held this year in NYC.  


Inspirational Faith-Based Fiction: SANDPIPER COVE by IRENE HANNON

Fiction: I LIKED MY LIFE by ABBIE FABIASCHI narrated by Therese Plummer, Susan Bennett and Dan Bittner

Original Work: THE HANDMAIDS TALE by MARGARET ATWOOD narrated by Claire Danes and a full cast including Therese Plummer

Middle Grade:  SEE YOU IN THE COSMOS by JACK CHENG narrated by Kivlighan de Montebello and a full cast including Therese Plummer

New Releases :-)

Hey happy Audiobook listeners I have been a busy bee this summer with some amazing releases out now and still to come.  AS always feel free to follow along with me at Therese Plummer Voice-Over Artist/Actor on Facebook and on twitter @tplumdog.  Happy listening:-) 

Macmillan:  SOURDOUGH by Robin Sloan

Recorded Books:  WHAT WE FIND by Robyn Carr (Audible's top ten)

Hachette: 36 QUESTIONS THAT CHANGED MY MIND ABOUT YOU by Vicki Grant and co-narrated with Sam Sherwood

Hachette: JUNK by Ayad Akhtar (multicast)

Happiest listening and feel free to drop me a note and let me know your thoughts:-)  

A storyteller life...

I have been writing short stories for a while and will post on here if you want to read them.  Happy reading:-) 

Learning to Write

by thereseplummer

She was 21 and fresh off a stint in rehab.


Back in her college classrooms.

Professor’s were understanding and told her they would ‘work with her’ to salvage the year and not loose any credits.

she was grateful.

Room 17 in the new building on campus was where she walked into the Creative Writing Classroom.

It was a dream of hers to learn how to write effectively, professionally or maybe just better. She had been spouting stories and poetry on the old typewriter her Dad had hand-me-downed her a long time ago.

Alone, in the attic or her bedroom or in all night diners in town where she would frequent when she couldnt sleep and smoke way too many cigaretts and drink really bad coffee but it was bottomless cup so who cared. And her words would pour out of her onto paper. pen gripped so hard she developed a callus. And she was free. For those moments she was free from the mental gymnastics her brain loved to play on her. It was indeed a channel. a door to another place she could access now without numbing out.

The Professor walked in.

Middle-aged man, pale complexion, slow gait, audibly exhaling as he unloaded his briefcase in front of the classroom.

She remembered him saying something like ‘write anything and everything that comes to your mind and just be free with it.’ Free Writing he had called it.

She went for it. She wrote and wrote in circles and patterns and to the moon and back again and around the world and back again and when she handed her paper in at the end of class she was smiling.

she hadn’t smiled in a long long time.

She anticipated her professor’s feedback and had butterflies in her stomache waiting to receive her paper. When her name was called and she took her paper there was a note at the top that said ‘see me after class. office 19.’

she was nervous but excited as she anticipated that this meeting was to single her out and tell her she was a born writer and to stick with it and this is her calling…..

But as she sat in office 19 waiting for her Professor there was a dread in her belly.

he walked in sighing, huffing and it seemed like his breathing was labored. He finally sat in the chair and took a big breath. Then he began to talk to her:

“Look I don’t know how to say this but your paper was, well it was all over the place? Really out there. I am not sure writing is the right outlet for you. You seem much more adept at the stage. Maybe focus there?”

And with each word she withered.

more and more and more until she was a puddle and all those insecurities and fears that kept her writing in her attic and in coffee shops and in her bedroom ALONE came true. This Proffessor obviously knew what he was talking about. He was a proffessional.

He must KNOW.

she walked out of his office her head down and eyes cast on the floor.

She would not tell another story for ten years in public.

and then it was another person’s words. But that was safer and she didn’t feel as exposed.

But the stories within her still want to be told.

So she quieted the professor’s voice that haunted her,

And now, finally, she will tell them.

Meeting Ali

Sometimes an event will happen in my life that is so much bigger than I am it reminds me that I am indeed a grain of sand on this beach of life.  I met Brian a month ago and we became friends.  The first night he came to my house there was an instant warmth and safety i felt inside that was foreign and yet very relaxing.  He sat on my couch and i made us coffee and we talked.  he had just come from the Hospice his baby sister was a patient in.  Her name is Ali.  She is 35 years old and dying of cervical cancer.  Brian is 39 and the epitome of the older brother.  Fiercly loyal, loving and protective.  He and i had spoke about Ali on the phone a lot and i always sent him and her love and light.  The weird thing was it never felt unnatural or forced or pressured to be there for either of them.  I felt like I knew Ali. I felt like I knew him. I don't know how and even though my brain couldn't figure it out my soul was very much at peace.  After a few weeks i decided i needed and wanted to meet Ali.  I told Brian and he arranged it so we could go together.  The first night we went i became very anxious and worried.  We had bought her a little orange pumpkin and i sat in the passenger seat of his car clutching the stem and trying to breathe,  Brian asked for my hand and said very calmly, "of course you are uncomfortable, it's a big deal you are showing up, just keep breathing Rez."  

I had always prided myself as being this fierce warrior survivor.  And i am in a sense but i am also very fragile and feel very deeply and one way I have protected my heart through this sometimes brutal life is to have a role I play and lines i recite and a mask i can wear.  It is safe there.  I know those people.  I know those lines and that blocking so to speak.  I was now choosing to walk into a room where I did not know my lines or blocking or anything about what i would feel.  It was terrifying and exhilarating in the same moment.  It required me to trust the moment and myself in a way that i had been working on a lot this past year.  Learning to be still and just keep breathing. 

We walked into her room and Brian walked over to her and kissed her forehead and kissed his Mom and there was another man in the room, other visitors.  I realized i was clinging to the doorway holding the pumpkin when Brian turned and smiled at me and motioned for me to come over.  I walked over to the bed and saw this 35-year-old woman who now looked like a little baby all skin and bones but with the most beautiful face and eyes i have ever seen.  I couldn't stop staring into her eyes and i don't even know when it happened but she was holding my hand.  And i was bent over holding her hand looking into these two huge blue ocean eyes with gold shooting through them like a sunrise and i saw, well I saw the world.  She whispered to me as we held eye contact, "you look so familiar."   I said "You do too Ali" and she said "you are perfect."  

Her eyes closed after that and she drifted off to sleep but she was still holding my hand.  So  I sat in the chair next to her bed and let her hold on.  And i held right back.  And all i could feel in that moment.  That perfect moment where i didn't know my lines, my blocking, my anything was that everything was just perfect.  It was exactly as it was supposed to be.  Ali was right.  I am perfect just as I am.  No mask, no lines rehearsed, just me.  Holding her hand, bringing her a pumpkin and sitting still and just breathing.  just.  breathing.