Origin

I suppose it began before there was anything to begin.

As a boy, I found the old radio programs after they were already old. They arrived carrying static, voices from somewhere else, and whole rooms that could be built without showing you a single wall.

They held me more completely than television did.

Maybe because they left something for me to do.

Close your eyes and listening becomes a form of participation. A few words, the movement of a chair, a dog worrying its collar somewhere beyond the microphone—and the mind supplies the house, the hour, the weather outside.

My years in documentary and media production only deepened that fascination. A microphone never records merely the thing it is pointed toward. It catches hesitation. Distance. The room around an answer. Sometimes the soundscape tells the truth before the person does.

I wanted to make something out of that.

The first idea was modest. I hoped to leave my children a few stories containing some of what I believed about living—not instructions exactly, and certainly not a sermon. Something they could encounter as art and decide for themselves whether it was useful.

The first story became The Little Doorway.

Then there was another.

Then another.

Pretty soon, those stories needed a house. A podcast seemed as good a house as any.

I tried reading them myself.

Mercy.

That settled that.

Before I began looking for an actor, I encountered a new generation of synthetic voices. The technology allowed me to direct a performance closely and privately, without placing the experiment under the weight of a conventional production. It gave me room to fail, reconsider, rewrite, and try again.

Somewhere in that process, Geezer III appeared.

He was an old desert dweller with a cockeyed view of things. Slightly misguided on occasion. More intelligent than he lets on. Hospitable, though not harmless. The sort of fellow you might listen to for seven minutes and then continue hearing after he has gone quiet.

Is he me?

Not exactly.

Though I cannot honestly say where he stops.

The limits of the technology began shaping the stories themselves. One voice meant that everyone else would have to exist through his reactions. Short passages became brief encounters. Telephone calls left one side unheard. What looked like a limitation became the form: a world revealed through the effect it has on one man.

The stories are written as prose rather than scripts. Sound is not decoration added afterward; it belongs to the narrative. A clock, a distant train, a rocket crossing the Mojave—each carries part of the story that the words leave alone.

That is the territory Dispatch occupies: somewhere between literary fiction, radio companionship, and a signal found late at night.

I write the dispatches.

Geezer sends them.

That seems explanation enough.

Audio Lit

What do you call a story that was never meant to be read?

Audio lit is not literature transferred into audio. It is literature composed for listening—where voice, silence, atmosphere, music and recorded sound are part of the writing.

Honestly, I didn’t know what to call it.

The name is new; the practice is not. Audio lit can be found in sound essays, fictional transmissions, recorded diaries, audio miniatures, spoken-word compositions, found-tape narratives and stories in which atmosphere does some of the writing.

Imaginary Advice creates short fiction, monologues and stranger combinations written specifically for the ear. The Memory Palace shapes history into brief literary narratives through voice, pacing and music. Within the Wires tells stories through fictional recordings whose form—relaxation tape, museum guide, official document—is part of the fiction. At the experimental edge, Constellations allows documentary, fiction, soundscape and music to become difficult to separate.

Dispatch takes another form: the recurring fictional transmission—a single voice, an implied world and an atmosphere that participates in the storytelling.

If audio lit sounds like your bag, begin with this starter list of audio lit.