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Service | Nov 11 2005

I’ve been using this amazing new phone service. You may have heard about it. It’s called VoiceOver. It’s like a kind of answering service, but on a whole different level.

Unfortunately it takes several days to “train” the program. The process is handled over the phone, and it’s automated. All you do is answer questions, one after another. This sounds simple, but you wouldn’t believe how tedious it can be. If you don’t say enough in response to a particular question, the program probes for more information, like a real interviewer: “Why is that?” “Could you tell me more about that?” “What do you mean by that?” Mostly though the program simply repeats back the last thing you said, turning it into a question. I wanted to scream sometimes, and sometimes I did, but then the program would just ask me why that was, or what I meant by that, and so on.

As I understand it, the training serves two purposes: the program gets to record your voice and learn how you talk, while also gathering tons of information about you and about how your mind works. The questions get increasingly personal. I’d rather not mention what they are, but suffice it to say I remembered things I hadn’t thought about in thirty years, certain events from my childhood. This can be unpleasant, or at least it was in my case, but then it’s over and you don’t have to do it again. The cool part starts once the training is complete and you can activate the service. From this point on, the process is simple. Whenever a call comes in, the program automatically answers it and does all the talking for you, using a voice that sounds exactly like yours. The resemblance is uncanny. I tried it myself, calling my own number, and it was like listening to a recording of myself talking, except here the voice was actually talking to me and we were having this relatively normal-seeming conversation. Freaky. I kept saying, “Do I really sound like you?” and the voice would say things like, “Of course you do. How else am I supposed to sound?”

The service has lots of helpful features. For example, if you want, you can listen to the calls in real time on your regular phone. At any point you can hit the flash key, which allows you to jump in and take over for the program. The transition is seamless: no one can tell you just assumed the controls, as it were. Also, if you don’t feel like listening to the conversations while they’re happening, you can always play back recordings of them later on; or if you’d prefer, the company will email you a brief synopsis of each conversation—the key points—so you know what got said without having to go through the drudgery of listening to the actual conversation. This feature is rather expensive, so I didn’t get it, but I’ve been thinking about adding it. Still, even without it, the service is a big time-saver because most conversations, even those with friends, are rarely that interesting or personal, particularly in the beginning. Also I’ve been using a headset to listen to the calls, as this allows me to type emails, or do whatever I want, while the program does my talking for me.

The truly amazing thing is how the automated “Michael Barrish” sometimes says things I would say but haven’t actually said—nor even thought about, necessarily. It’s spooky, but more than spooky it’s helpful because it saves me from having to think of these things myself. Of course in a way it feels like cheating, like I’m paying for someone to come up with ideas for me, but at the same time the ideas really do seem like mine, like the sort things I would think of, and in a sense I have thought of them, because they’re based on my way of thinking.

I recently read on the company’s website that they’re working on a spin-off product that uses the same technology, but instead of handling your phone calls for you, it serves as a writing tool. It’s called PenPal, and I’ve already signed up as a beta tester. Actually to be honest, I used the program to write most of this piece. Well, all of it. Pretty remarkable, huh? It even threw in some of my characteristic typos.