After our recording session, I initially thought there wouldn’t be much left for me to do. The plan was for Phyu to finalize the animation timing, and I would then make detailed adjustments to sync and refine the sound accordingly. However, what followed turned out to be the most frustrating part of the collaboration so far.
Phyu sent me the latest version of the animation with most of the in-betweens in place and asked for the voiceover file. I sent it, but she replied that she couldn’t hear the lines. To clarify, I then sent her a version with only the voiceover track—but after that, she went silent.
This wasn’t the first time. I had also sent her a more developed version of the audio, with everything generally edited. Again, she disappeared. (We use Discord to communicate, and it shows online status—every time she stopped responding, her status would switch to invisible.) When she finally reappeared two days later, she messaged me not with feedback but with corrections and another meeting request—as if we had never paused communication.
This version of the project she returned to me had been directly edited using my audio file, with increased gain levels that caused clipping and distortion. I understand that people often prefer louder audio for clarity or impact, and that some sounds can be hard to describe with words, but the decision to directly edit my file without discussion made me feel disrespected. Not because of creative disagreement, but because the collaborative process seemed to be replaced with silent corrections.
That’s when something Hannah once said in class really echoed for me:
These phrases suddenly made more sense. I realized how much smoother collaboration can be when both sides remain open, curious, and communicative, rather than falling into a dynamic where one gives instructions and the other executes. I’ve noticed that when I feel proud of my work and there’s room for mutual discussion, I’m open to feedback—even to disagreement. But when the feedback feels like a top-down correction with little explanation, it starts to resemble a commission rather than a collaboration.
That’s not what I signed up for—and it’s not what I want to create.
Despite the emotional turbulence, this experience has helped me think more deeply about what true creative collaboration means. It’s not just about merging skills—it’s about building trust, navigating conflict with care, and creating a shared language when words (and sounds) fall short.