Writing A Monologue

Writing a successful monologue is a particularly challenging task; it’s more akin to creating a poem than a piece of traditional ‘beginning, middle, end’ drama. Like close-up in film, the monologue provides an incisive and penetrating look into one character’s humanity, a character who attempts to communicate whilst wrestling with their own desires, beliefs, relationships, histories and inner conflicts/contradictions. A character in a monologue talks freely and often discloses things which are usually kept private - sometimes consciously, often not.

When writing your own monologue you may find it easier to contextualise your piece, ie, to employ a dramatic device which makes your characters’ talking to themselves plausible. They might, for example, be looking at/holding the photograph of a loved one, or have been left in charge of a sleeping grandchild. Alan Bennett’s twelve monologues which comprise his famous ‘Talking Heads’ series (which you should read/study) are not contextualized; they provide their own context. The character simply acknowledges the presence of an invisible listener and begins to speak.

A monologue may be delivered by an inner voice, revealing the character’s secret, unarticulated thoughts, or it may be exterior, including other voices - family, friends, lovers, etc.

As with real speech, the monologue will rarely – if ever - be neat and tidy, a seamless linear flow of clear, explicit thought. In life, however eloquent we might fancy ourselves to be, we all back ourselves into conversational cul-de-sacs, employ non-sequiteurs, fail to fully explain what we mean, use inappropriate language, etc. We rely, consciously or otherwise, on the listener to fill in the gaps, to tease meaning from our words. Your monologue should reflect the ‘raggedness’ and unfinished quality of genuine speech whilst, of course, remaining rigorously focused and on-target.

Know who is speaking:

Creative writing manuals invariably advise new writers to create character biographies before embarking upon the serious business of writing their novel, screenplay, etc. These painstakingly scripted life stories, frequently chart each person’s existence from conception to death - pages and pages of material which microscopically chronicle their every experience, no matter how trivial. I would argue that this obsessive note-taking, far from liberating the writer, enabling them to bring their dramatis personae to life, all too frequently results in a dull, uninspired troupe of one-dimensional creatures. Characters are born in the imagination.

For your monologue it is enough to know, in the broadest terms, what kind of person your character is. Does he love sport to the point of neglecting his family? Is she obsessed with cleaning? Does he have a problem with commitment/fidelity? If you can explain how your character would react in any given situation, and how his or her reaction would be different from yours or those of people you know, he/she will come across as a living, breathing individual during the performance of your piece.

You might find it helpful to personify some aspect of yourself whilst writing. However, when authors try to write directly from their own experience, they often end up examining, and exhibiting, every facet of their personalities, which can result in a thin, ‘fragmented’ protagonist. In truth, as individuals, we are various people at various times. Choose one of your many moods and write from that place. What would your depressive side say? Or your passionate self? The mendacious or egotistical you?

A useful ‘twist’ is to give your character traits that are at cross purposes with their occupation or current situation, ie, the elegant, cultured man who has to work as a cleaner in a high-class hotel, or the man’s man who has to wait in the lingerie department most Saturdays while his wife shops and has to help her choose items. (Sadly this particular species of male has yet to become extinct.) Knowing the kind of person from whose point-of-view you're writing will help colour their diction so they don't sound exactly like you.

To take an opposing point of view, I have found from my own experience that choosing a character who bears little, or no, relation to me whatsoever can, paradoxically, make the task of writing easier. It’s all about giving the imagination free rein. (Think of my own example, performed in class.)

Know why your character is speaking:

The cardinal sin committed in many monologues is that the playwright forgets to give the character a reason to be addressing the audience. It’s all too easy to fall into the trap of thinking that because you are passionate about the words which appear on your computer screen everyone else will be interested too. Not so! Your character should have a motivation for opening his/her mouth, even if this is not an integral part of the monologue. Speech is an action. You don't talk unless something prompts you to do so. And you don't speak at length unless you’re attempting to influence an outcome in your favour. Even those people who seem to go on for hours without saying anything of significance or interest – we can all, no doubt, think of numerous examples from our personal lives - have a reason for doing so; maybe it's to calm themselves, or hold another person's attention because the speaker is inwardly lonely. When you have your character, put her/him in a situation in which she needs to accomplish an objective. Think of your monologue as a dramatic scene and it will become more active and consequently more engaging.

Know to whom your character is speaking:

The listener is the (essential) element all too often overlooked in monologues. Many novice playwrights (and some professionals) are primarily interested in what they themselves have to say, their own oh-so-witty turns of phrase, abstruse classical allusions and dazzling metaphors. They never, or rarely, pause to consider those poor audience members who have to sit and listen to their solipsistic, masturbatory outpourings.

You must be aware of the reaction your ‘message’ is having on the listener. What is their role in the drama? Think of your own conversationary tactics for a moment. When you are trying to convince someone of something and you recognise that you’re failing you will naturally change your strategy in the hope of being more persuasive and more likely to get what you want – how quickly we move from conciliation to conflict. Being constantly aware of the listener will keep you - and your character - alert and responsive; it's not going to be easy for him/her to spew soliloquies about sunsets or the moonlight illuminating the tropical lagoon. He's going to have to work. At the very least a clearly defined listener will give the speaker a specific target to vent at, someone to rail against.

In the same way that you’ve decided on what kind of person the speaker is, choose what sort of individual he is talking to. The speaker will tailor his delivery to his intended audience (not the theatre audience). Pause for thought: you converse differently with your immediate superior at work than you do with your son or your mother, or the postman. A defined listener will have his own agenda for being in the same room with your protagonist, and this will naturally add conflict, which will up the dramatic ante of your piece and make it more compelling, and best of all, it won't make your audience want to ignite their hair and beat out the flames with a shovel as a means of avoiding what’s happening ‘on stage’.

The Function of Speech in Drama – with particular emphasis on the monologue

• To reveal character
• To provide the audience with relevant information
• To foreshadow what is to come
• To carry exposition, ie, explain events which have occurred ‘off stage’
• To reflect the speaker’s mood/emotional state

The monologue might conveniently broken into its constituent parts thus:

The Hook:
Grab people's attention. Don't necessarily start at the beginning of the story the character wants to tell. We can come in towards the end of the tale, thus the audience is eager to find out what happens next, as well as wondering what led to this.

The Grab:
Keep it simple. Keep it quick. Your opening words are crucial for the tone of your piece. Don't ramble on and on - get right into the heart of your story. Find the ‘voice’.

The Heart:
Why is this character talking to us? Why now? The best monologues, once they've hooked and grabbed us, tell a story we've never heard before – or, more likely, supply a fresh twist to an old tale.

The Soul:
Who is this person? Where are they from? What are their hopes, dreams, and disappointments? If you can answer all these questions, your character will start coming to life.

The Colour:
This is more than location - it's the way your character sees, and reacts to, the world around them.

The Music:
Great writing is like music. You state a theme, expand upon it, build a crescendo, then slowly come back down to earth. Because of this musical quality of dialogue, it's absolutely essential that you read your piece aloud.

The Sound:
Reading aloud is an essential part of the writing process. Does the dialogue sound natural? Does it flow? Can you identify musical stops and starts, changes of rhythm and pace? All of this becomes much clearer when hearing your words spoken out loud.

The Fury:
Writing is rewriting. This is the really difficult part of the process - once you've completed your first draft, put it to one side, make a cup of tea, then come back to it. Try reading it out loud and see what can be improved. Then do this again. And again. And again!

The Edit:
Remember, it's possible to convey a lot of emotion with very few words (your ultimate goal) - and silence is extremely powerful. Beware ‘flashy’ dialogue or clever one-liners - it's how the monologue works as a whole that counts.

The End:
In the words of T.S. Eliot: "in my beginning is my end".
Remember where your monologue started from? Well, after your monologue has whisked us away on a voyage full of heart, soul, colour and music, that's roughly where we should end up - right back at the beginning.