I was dutifully reminded by my staff member Miss Gutkowsky, our administrator and token immigrant, that I have not yet personally addressed the masses.
And so I am. Now. Addressing you. As I enjoy this glass of tawny port.
Are you sitting comfortably? I am. Pour yourself an intoxicating libation. And let us chat. Let me chat at you.
The monologue is an elusive and compelling thing. Monologue. Solo. Uno. E pluribus unum. And with an audience, one-on-one. Mono e mono. Ourselves alone. Yes.
Crafting a solo dramatical moment is no easy attainment for the author. He or she, or heeshee as the author shall be referred to, must engage you, the reader, from the very first phrases. Tell you a story. With a character revealing itself (himself or herself, or himherselfself) whether himherselfself cares to or not. The character—that being “it” or … shit-sweet whalebone corset on the Virgin Mary! My God Lord with a crown of thorns and bleeding! …
An outburst. How unexpected. I am more articulate with bourbon and bitters. Urchin!
Fetch the other drink.
Quiet, child! You are unseemly. And furthermore, a scamp and a blackguard. Here’s a farthing. Good lad.
—Thank you, sir.
Boy, haven’t you forgotten something? From this morning?
—I owe you a farthing?
Yes. Good lad. Hand it over. And fetch my yearbook from Eton. I am in a disposition this evening to reminisce and to weep.
Well … there you have it. Monologues are good. Read them. Writers—keep up the wordsmithing.
I am so glad we had this little chat.
[Sir] Tristram Stjohn Bexindale-Webb