I recently bought a book full of writing exercises. The first exercise encourages a James-Joyce-like internal monologue writing session. I thought I’d show you the bulk of the internal monologue I wrote down, and the monologue of a character I adapted it to. It was fun and enlightening to transform my own strange ravings into the even stranger ravings of a potential character that I’d very much like to explore later.
My internal monologue : Pre-transformation
The crows caw loudly, and I think of raw meat. Footsteps nearby, a clopping horse’s gallop. It is a strange turn taking between the birds and the clopping, the whirring of a pair of wings above and the response of a locking-car horn nearby. The carts, the wheels and rattles, moaning wind, echoing laughter.
I do feel alone here, but delighted by it. I think “what atrocious handwriting you have,” but still, I write my head down. Voices distract me and the heat sits like spring, jet engine blanket on me. I want to lean back and sleep.
Sickness shares the air with beauty. Trollopsing wasp, buoyant and disturbed by passing cars and their boom-boom hello. I still hear its thunder. Whoosh. Whir. I shouldn’t be stopping, but often if I don’t try to, my head stops thinking—goes blank and silent and comfortable.
A muscle is twingeing in my arm. Phone buzz and I see spots on my vision. Bleep. Caws sound jolly—not so argumentative. Red-headed angel trollop, over-the-shoulder bag—hello, parking lot visitors, I can ow hear your music. Turn it down. I take these things like invasions of my privacy, my personal space.
Ha, I can tell you BUZZ BUZZ dropped your phone. the crows are HAW HAW, laughing at you, too, but you don’t hear them. There’s so much noise and sometimes it smells like spring time, but often they disturb me. Do I hear singing? Sounded kind of ghostly.
Adapted character monologue using details from the exercise
The crows caw loudly, and I think of raw meat. Footsteps nearby, a clopping horse’s gallop; there are no horses near, but shoes are hooves when passages like wind tunnels carry noise beyond its half-life. The carts, the wheels and rattles, moaning wind, echoing laughter, they are carried one painted brick too far.
I do feel alone here, but delighted by it. I think “What atrociously un-hemmed pants you have” as I look down at my swinging legs, dangling from the garden wall. Still, I let my head silt its voices out. They distract me as the heat sits like a jet-engine blanket on my shoulders, persuading me to lean back and sleep.
I resist as I hear a tuberculoid cough wrack the dewey air. Sickness shares the air with beauty as before my eyes, a trollopsing wasp, bouyant and disturbed by mournful winds and its schwoop schwoop “hello” makes arcs and dips with its top-like body in the air. Whoosh, whirr, I hear the wind and wasp exchange their matter in a short flight to nowhere, and for a moment, the heat wins out as I stop and think of nothing. Often, if I don’t try to, my head stops thinking—goes blank and silent and comfortable.
A muscle is twingeing in my arm as I lean. I can’t move yet. I must observe. Twinge. The crows still haw haw; they sound more jolly—less argumentative. Maybe I only thought they were arguing when the mist was heavier and it felt like an evening for a murder.
The trailing end of a measure of a song drifts from the tunnel now, and its half-life turns it ghostly. I shiver, but my twingeing arm reminds me that it’s still not time to go.