A Writing Hive

Now dramatic monologues have been used as a tool in almost any kind of literature you can imagine. Heck, even this is kind of a dramatic monologue...sorta...kinda...not really. No, it’s not. But you get what I mean!

Superheroes do it, super villains do it (at the worst possible times), and especially flawed main characters do their part to utilize every single bit of dramatic monologue they’re allowed.

And, as we’ve seen, dramatic monologue has become as impactful as it has because it utilizes the technology and methods of entertainment modern audiences gravitate towards. (People today love a good character epiphany.)

(Alternate Title: A Pickle Gets Taken Down Intellectually and Emotionally)

Seeing the reaction from other characters is, in some cases, just as important as the monologue itself. Response indicates who the monologue was for, characterizes the intended listener(s), and can be a telltale sign of whether it “worked” or if it didn’t.

In this case, Rick’s inability to respond at all, even with one of his typical condescendingly cynical quips speaks volumes. Rick, a character we’ve been shown to be nearly invincible -though, as Dr. Wong points out, is merely the idea of himself he holds in his own head- meets his match, and is truly bested for the first time in the series. The silence from his character is louder and more meaningful than anything he could’ve said.

Okay, hate’s a strong word. I mean, I’m an English major after all. 

It’s just...haven’t we praised the genius of all this old literature enough yet? Isn’t it time we used their writing more as a jumping off point rather than the highest standard? Can we even say “T.S. Eliot does it best”, or “The Wanderer is the epitome of monologue” anymore? (Did anyone ever say that?) I mean some of these writings are over 400 years old.

Look at this:

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets...

Tell me that wasn’t SO boring. Clearly on the page the word drama means something different, am I right? Oh, you were still reading? Really? Well I’ll put the rest of the monologue at the end of this post for you, but I’m certainly not going to read it.

See, I know that a classic monologue, when performed or read aloud, is powerful, witty and beautiful. I’m not immune to the charms of great classic writing, contrary to how it may seem. I get drawn to the edge of my seat just like the rest, and I know the hush that falls over we who are in the audience. BUT, that doesn’t mean The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock packs the ultimate punch for a modern audience anymore. Especially if it stays on the page.

So get with the times or move over Mr. Classic Literature, dramatic monologue has made it’s way to television and it’s doing better than ever!

(Here’s your poem you literature buffs!)

Join me in applauding the creators of BoJack Horseman for giving birth to this 26 minute episode in which nothing really happens, but you finish it more depressed than the rest of the show made you feel in it’s entirety.

“This episode is just him talking?”

Yes.

“For a whole 26 minutes?”

Yep.

“At his own mother’s funeral?”

You got it.

“And the character’s name is Bojack Horseman? You’re kidding right?”

Yes and no...

But I’ve actually been thinking about his name and isn’t it weir-

Nope, sorry, getting off track. Anyway...let’s continue shall we?

We know them when we hear them. Long-ish, emotionally charged, makes you stop and say “oh dang!”. But what are they really?

Effective dramatic monologues contains a couple key components:

a speaker

a listener (whose presence the speaker is aware of)

a revelation of character history, intention or action

it provides insight to character psyche

it is a poem in the form of a speech (often with good use of poetic language)

Dramatic monologues have roots in poetry, so usually the delivery is very fluid and easy to listen to. They’re often used as tools for revelations, opening the eyes of the speaker, listener and sometimes audience to something that was unknown before. The revelation is most often about something internal, which makes the dramatic monologue a great tool to use when setting the scene for change.*

For today’s modern audience, however, dramatic monologue has gotten an upgrade because entertainment has too. Monologues now make use of new digital literary forms to get a broader audience reach and heighten their impact. For example: Adult cartoons/ animation use monologue as a way to make a story engaging (who wouldn’t want to watch a character realize they’re the problem?), but also to talk to the audience. Have you ever had to sit back and ask yourself if you’re a bad person because you relate too much to the character who just realized they were in the wrong? 

Yeah, it happens to the best of us, don’t worry.

But, by making smart choices in animation and writing, an audience can feel involved and even called out by a cartoon (that’s just genius writing!) Like when the character is looking directly at the screen and talking about how they ended up where they are, and the early journey before it spun out is a common human flaw. Or when the music cuts out after a huge, important realization because the story writers want to make you feel alone with your thoughts. Yeah, they’re cruel tactics, but they get the job done. 

Stumped by the title? Let me let you in on a little secret: they’re the same thing. (At least in this case they are.) So then, why is it that when a character in one of Shakespeare’s plays spends pages talking to themselves I’m put to sleep, but I can binge six seasons of BoJack Horseman explaining how he’s the absolute worse? Simply put: 

Long ago, 

merchants of the four nations lived together in harmony. 

Then, everything changed when the Avatar came back. 

Only the authorities and the might of the Fire Nation could stop him; 

but when my cabbages needed them most, they vanished. 

The fate of many cabbage carts came to pass as a bald, 

arrow-headed boy discovered them. His name was Avatar Aang. 

And although his airbending skills were great, 

he had a lot to learn at the cost of my business.

 But I believe that Aang changed the world.

CHAPTER 1:

“Curse this road,” the graying man muttered under his breath. He had stopped and was leaning against his cart, hunched over to catch his breath. Though the road itself was flat, it extended for what seemed like miles in front of him, teasing the welcome sight of his destination. The man was getting somewhat up in age, and a trek like this took a lot out of him. But when he thought of what profit lay ahead in Omashu, all notion of exhaustion faded. He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, which was ragged from travel, and tucked a tuft of peppered hair into his cap. After patting a head of cabbage near the top of the pile, he straightened, and, grabbing the handles of his wooden cart, made the rest of the journey to Omashu.

He stood on the road having finally made it to the end, and glanced off to either side at the deadly drop to the rock face below. Before him stood the walls to the city Omashu, large slabs of dusty, reddish rock that would only be opened by the earthbending guards that stood up ahead. Unluckily for him, they were scowling. He walked toward them cautiously, leaving his cart behind.

“State your purpose in Omashu.” The guard who had spoken stepped forward, a scowl still in place and eyes piercing.

“I’ve come to sell produce,” the man replied lightly. “I sell cabbages.” He then made a motion to his cart behind him.

“Ah, a cabbage merchant. I see.” The guard paused for a moment, his expression unchanging as he glanced over the merchant’s shoulder at the cart. The man shifted, uncomfortable in the silence and wondered if this was commonplace procedure. He’d never traveled to Omashu before, but no vendor or trader he’d talked to had mentioned any kind of trouble getting in. “All right then, cabbage merchant,” the guard boomed, startling him. “Let’s see them.”

“See…”

“The cabbages, old man.”

“Oh, yes! Of course.” He turned quickly and shuffled back to his cart. Just as he made his way around its corner and grabbed onto the wooden peg handles, he glanced up on a whim and caught the eye of an approaching stranger. 

The man was odd looking to say the least. He had a stack of white hair sitting atop his head and a taut band wound around the width of his forehead, which seemed to hold his crudely cut, bang-like, fringe in place. He had a mustache to match and used a smooth, thin walking stick. Despite the fact that his feet were bare, he hobbled forward at a much faster pace than was believable for a man as old as he appeared. Two kids followed behind him, clearly related by looks alone, wearing clothes much too heavy for the Earth Kingdom heat. It was hard to say where they were from, but it was plain to see they were well traveled like him as their clothes were covered in dust and what looked like animal fur. What an odd trio they made.

“Cabbage man,” the first guard barked, snapping him back to the present, “hurry up!”

He hoisted up the back of his cart and wheeled it over to the guards. He took care to set the back down gently so he wouldn’t disturb his cabbage pyramid, and then turned to face the men. “My cabbages are the finest you’ll find in all of the Earth Kingdom,” he proudly presented. “These were grown from my family’s farm. My wife and son worked hard on this season's harvest! Because of them, these are the freshest, most vibrant cabbages you’ll ever—”

“Fresh, huh? Are you sure?”

“What do you mean?” the merchant responded quizzically. He watched as the guard reached down and took a head of cabbage in his hands.

“I’m sure you’ve heard that recently there’s been an outbreak of cabbage slugs among farmers all over the Earth Kingdom.” The guard rolled the head over in his hands, examining it halfheartedly.

“Yes...”

“Then how can you be so sure your cabbages are fresh?” The guard met the man's eyes and held his gaze for a long time. The head of cabbage had stopped moving and was now gripped in the young man's meaty fingers.

“I...I checked them all myself. They’re clean, I swear.” But the guard just held his gaze and gripped the green head harder.

 “And why should I take your word for it?”

“Please. They’re clean, I swear,” the merchant pleaded with him. “Just let me pass. I need to sell in Omashu for my family—”

“You think anyone wants your rotten cabbage? What kind of slum do you think this is?” the guard exclaimed hotly. Then without another word he crushed the cabbage in his hand and stomped a foot to the ground. The older man gasped as the ground tilted beneath the wooden wheels of his stand, and when the guard pushed his arms out to one side, his produce cart was suddenly flung through the air, having been catapulted by a ramp that was now coming out of the earth. He watched, mouth hanging open in horror as his cart dived over the edge of the road to the cliff face below.

“No! My cabbages!” he screamed, running to peer over the edge. But it was no use. They bounced and scattered and broke apart, the leaves cascading to the bottom far below. He turned back to the gates, heartbroken for his lost vegetables, and saw that the first guard was no longer interested in him. The three strangers from earlier had finally made their way up to the gate and seemed to pause with an air of uncertainty before the first guard. He wished them luck with that man's foul mood and stood from the edge brushing himself off.

“You’re free to enter,” spoke another guard. This one seemed ashamed for the other’s actions and spoke with a gentle tone. “Welcome to Omashu.”

The merchant walked forward, hair seeming even more gray than before as if having been aged by the experience, and continued forward slumped under the weight of his recent tragedy. He nodded at the nicer guard as he passed through the first of three gates, and gave a last glance back before entering completely. He found himself catching a snippet of the conversation between the white-haired, old man and the guard.

“Settle down, old timer,” the guard waved him off, seeming a bit startled to say the least. “Just tell me who you are.”

“Names Bonzu...Pipinpadaloxicopolis...the Third,” the white-haired geezer was saying. “And these are my grandkids.”

“Hi, June Pipinpadaloxicopolis,” the girl said, stepping forward. The other boy, or rather grandson, stood back looking puzzled.

The gates closed behind the cabbage merchant before he could hear the rest. But he was sure now, after seeing them up close, that the geezer wasn’t an old man afterall, but a young boy wearing a comically bad wig. He was sure that if he couldn’t get his cabbages into the city, their disguise wouldn’t fool anyone.

“Hmph,” he muttered as his mind began to wander back to thoughts of cabbages. “What an odd trio, indeed.”

CHAPTER 2:

The cabbage merchant found himself in quite the predicament. He’d finally made it to Omashu, but, with his produce stand being somewhere at the bottom of the canyon that surrounded the city and his beautiful cabbage heads along with it, he found himself with nothing to sell nor anything to sell from. He felt for his coin purse tucked away in the deep pockets of his tattered canvas pants and fished it out. With only a half-baked plan in mind that had something to do with haggling down the price of a new cart, and maybe selling cantaloupe—that was where the money was at anyway—he started down the first of many winding, aisle-like streets of the city.

Omashu was built to look like a swirling pyramid. With the streets ascending through the markets, to modest family homes, and then the areas with wealthier mansions, until finally ending up at the very tippy top in the King's castle. King Bumi, the leader of Omashu and possibly the greatest earthbender of the time, was said to be an eccentric. He was known for his fondness of bad jokes, and otherwise batty appearance. People who’d seen him said one of his eyes stayed permanently closed and other wide open, which was rumored to be for no other reason than because he liked the asymmetrical look of it. Yet, regardless of the rumors, King Bumi seemed sound of mind enough that, despite the city’s overall look, it was impeccably organized and functional. 

The city was sectioned off into parts by giant sandy walls, the same rock as the rest of Omashu, that kept designated living and consumer areas separate. To an uninformed newcomer, this would make the city appear maze-like and confusing. But to anyone knowledgeable about Omashu’s most famous and arguably most important item for organized city-life, navigating was a breeze. And of course the cabbage merchant, having studied up on the city in preparation to sell there, belonged to the latter.

The man turned slowly in place, searching for something to clue him in. There! His eyes latched onto a couple crates of fruit being hauled into something that resembled a large, rectangular hamper made of earth. Or maybe more like a stone wagon without wheels. The wagon sat on an elevated chute, and when the men finished loading it they thrust their hands to the side and it shot along a path and high above their heads. When it reached the top it teetered between returning from where it came, and following the decline of the chute, but gravity won out. The wagon slid down the narrow pathway toward a more central location in the city and the cabbage man, taking that as his cue, kept his eyes up and trained on the moving fruit crates as he followed the crisscrossing map of the Omashu delivery system overhead. He would allow the speeding produce to guide him to a market hub.

He heard the cries of hawkers and peddlers before he could even reach the market square. Men and women alike shouted to be heard over each other, all offering their trinkets or freshly farmed veggies and fruits for sale. He felt comfortable in a place like this. Almost like he was home.

“Okay!” And he clapped his hands together, the coin purse jingling between them, “it’s time to find another cart.”

He walked slowly, weaving his way between food stalls and street performers while keeping a watchful eye out. Soon after, he saw a woman with a cantaloupe stall and was sorely tempted, but the cart itself was so intricately carved it was clear it had been passed down for generations. He knew with the meager change in his purse he could never afford to buy a cart so beautiful let alone more than three of the perfectly ripe cantaloupes that sat within. So he sighed and continued on, slightly dejected.

Almost ten minutes later, he’d done just about a full lap and was still empty handed, when a booming voice captured his attention. He made his way to a part of the square he’d skipped over, following the voice and its beautiful words that promised love, and safety, and happiness. The cabbage merchant could almost picture the person to whom the words belonged cradling him in their arms, and feeling entirely at peace. 

“Cabbages! Get those cabbages you crave! Cabbages a head, cabbages a bundle! Best cabbages in Omashu, get ‘em right here!”

The man who called out wasn’t quite what the cabbage merchant had expected, and definitely wasn’t his type. His clothes were a bit weathered and his inky black hair was covered with a thin layer of red dust. His skin bore a very distinct tan, the mark of a farmer, and he was young. Younger than the cabbage man by twenty-or-so years, in fact, and a child clung to his leg looking bored. Fantasies of being wrapped in the man's arms soon turned to fantasies of diving head first into an endless pool of cabbages. 

“Cabbages?” The merchant asked as he approached.

“Yes, sir,” the younger man responded, his deep voice still a tad loud. “You interested?”

“Might be. How much for the whole cart?”

The younger man’s eyes widened, looking about ready to pop out of his head with a mixture of excitement and relief. Then he looked at the old merchant again. He looked to the coin purse still clutched in the wizened man's hands, and down to the dirty clothes he wore. “It’s not enough, gramps.” And the man sadly motioned for him to move along.

“Please,” said the cabbage merchant, the word sticking in his throat. He unlatched the purse and dumped the contents onto the man's cart before him. Two gold and a handful of bronze pieces scattered onto the wood. “The guards destroyed my cart outside the gates, I have no other way to make money.” 

“Shame,” said the man as he looked down at the kid still latched to his leg. He wouldn’t meet the older man’s eyes.

“Please, from one cabbage seller to another.”

He looked up finally, but shook his head once more. “It’s not enough.”

In the following silence both kid and father watched as the old man nodded in understanding and began to scoop his money back into the purse. As he began to shuffle away the father looked down to his wide eyed kid and back up to the older man’s retreating back. He sighed. “Old man cabbage! Come, and bring your purse with you!”

CHAPTER 3:

Finally. Finally, there he stood with a new cabbage cart to call his own. At least, it would be his if he could sell all of the remaining inventory by the end of the day. The deal he’d made with the father, whose name he’d learned was Shangren, was simple enough, but proposed a challenge. He was to sell all of the cabbages in the cart so Shangren could spend the day with his wife and their kid, and at the end of the day his family would take the profit in exchange for their cart. He’d thought the deal was more than fair. In fact he’d thought it was naive of them to trust he would come back with their cart. Then again, no one ever suspected the elderly. Lucky for them, he was an honest old man and gratefully accepted their offer.

Now that he had the cart, he had to come up with a business plan. The cabbage merchant stroked the leafy, plant pile deep in thought and hoped to get some inspiration. He knew there was no way he’d sell all the produce before the day was up, so near to the gates. There were more people near the entrance to the city, sure, but they were cheap and thus prone to haggle. He’d have to make his way closer to the city’s center where the richer civilians lived, if he hoped to meet his end of the deal. Rich folks were more likely to buy in bulk.

Secure in his plan of action he palmed a head of cabbage and pressed it to his face. He rubbed it against his cheek and thanked all the gods—the cabbage one especially—for smiling down on him with good fortune. Then a great crash came from behind him.

He was almost knocked off his feet by the shudder from the delivery cart’s impact with the ground. And then he was almost knocked off his feet by the guards that pushed past him. They shoved him aside with excessive force only to surround the flattened vegetables and bits of wood that had once been his “almost” cabbage cart. “I must be cursed,” he moaned to himself as he clutched the cabbage still in his hands. An overwhelming sense of dread began to spread through his body. “I must be the most unlucky man in Omashu.” 

Three kids sat among the debris. At the sight of them his fear turned to a blustering anger, which he unleashed onto them with his next words. “My cabbages! You’re gonna pay for this!” He recognized two of the kids as the supposed brother and sister from outside of Omashu earlier. But it wasn’t until the third kid’s milky-white wig fell to pieces, exposing a small white lemur sitting atop a boy’s bald, tattooed head, that he recognized him for who he was. Who he truly was. An airbender, and the last of his kind.

The Avatar raised his head sheepishly, his eyes portraying an innocence that could only come from the likes of a child, and spoke to the guards before him. “Two cabbages, please?”

CHAPTER 4:

The walk up to King Bumi’s castle felt almost longer than the journey to Omashu, and even longer still because it was so quiet that he had time for his own thoughts.The cabbage merchant flitted back and forth between feelings of anger at the three trouble makers, and sorrow for the loss of yet another cart. The occasional feeling of fear slipped in, now and again, when he thought of what would become of him when Shangren found out. But then his anger would return in full force. By the time their group had reached the castle and were standing before the King in the throne room, the cabbage merchant was chafed and not just because of the walk.

The King sat in his throne looking only somewhat like the exaggerated rumors that spread about him. One of his eyes seemed to stay in a permanent squint, giving him the look that he was constantly scheming. He was missing both an upper and lower tooth on opposing sides of his mouth, and hair stuck out like tufts of straw from various areas of his face. On his chin was a snowy beard, and bunches of hair under each ear made fuzzy sideburns. Two more tufts poked out of the side of his hat. If the old cabbage merchant had been calmer, he might’ve thought it was funny how the young Avatar had almost resembled the King with his wig.

A guard stepped forward. He stood between the merchant and the trio of kids, and when he began to speak, the lemur that was still wrapped around the Avatar’s smooth head jumped up, clearly startled.

“Your majesty,” he said in a  tone that was measured and patient, “these juveniles were arrested for vandalism, traveling under false pretenses, and malicious destruction of cabbages.”

The old merchant sputtered in his anger, “Off with their heads! One for each head of cabbage—”

“Silence!” The guard cut him off with a sharp look and an ever sharper tongue. “Only the King can pass down judgement.” 

The merchant bit his tongue and waited for his due justice. No King, no matter how crazy, would let something so serious as the destruction of his own city slide. Not to mention the poor cabbages.

“What is your judgement, sire,” the guard inquired, seeming slightly less patient than before.

 The King took a slow, wheezy breath and finally spoke. “Throw them...a feast!”

The cabbage merchant nearly fainted from the heat of his white-hot rage.

Shortly afterwards, the three kids were escorted out of the room by guards, looking just as shocked as he felt. He stood there unsure if that had all really happened, and unsure of what he should do until the King began to make his way out of the throne room. The merchant stood to the side, allowing the crazy king to exit first before he made a move to find a way out of the castle himself. But, before the old king walked through the large double doors, he turned and with a glint in his eye tittered, “For your trouble.” King Bumi slid his bare, right foot along the ground before him, his left hand closely following the motion from behind. Across the room a mound of earth began to move toward him. It looked like a giant snake that was slithering right at the cabbage merchant, from under the ground. Once the head of the snake reached the cabbage man’s feet, the earth it was made from opened up and a stone wagon from the mail system revealed itself to him. The earth snake sunk back into the floor and the mail cart settled on the now flat surface.

He looked to the King confused. “What’s this?” The stone tub was filled with tied burlap sacks that looked suspiciously lumpy. The cabbage merchant worried if he should fear for his life.

“Cabbages, for your new cart,” King Bumi stated, turning away. “I’m afraid the cart itself isn’t ready yet, so I couldn’t surprise you with it right this minute. But if you can wait patiently, it will be done by the end of the day.”

The King gave a polite smile and looked at the merchant a long while. The cabbage man could only stare back in shock. It wasn’t until he found himself growing increasingly uncomfortable in the silence, that the old merchant realized the King was waiting for some kind of response from him.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he shot out, wanting to make up for his rudeness. The merchant was unused to acts of kindness. He’d become comfortable living in a world where each person was expected to take care of themselves, and no one else.  And he, in the face of such a kind and thoughtful gesture, had momentarily forgotten his manners.

King Bumi smiled, amused and turned away as he began to make his way out of the room once again. “Enjoy your time in my city. That will be thanks enough.” He waved as he stepped into the hallway and called over his shoulder, “You can wait for the cart at the entrance. And don’t worry about paying Shangren back. I’ve made sure he and his family are taken care of as well.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” the merchant replied quickly this time. He watched as the King’s green robes fluttered behind him, out of sight when he realized something. “Your Majesty,” he called after him. He was sure the King could no longer hear him but he didn’t dare to leave the throne room without his new cabbages. “Your Majesty, wait! How do you know about Shangren?”

It was true what they said about the King, he was mad.

CHAPTER 5:

For the rest of that day, and almost the entire day after, he sold his cabbages in peace. He had developed a new habit of flinching each time he heard the delivery wagons whiz by in the chutes overhead, but soon found himself used to the sound and the city. When he’d told Shangren the story of what had happened over tea the night of his first day in Omashu, the younger man had laughed at the cabbage merchant’s misfortune and his own good fortune. But he stayed in a state of disbelief when the older man insisted he had come across the Avatar.

“No,” he persisted stubbornly, “the Avatar’s been gone a hundred years. There are no more airbenders. It must’ve been a trick.” The merchant had insisted it wasn’t, but the other man hadn’t wanted to hear it. They’d soon said their goodbyes and departed the tea shop.

Late the next evening, after a long day of selling, the cabbage merchant leaned against his cart to rest. He was on his way down toward the city gates, and he stood wiping the sweat off his brow. After a moment, he sidled a few steps further down the path ahead of his new cart, to take in the sights of the city. He had been thinking to himself that one day he would bring his son to see Omashu, when the sound of splintering wood and a crash from behind him, made the ground shudder. He peeked over his shoulder knowing what he’d see before his eyes could process what lay in the wreckage: smashed green leaves, and the sheepish, regretful looks of the crazy King Bumi himself, and the Avatar. The words flew out of his mouth in a shriek, echoing through the walls of the city and to the far east of the Earth Kingdom. 

So we’ve come to the end, and to finish up this thread I present to you a list of 10 Instagram Poets that you may or may not have heard of, but should definitely check out! So here you go, the end, enjoy and TA-DA:

Rupi Kaur

Nayyirah Waheed

Collin Yost

Christopher Poindexter

Atticus

Nikita Gill

Pavana

Tyler Knott Gregson

Hey! My blog, formerly known as we-honeygirls, has undergone a name change; how exciting!

It’s now called C’est La Bee (joke fully intended), at https://www.cest-la-bee.tumblr.com

Just thought you ought to know