The inner conflict of beginning a novel

This is a rough draft of an assignment I had in theater arts, it was meant to be a monologue, but it's not. Instead, it's a conversation I'm having with myself.

The inner conflict in beginning a novel

Pacing back and forth, holding a notebook, thinking out loud. Alison and her superhero squad casually sit in their lair, too tired from the day’s events to do much else. One of them has the idea to turn Netflix on the flat-screen. They pick a show, one about them, er the way Hollywood imagines them to be, given no one but them knows about their secret identities.

               The screen comes on, and immediately a tall, dark-skinned, te­enage girl holding a stack of textbooks �" obviously an actress portrayal of Alison �" fills the screen. “Hey Fiona,” Girl greets, “ready for the party tonight?”

               “Not in the least, I know nothing about parties,” Fiona replies.

               Stops midstride. Wait, what am I doing?

                Steps to the right and folds arms. Good question, what are you doing?

               Leans left, hands indignantly at sides. What do you mean “what am I doing?” We’re the same person, whatever I do, you do too.

               Step right and folds arms. I beg to differ. You’re the one who’s about to start an entirely different TV series subplot within a book, with no relevance to the over-arching plot whatsoever, for a novel you’re not even writing. That’s all you, Firey.

               Steps left and places on hips defensively. We always starting writing something in our heads before we actually put it to paper, Banana.

               Leans right and folds arms.  Oh trust me, I know. That’s why everyone thinks you’re crazy, because you always have to think out loud and it looks like you’re talking yourself, you psycho.

               Steps left, places hands on hips, and lets out a mocking “hmph.” Well you’re the one talking to yourself now. You started this conversation remember; I was just fine before you interjected.

               Leans right and folds arms. Yeah, if by fine you mean adding yet another cliche plot point to a sequel you started writing in the 8^th grade and never bothered to finish. Maybe because �" something you’ll never admit- you lost interest in the characters because they’re depthless and boring. Come on, 6 families living in a giant mansion in Washington D.C. behind the white house, all only children, with two married parents. Completely and totally unrealistic.

               Leans left and gasps, hands still on hips. They are neither depthless nor boring. I spent a year and a half writing that book, and it had pretty good character development for something written by a 13-year-old. And, we wrote that TOGETHER.

               Steps right and shakes head, arms still folded. No, we didn’t. I had no say in that book; if I did maybe I wouldn’t gag every time I read it.

               Leans left, drops mouth open in shock, but gives no reply.

               Steps right. See, even you can’t disagree. That book sucked, and using those dull characters for a sequel is just going to make the sequel terrible. So, I suggest you quit developing it in your head, because I’m not going to let you waste another year of your life writing a comically terrible and cliché novel.

               Steps left and folds arms with a pout. That’s off-sides, Banana. We’re getting off track. If this sequel is going so badly, what do you suggest?

               Steps right and tilts head to the side in thought. Already, I’m curious about the characters in the TV show, because it didn’t describe each character in monotonous detail for the first 10 minutes.

               Steps left and puts hands on hips. I needed to give the readers a clear picture of who each character was. It’s called exposition.

               Steps right and rolls eyes. It’s called a snooze-fest. Maybe your “exposition” is the reason why we didn’t get any readers in the first place! What we need to do is start with a setting, put the characters in the setting, with a light description, and let the readers make inferences about the types of people the characters are. So let’s start with Fiona at her locker, or in the hallways to class.

               Steps left and nods in agreement. And, let’s scrap the whole governmental superhero thing entirely. I feel like a team with a more vigilante feel would be better.

               Steps right and looks to left quizzically. You’re actually not thinking like a 10-year-old now. Bravo. Let’s also make it realistic and not give the character’s ridiculous names like Vivian and Fawn, that make teenage girls sound like geriatrics.

               Steps left and frowns. Those names were original.

               Steps right and laughs, then deadpans. Those names were terrible, Firey. Even your friends thought so, but they’re too nice to tell you that, and you’re so naïve that you believe whatever people tell you.

               Steps left and pouts. I’m not naïve; you’re just a cynic who sees the worst in people.

               Steps right and looks at audience. I see things the way they are. And, the way things are, no one is as pampered as the girls in the novel you’re trying to right. Not even top level government agents. You’re a romantic and it needs to stop. You want some realistic and relatable characters? All you have to do is look at the friends your basing your book off of. Gestures towards audience and looks to left.

               Steps left strokes chin thoughtfully, facing the audience.

               Steps right and looks left in agitation. What are you stroking? We have no beard, and we’re a girl. It’s simple: Fiona, full-time working parents, two younger brothers’; Sydney, two older sisters, one older step-brother, one younger-step sister, on her dad’s side; Bailey, two full-time working parents, rocky relationship with her older sister; Phoebe, single mother, two little sisters; Dina, older brother, younger sister, at home mother, full-time working father who’s at frequent business trips; Evie, single mother, grandmother, no siblings. See, realistic relatable characters.

               Steps left and folds arms. You’re right, Banana.

               Steps right and scoffs. Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be, everyone (glances at audience) knows I’m the better half.

               Steps left and purses lips. You wish you were the better half. Maybe you would be if you weren’t so snarky all the time. You should try being nice, like Fiona.

               Steps right, and laughs. Being nice, and look where that got you. You being nice ended with you writing three duds because you couldn’t write things as they were. I’m not afraid to take risks, even if it means being a jerk. That’s why my book was the one passed around the cafeteria, and not your teeny-bopper Disney knock-off.

               Steps left and clenches and unclenches fists. As much as you like to think that I’m not a part of you, and that we can do things separately. The truth with always remain. Looks to audience. There’s a part of me in everything we do, and everyone we see. Looks to right with a clenched jaw. Just like there’s a part of you. We’re the same person. Now can you stop insulting my every move so we can get this figured out?

               Steps right and sends a scornful look. There’s nothing left for me to figure out, I already chose the characters, you should contribute something useful, for once.

               Steps left and gasps. I do contribute something useful. Like the plot, at least, the plot of the first chapter.

               Steps right, raises eyebrows, tauntingly, with an amused expression.

               Steps left and narrows eyes. It starts with everyone getting invited to a party.

               Leans right with mock glee. Ooh, a party!

               Leans left, glares at right. At the party, an explosion knocks them all into comas, and they wake up 6 months later, and a few days after they wake up they realize that have superpowers.

               Steps right, nods approvingly. Really cliché, but I can collaborate with this.

               Steps left, and narrows eyes. You don’t have a choice. Even this conversation is a collaboration.

               Steps right, and rolls eyes. Whatever, just start pacing so we can work this out, will you?

               Pacing resumes, still not writing in the book.

               Fiona Thompson hurries down the hallway, running late to math class, as usual. It’s been an inside joke between her and her friends Sydney Bartinello and Bailey O’Leery since the beginning of their 8th grade year. Now, in early May, the school year is coming to a close, and Fiona still can’t manage to find a way to get from the gymnasium to her math classroom on time. The bell rings and she enters the classroom a minute late, as usual. She takes her usual desk, front seat, second row from the door, and hides her smile as she sees Bailey and Sydney hiding their laughs behind their hands. Exit stage right, still talking out loud.