Eximirene: A Monologue for Depressed Priests
Or a Dolorous Soliloquy to Recite While Lumbering Around a Godforsaken Island
One of my weaknesses in story planning is outlining. I’m a plantser, which means that I plan just enough until I get bored of the process, then use what I’ve got to create the story, tweaking the outline as needed. I used to be a pure planner until I realized that I have a tendency to over-plan, wanting every detail to be just write so I can breeze through the writing process. This meticulous approach often resulted in a slew of unfinished projects, believe it or not.
So rather than outline the shit out of this one, I’m going to start writing dialogue for key scenes, arrange them as needed, bridge them with other scenes, and do other steps that would probably bore you.
This particular scene felt cathartic and meaningful until I realized that I’d have to share it with others. When I feel uneasy about sharing a piece, that means one of two things: 1) I can sense already that the piece will require heavy editing or a complete rewrite, or 2) people are going to love it for reasons I can’t fathom.
Father Grin’s monologue turned out to be the latter. It’s descriptive but feels expositional in a few places. It’s foreboding. It’s awful. And beta readers loved it.
Regardless of my feelings, I want this piece to be a part of the final project. I have a fondness for this character right now, probably because I’m going through my own dark night of the soul, and Grin feels like an avatar of sorts. In some ways, I am shuffling about a grassy island tucked away in a misty sea. (But unlike Grin, who’s too depressed to dress himself, I choose to pace around my domain in harem pants and flannel overshirts like the cutting-edge fashionista I am.)
I guess another reason I’m so reluctant to share this piece is because of the sheer vulnerability Grin is experiencing, along with the unfortunately familiar contemplation of life and death. While it’s not triggering for me, and I’m not recalling past struggles at the moment… damn, I can’t quiet describe it. But if others are seeing something in the piece that I can’t, then it must be worthwhile.
Note: This is a work in progress and the version presented here may not reflect the one included in the final project. Some dialogue may be broken up for easier reading. Any errors in audio direction will be corrected in future revisions.
FX: CALM BREEZE, STEADY AND SOFT, PLAYS UNDER NARRATION.
Grin: (V.O.) The wind’s picking up today. Autumn’s creeping in. Not that the seasons make much difference here. I barely feel the winds and rains that signal the arrival of different times anymore.
FX: SLUGGISH FOOTSTEPS ON DRY GRASS.
Grin: (V.O.) I barely feel the grass beneath my feet, but it’s there. Short, scrubby… dried out. Last time it rained, I walked the entire perimeter of the island, hoping to feel something. Anything. For hours, I stared at the sky, numbed by its grey and endlessness, while droplets gathered on my arms, rivulets sliding down my chest and back, soaking my hair, my beard. It almost felt… good.
That night, I lay down on the old hay mattress, naked and damp, letting the water seep into the bedclothes. The next day, a bigger storm rolled in. I stood outside and let the rain pelt my scalp through my tangled hair.
(PAUSE)
For a moment, I did feel something. I couldn’t name it. But it hung there, under the surface of my awareness, grasping for a name, begging to be known.
(ANOTHER PAUSE)
Before all this… before now… I would’ve been ashamed to stand there like that. But who would I dress for? The animals? They don’t care about me, so long as I don’t bother them.
FX: THE WIND PICKS UP BRIEFLY. FOOTSTEPS CONTINUE.
Grin: (V.O.) My robe still hangs on the hook. I don’t even know how long it’s been since I last wore it. One day, I reached for it, and the strength just… left me. The thought of draping the tattered, dark green fabric over my shoulders felt as though I’d be weighed down by a thousand boulders. My arm dropped, and I walked away, through the door and outdoors, without a second thought. Must’ve been late spring when that happened.
FX: FOOTSTEPS STOP.
Grin: (V.O.) Late spring. That was when it happened. (PAUSE) What’s happened since then? What… (LONGER PAUSE) I stopped watching for ships on the horizon. I stopped talking out loud.
FX: A BRIEF SHUFFLE AS GRIN TURNS. THE WIND SHIFTS DIRECTION, BLOWING MORE SHARPLY.
Grin: (V.O.) And I stopped building. The tower remains a ruin. One side ragged, piled with rocks I carried from the southern shore. Partially restored in vain. (SCOFFS) I barely made a difference. The dome’s nearly rotted through, its murals… once vivid paintings of spirits, artifacts, and heroes of the Realm… all fading to nothing. And the telescope… jutting out from the wreck, blindly seeking the cluster of stars that should be there… her star. (PAUSE) The promise I made to my beloved. My gift to the world. Unfinished.
FX: FOOTSTEPS RESUME, SLOWER, HEAVIER. THE WIND SHIFTS BACK TO ITS ORIGINAL COURSE.
Grin: (V.O.) Trying to restore that tower was a fool’s dream. Just a means to distract myself. I know that now. What could one man hope to accomplish in a lifetime? I’m over 40 now, and maybe… maybe I’ve got another 40 years. Maybe fewer. I have even less time if my body gives out.
FX: FOOTSTEPS STOP. THE WIND PICKS UP, HOWLING AGAINST A CLIFFSIDE.
Grin: (V.O.) Maybe I could make my time a lot shorter. (LONG PAUSE) Maybe I should.