A One-Act Play About Parts of Speech

     NARRATOR (a bespectacled college professor dressed in tweed jacket and speaking in a soothing academic voice, each part of speech enters the room when cued): After another contentious disagreement between Verb and Noun concerning an unexpected shift from transitive to intransitive, which left Noun perplexed and humiliated, Noun has convened a meeting of the parts of speech to resolve the matter. As you can see, Noun is already sitting behind an ornately-carved wood table waiting for the parts of speech to arrive at the small windowless room illuminated by candles. (Narrator gestures around the room) A shimmering dress flowing across her graceful legs, feisty Verb is ready for action as she strolls to the front row and sits directly across from Noun. Pronoun, dressed in monotonous gray from head to toe and tired of standing in for Noun (and feeling a bit underappreciated), sits behind Verb and stares at the floor. Wearing colorful but clashing bow tie, shirt, pants, and a dapper porkpie hat, Adjective immediately searches for his best friend Noun when he enters the room, and then saves a seat for Adverb because he knows she is usually late. Preposition follows closely behind and upon arrival at one of the folding chairs appears confused: should he sit on it or under it? Conjunction, full of youth and verve, but not particularly interested in the meeting or its agenda, skips into the room and quickly glances around to see who is attending (or not) before snuggling next to Pronoun (who she has always admired). Interjection enters with crashing footsteps and loud exclamations to announce his arrival, but no one pays a bit of attention because they’ve all heard it before. Adverb finally appears a few minutes late: she would have made a special effort to arrive on time if Verb or Adjective had called the meeting, but she has never fostered a meaningful relationship with Noun. Shall we listen in as the meeting begins?

NOUN (pounding a varnished wood gavel repeatedly on the top of the wood table): First an announcement: I would like to remind the group that the Articles are attending a jazz festival in the city of New Orleans and do not return until the end of the month. I see Adverb has finally arrived—late as usual, I might add—so let us begin the meeting. Although I asked you all to call me “master” last week, and “Bob” yesterday, please refer to me as “president” today. Better yet, call me “President Bob,” if you don’t mind. Now, the reason I—President Bob—have called this meeting, is to—

VERB (her voice quivering with anger, interrupts): What right do you have to call any meeting at all. Just because you are the subject of a sentence—and can change your name to Bob, Davenport, toaster, or psychology as you please—doesn’t give you the right to order the rest of us around. I would like to move that you change your name to “blockhead” or “fool,” or better yet, “ignoramus.”

Verb turns and addresses the other parts of speech

And furthermore, I would like to point out that he’s not the boss of us, even if he decides to change his name to “boss.” Who’s willing to support me and second the motion?

The other parts of speech sit quietly and do not respond

Anybody? Doesn’t anyone in the room have the guts to support me on this? Am I the only one who is willing to take action?

CONJUNCTION (raising her slender arm): I would like to point out that Verb could not have made that motion without my help, and…

PRONOUN (standing and waving his arms): I would like to point out that Verb, bless her heart, used me repeatedly without ever mentioning “Bob” or “president.” But as usual, I get no respect for the important role I often play in syntax.

ADJECTIVE (removing the dapper porkpie hat from his exquisite head and using it to gesture): Shut up you silly Pronoun. You don’t even exist unless the wonderful Noun, which I often modify into something even more wonderful, establishes the primary subject and therefore the primary purpose of the sentence. Without the all-important “Bob” there is no “he” whatsoever. And without magnificent me, sentences would become as dull as a lackluster pronoun.

PRONOUN (speaking to Noun but keeping the corner of his eye on Adjective): Adjective always takes your side of the argument no matter what you say and ignores the rest of us. I don’t care what you call yourself. Without me, things would get pretty repetitious around her. Can you imagine? Bob decided to take a walk. On the way Bob met John, and Bob invited John to lunch. As Bob and John continued to the restaurant Bob and John ran into Sally. Bob invited Sally to lunch as well, and Sally accepted. Bob and John and Sally then walked briskly to the restaurant, and when Bob and John and Sally arrived Bob and John and Sally asked the head waiter, whose name was Fred, for a table near the window. Fred directed Bob and John and Sally to a table, and then Fred handed menus to Bob and John and Sally, and after a while Bob and John and Sally ordered lunch.

ADVERB (speaking cautiously because she had never developed a direct working relationship with Noun): I frankly disagree. Although he is often flamboyant, I genuinely appreciate Adjective and truly enjoy chumming around with the remarkably colorful guy. I enjoy hanging around with amazingly supple Verb too, and, not surprisingly, sometimes I even hang around with myself.

NOUN (pounding the gavel on the table again in response to Verb’s earlier motion): Look at the mess you’ve created, Verb! I can’t even start the meeting because of your intemperate outburst! I swear, sometimes it’s impossible to figure you out. You dart around in the past, present, and future. You change your mood from indicative to imperative at the drop of a hat. You shift from transitive to intransitive and then back again whenever you feel like it. Your voice is never the same, sometimes active and sometimes passive. And don’t even get me started on your so-called subjunctive mood. Frankly my dear, working with you is absolutely maddening!

INTERJECTION (finally perking up): Yikes and gadzooks! Did someone say “outburst”? Holy crap!!—that’s my job!!!

PREPOSITION (still trying to find a comfortable position under the chair, and then rising and stepping on top of the chair to speak above the din): This whole discussion is flying over my head. If someone doesn’t get to the point fast, I’m heading through the door, down the stairs, and across the street to that quaint little pub on the boulevard, the one below that charming bed and breakfast on the second floor.

 VERB (the tempo of her words rising): Listen here, President Boob…do you think it’s any fun trying to keep up with you? First you’re singular, then you’re plural, then you’re a collective noun, and then you take a coffee break and turn the whole mess over to Pronoun to avoid any work at all, and I have to conjugate all over again.

NOUN (closing his eyes and shaking his head) The name’s Bob—President Bob—and I expect an immediate apology for calling me President Boob.

VERB (rolling her eyes): Read my lips, President Blob. I will not apologize. I have not apologized. I am not apologizing. I will not be apologizing anytime soon.

ADVERB (clapping her hands and smiling broadly): I sincerely love it when she conjugates.

NOUN (shaking the gavel at Adverb): Adverb, I can’t even remember a single time when you supported me on an issue. You always side with Verb!

CONJUNCTION (surprised and alarmed and speaking to both Noun and Verb): Can’t the two of you just work together and come to some sort of agreement and stop all this fighting? After all, can you really write a decent sentence with only a noun or only a verb? I think both of you are important and that you should stop arguing so we can go home and relax and enjoy the evening.

Pausing to think before continuing

And if you really want a genuine problem to complain about, try the experience of some writer replacing you with a lowly semi-colon in the middle of a compound sentence and then you’ll know what true rejection feels like, or maybe you won’t, and this conversation will never end.

ADJECTIVE (waving the crisp, clean porkpie hat in the tense air of the stuffy little room): You think that’s bad. How do you think it feels when some thoughtless writer mistakenly uses you to modify a scandalous verb or another glittering adjective?

Then turning to Adverb

No intentional offense, my humble friend. You probably feel the same when an insensitive writer uses you to modify a salacious noun, or even a lackluster pronoun.

PRONOUN (he stands, he sniffs, he wipes a tear from his eye): Here we go again. Lackluster pronoun. How come I never get to be the salacious one? Why does everybody always assume I’m boring? I ask all of you: who ever thinks of me as salacious? Anybody? Any one of you? I would like to be thought of by someone in this room as salacious once in a while. Is this too much for me to expect?

NOUN (attempting to stifle a snigger): I, your president and leader, would be more sympathetic to your plight if you could ever come up with a decent gender-neutral personal pronoun. The other parts of speech and I, your president, have waited for years.

PRONOUN (his sad expression turning to a sneer): I’m working on it, but every time I throw something out for consideration everyone laughs at me. For example, “shim” was not well received by anybody. Neither was “herm.” Frankly, I’m running out of options.

VERB (leaning provocatively against the back of the chair and giggling): Well, you have to admit that both “shim” and “herm” are ridiculous, but not as ridiculous as your earlier attempts. I still remember the unfortunate day you suggested “shis.” That surprised everyone, including the Articles. One false keystroke by a writer and who knows what kind of trouble she might get into with the editors.

NOUN (standing and pointing the gavel randomly around the room): Enough of gender-neutral personal pronouns. This meeting is turning into a chaotic event. Will someone please make a legitimate motion so that we can achieve a concrete result?

VERB (also standing and waving her arms): Sure, I don’t mind taking action since everyone else is unwilling. I retract my earlier motion, since you found it offensive, and move that we adjourn this pointless meeting posthaste.

ADVERB (aggressively jumping to her feet): I happily second the motion—and what a wonderfully clever use of the adverb “posthaste.” Very few writers have properly appreciated this lovely word in my recent memory.

ADJECTIVE (throwing the now rumpled porkpie hat across the room just below the mottled ceiling in need of a fresh coat of pristine paint): And I third the astonishing motion by exquisite Verb. I can see now that I have made a serious mistake by not getting to know this lovely woman better, an unfortunate occurrence I intend to rectify.

NOUN (his voice shaking and now pointing the gavel directly at Adjective): You can’t third a motion, Adjective. And stay away from Verb. The two of you have nothing in common. For starters, look at the clothes you wear. Look at that tie. Look at that shirt. Good grief!

INTERJECTION (exclaiming in a slow crescendo): Did someone say good grief! GOOD GRIEF!!!!

CONJUNCTION (dancing and clapping and smiling): I love it when someone uses “and” at the beginning of a sentence. I wish more writers would. It gives me chills.

PREPOSITION (crawling out from under the chair again): Can’t we just call an end to this meeting and all head through the door, down the stairs, and across the street to that nice little pub on the boulevard below the bed and breakfast on the second floor?

NOUN (slamming the gavel on the table): Order! Order! Get your butts in those folding chairs immediately. Order!

NARRATOR (the parts of speed argue distantly in the background and follow the narrator’s cues to leave the room): And on it went for another seven minutes, when Preposition, who could not tolerate another moment under the chair, finally took matters into his own hands and headed through the door. And then Conjunction followed, and right behind too. Soon Verb—glad for the opportunity to taunt Noun once again—waved goodbye to Noun with a confrontational flip of her hand and dashed out of the room. Adverb closely followed verb. Adjective ignored the tedious hammering of the ponderous gavel and the chaotic shrieks of Noun and also followed Verb because he wanted to get to know her better (although this is a separate and quite heartrending story of a tragically doomed relationship). Then Interjection yelled several irreverent exclamations, but luckily most of the other parts of speech were out of earshot, and after he had bolted from the room only Noun and Pronoun remained.

Narrator pauses to glance first at Noun and then at Pronoun

But our story is not quite finished yet.

NOUN (slumping into his chair and tossing the gavel onto the table): I give up. There’s no way these unruly parts of speech will ever agree on anything. That’s it. I just give up.

Pronoun, the only one left in the room, stands and raises his hand

Yes Pronoun, what do you want now?

PRONOUN (glances at his shoes for several seconds before looking up at Noun): I’ve been considering something.

NOUN (obviously disillusioned with the collapse of the meeting): Yes, yes…what is it?

PRONOUN (suddenly brightening): What do you think of “heesh”?

THE END

My Tumultuous Life as an Author

by Rich Ritter

Although I resented it at the time, I must now thank my eighth-grade English teacher for two excruciating months of lessons on the arcane subject of sentence diagramming. She aroused a latent desire to write, which eventually blossomed in high school when I was mistakenly chosen—along with two other students—to represent the school in a district-wide writing competition. The contest did not go well because the teacher in charge of our team loathed my uniquely-chaotic prose and forced me to write in the dreary traditional style he preferred. Stunned by failure, but mostly due to a five-year diversion to study architecture, I did not submit my first short story for publication until the year after college. I would offer proof of this significant event, but I have since misplaced the rejection letter from the Atlantic Monthly.

I wrote extensively during the next twenty-five years, producing many important works of literature including A Proposal for Professional Services for the Dzantik’I Heeni Middle School, The West Douglas Planning Study, and Technical Specifications for the New Juneau Police Station, to name a few notable works. I did not rediscover fiction—although my competitors might argue this point—until the age of 49. My wife and I adopted our sons in 1983 and 1985, which eventually led to family upheaval and attendance at four multiday sleep-depravation seminars. During the second seminar, the facilitator challenged us to commit to a “big bodacious goal.” This goal theoretically represented our true purpose in life. When I awoke the next morning, I foolishly scribbled on the little piece of paper next to the hotel phone that I would write a novel. However, I may have overdone the exercise because when we each announced our goals at the seminar the woman sitting next to me promised to take a multi-vitamin every day for a year.

I commenced within the week. Five long years later, I self-published Toil Under the Sun, a novel of the Korean War and an adopted son who does not believe he is worthy of love. Although I spent countless hours researching (even learning to operate and shoot an M-1 Garand without cutting off my thumb), much of my inspiration derived from my father, who served as a First Lieutenant with the U.S. Army in Korea, and my oldest son, who served as a sergeant with the U.S. Marine Corps in Iraq. My younger son provided source material as well—in his unique way. When book sales did not go well, I embarked on a six-month effort to find a literary agent. I wrote numerous query letters, sent numerous emails, made numerous phone calls, and produced only one glimmer of interest from a New York agent who was on a desperate search for “Chic Lit approximately 80,000 words long.” When I told her that Toil Under the Sun clocked in at 133,000 words, our conversation quickly ended.

Undaunted, I decided to plunge into my next project: a novel of the American West set in Silver City, Idaho during the late 1800s and San Luis Obispo, California in the early 1900s. Concerned about the massive effort required to produce Toil Under the Sun, my wife intervened and suggested I take a break by writing something “smaller and funner,” possibly set in Juneau during the time of the great gold mines. I followed her counsel and one year later completed the manuscript for Heart of Abigail: A Lyric Novella of Juneau, Douglas and Treadwell. At 28,000 words though, my writing speed had not increased. Unsatisfied with the previous self-publishing and literary agent results, I began fishing around for a publisher in Alaska by reading the “published by” information on book covers at local bookstores. I eventually found an interested publisher in Homer, but politely declined after the editor told me that she would “…bleed all over my manuscript, but I can’t start until next spring.” A bit discouraged, I found myself wandering down the book aisle (after browsing the food carts) at the local Costco. A very handsome paperback caught my eye, and when I looked on the back I noted “Publication Consultants” in Anchorage. I called the owner, a man of integrity named Evan Swensen, and Heart of Abigail was published four months later.

Having satisfied my wife’s desire for something “smaller and funner,” I embarked on Nor Things to Come: A Novel of the American West. Another five years and nearly 270,000 words later, I submitted the manuscript to Evan. He reviewed my work, then called me on the phone to inform me that no one would pay for a book this big from an unknown author. My wife stepped in once again to propose a solution. She suggested I publish the book as a trilogy because the story was already organized into three parts. Evan declared the idea “brilliant” and prompted me to begin right away. I originally assumed very little effort would be required, but four months and five revisions later I submitted The Perilous Journey Begins, the first book of Nor Things to Come: A Trilogy of the American West. The second book, Gathering of the Clans, followed in six months. The third and final book, Worthy of Death, was published eight months later.

After taking a few months off to recover, I determined to begin my sixth book. My publisher asked me to continue in the literary western genre, but my wife suggested something in the style of Richard Paul Evens. After weeks of indecision, I solved the conflict by deciding to write a novel satisfying both requests. I am currently editing the sixth draft of Hospitality to Strangers, a ripsnorting tale that is unlike anything I have written before. Time will tell if I have the courage to submit it for publication.