In this version of the story, A Bang on the Head, you have to use your imagination a bit.
Greetings!
One of the things I’ve been trying out is reworking a piece of text into a completely different style. A full exposition and explanation are given here:
The aim of these experiments is to explore how different styles and approaches can affect the tone of a story.
For today’s experiment I wrote the story as a one act play.
But enough of this persiflage! Here is the original text on which these experiments or transformations are based:
The original (template) text
In the middle of the night, I woke up (if you can call being semi-conscious being awake), walked purposefully towards the door to go to the bathroom — and almost knocked myself out.
The reason was that in the twin states of entire darkness and semi-somnambulance I was facing in a different direction from the one I thought I was facing. As a result, instead of walking through the door, I tried to walk through the wall.
The next few days brought nausea and headaches. After much prevarication I went to Accident and Emergency, where I waited petrified among people for whom “social distancing” means not quite touching you, and who wore their masks as a chin-warmer.
An hour and a half later I emerged into the twilight, secure in the knowledge that I had nothing more serious than mild concussion. I failed to do much writing, but I was pleased to have read a further 17% of my book.
A One Act Play
Cast in order of appearance
The writer, Yerret Manfreed
The street market trader, Fred Terryman
The nurse, Teri Friedman
Scene: A hospital waiting room
Yerret: Has it come to this? My life to be defined by a malignant Fate that has decreed my writing days to be at an end, and all because of a small contretemps? Am I to be remembered, not for my insights and philosophical discourses, but for a dismal circumstance? Abandoned by Seshat, cast aside by Calliope? Is this the day that will be remembered as the day the Muse died? Is my legacy to be one of –
Fred: Mind if I sit here, squire?
Yerret: Who am I to say yay or nay?
Fred: Right you are, squire.
Yerret: I ask only that you keep your distance and wear a mask, unlike most other people in this den of disease.
Fred: Right you are, squire. So what are you here for?
Yerret: Because of a series of mishaps that is too tiresome to relate, I fear I may never write again. I will be confined forever to reading the less than literary efforts of others, the inchoate, incoherent and imbecilic inscriptions of those writers whose aspirations outstrip their abilities, instead of producing my own masterpieces.
Fred: Oh, so you’re a writer then!
Yerret: That is correct.
Fred: Have you read anything I will have read?
Yerret: My psychic powers appear to have temporarily deserted me.
Fred: Don’t know that one. I’m a bit of a writer too, squire.
Yerret: Indeed?
Fred: The Mrs thinks I’ve got a gift. Only the other day I wrote out a shopping list as a poem.
Yerret: Perhaps you will be the new laureate.
Fred: You what?
Yerret: It is of no consequence.
Fred: Right you are, squire. So what’s up then?
Yerret: I experienced a cranial dysfunction brought on by an avoidable collision with a wall. In other words, I banged my head.
Fred: [Looking around furtively and lowering his voice.] Well you’re in luck, squire. I’ve got some top strength headache tablets in my bag. You can’t even buy them in this country. But a mate of mine is in the import-export business if you know what I mean. I give him a tickle, and he gives me a bit of the old ‘ow’s yer father. So he gets a wedge and I get the green stuff eventually, so everyone’s happy. Know what I mean?
Yerret: You have made yourself abundantly clear.
Fred: Let’s get down to brass tacks then. These pills would normally cost £25 a packet. I’m not going to ask you for £25. I’m not even going to ask you for £20. [He slaps his thigh.] £15.
Yerret: I don’t –
Fred: I can see you drive a hard bargain. I’m cutting off me nose to spite me face here, and the Mrs will kill me. Tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m going to throw in a packet of bath salts for the lady in your life. These are made with the finest scents from the Orient. You can have the lot for ten quid. Only, you’d have to make a cheque out to the wife, because I’m not allowed to take money. The last time I took money I got five years. They’re still looking for me cos I only did two of ‘em. Tell you what – wait, there’s a nurse coming over.
Teri: Mr Manfreed?
Yerret: That is my appellation.
Teri: Let’s get you sorted then. How many of me are there?
Yerret: That is a question to which I have no answer. If one believes in parallel worlds, there could be an infinite number of you’s. If one is an adherent of quantum physics, you may be there and not there simultaneously. If one is to believe Schrodinger –
Teri: Let me rephrase my question. How many of me can you actually see?
Yerret: You are singular, in several senses of the word.
Teri: Now push me away.
Yerret: I do so with reluctance. [He pushes against her outstretched palms.]
Teri: There’s nothing much wrong with you, just a spot of mild concussion. Just take it easy for a week or two and you’ll be as right as rain.
Yerret: A week or two? A seemingly interminable period for my readers, who will be bereft. But perhaps I’ll be able to read more of my book. It is with both sadness and relief that I now take my leave.
Curtain
I hope you have enjoyed this version of the story. Comments are welcomed, as always. If you’d like to dig deeper, I often write an ‘Experiments in style extra’ post to explain how a version came about, or how I did it. That’s for paid subscribers. I hope, in the near future, to explain several parts of this article in an Experiments in Style Extra post.
If you’re new to the series, you can see the index of my experiments here: Index.
Thank you for reading!
"Those writers whose aspirations outstrip their abilities" are everywhere. Luckily, your readers need not be bereft, as your writing is dependably consistent as is your publishing of the same. 😁
Waiting for Freedman....