Audition Monologues for Roles Where Characters Experiment With Something New, Vol. 6
The longer you've been auditioning, the more important it is to keep finding scenes that destabilize you. Familiar material breeds familiar choices. Characters trying something new ask the actor to do the same. The text refuses cleverness. It rewards immediacy. Practice this kind of monologue weekly and your callback work gets visibly fresher. The character doesn't know what's coming, you don't know what's coming, and the scene starts to feel alive in your hands again. Ten monologues here, all built around the small, strange feeling of doing a thing for the first time.
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Pearl — 35, walking into her first-ever therapy appointment
(In a waiting room, then in the therapist's office) Doctor Mendez. Hi. I'm sorry I'm late. The parking thing was, you have a parking thing. (sits, fidgets) Okay. I have never done this before. So I don't know the etiquette. Do I tell you everything? Do you start? (laughs nervously) My friend Audrey said you'd ask me why I'm here, and I should have an answer. I have like nine answers. I made a list. (pulls out a piece of paper) Do you want the list, or, no? Right. Okay. (sighs, puts the paper down) Doctor Mendez, I have not cried since 2017. I do not know if that's a brag or a problem. My sister thinks it's a problem. (beat) Last Tuesday I yelled at a barista for putting the wrong milk in my coffee. I don't even like oat milk. I don't even drink milk. I just yelled. (softer) I think something is wrong with me. I think it's been wrong for a long time. (longer beat) Where do we start?
Donovan — 41, ninety days sober at his first family dinner
(In his sister's dining room, holding a glass of water) Tracy. Stop. Stop, please. I don't want a toast. I want to eat the lasagna. (beat) Ninety days. That's all I am tonight. I am a man at a family dinner with ninety days. I do not want a speech, I do not want a card, I do not want anyone to look at my glass and nod. (sighs) The lasagna's good. It's really good. (firmer) I know you mean well. I know you all do. But I need to be a normal person at this table for one night. Just one. (softer) Mom keeps looking at me. She thinks I don't see her. I see her, Mom. I love you. I'm okay. (longer beat) The truth is, I haven't been a person at a family dinner in twelve years. I have been a drunk at a family dinner for twelve years. (catches breath) I don't know who I am at this table sober. I'm gonna find out tonight. Pass the bread. Please.
Lyric — 28, two weeks into a daily meditation practice
(On the floor of a bedroom, to a friend on a video call) Jo. Jo, I need to talk to you about this app I downloaded. (laughs) It is ruining my life. (sighs) Two weeks. Ten minutes a day. The voice in the app, his name is Thomas, he has the calmest voice in the history of voices. Thomas is changing my brain, Jo. (firmer) I had a moment yesterday. At Trader Joe's. The woman in front of me had thirty-eight items in a fifteen-item lane. (laughs) And I did not say anything. I did not even THINK anything mean. I noticed my irritation. That's the language. I noticed it. (beat) Who am I, Jo. Who am I if I'm not the person who is annoyed at the grocery store. (softer) Last night I sat on my couch and I did not look at my phone for forty-five minutes. I just sat there. Like a Victorian child. (laughs) Help me. Help me figure out what to do with the extra time.
Florence — 71, attending her first grief support group six months after losing her husband
(In a community center room, talking to the woman next to her) Are these seats okay, dear? I don't know which one. I don't know anyone here. (sits) I'm Florence. (sighs) I almost didn't come. I got in the car three times and turned around twice. My daughter called me from Phoenix and said, Mom, you said you would go. (beat) Carl died in March. Forty-six years. I have not said his name out loud to a stranger yet. So that's something. Carl. (firmer) He would have hated this. He would have said, Flo, you don't need to sit in a basement with a bunch of crying women. (softer) I do, though. I do need to. The house is so quiet. I have been talking to the dishwasher. (laughs, wet) I tell it about my day. Out loud. Like a crazy person. (long beat) Tell me your name, dear. Tell me who you lost. I want to know. I want to hear about somebody else's person for a change.
Asher — 24, three weeks into his first antidepressant prescription
(In a coffee shop, to his older sister) Mel. Mel, listen. I went on a walk yesterday. (beat) Yeah. A walk. I left my apartment and I walked around the block. I have not done that in seven months. (laughs, slightly disbelieving) Three weeks on the pills. Three. I was supposed to feel side effects, the doctor said. The doctor said nausea, headaches. Instead I just, I just woke up Tuesday and I wanted toast. I haven't wanted anything for a year, Mel. I wanted toast. (sighs) Don't make a big deal of it. Don't tell Mom. She'll send me one of her articles. (softer) But I want to tell somebody. I just want to tell somebody. (firmer) I made toast. I ate it. I took a shower. And then I went on a walk. (long beat) Mel. I think I'm going to be okay. I'm not okay yet. But I think I might be. And I haven't thought that in so long that I'm scared to say it out loud.
Cordelia — 50, four days into a ten-day silent retreat
(Whispered in a journal, the camera the only listener, breaking the silence rule) I'm cheating. I know. I'm cheating. (whispers) Day four. I cannot tell anyone, so I'm telling you, journal. Or whoever finds this. (sighs) The instructions were no journaling. No talking. No reading. Just sitting. (firmer) I have been a marketing executive for twenty-two years. I do not know how to do nothing. (laughs quietly) The first day I made twenty-seven mental lists. The second day I wept silently for an hour and then I made twenty-seven more lists. Yesterday I sat by the pond and I did not make a single list. (beat) Today I am telling you about it because I have to tell somebody. (softer) I think I have been hiding from my own head my entire adult life. I think that's what was happening. (catches breath) Six more days. Six more days of this. I'm going to come out the other side different. I don't know if I want to be.
Reuben — 33, three months into daily journaling on his therapist's recommendation
(At a kitchen table, to his wife, holding a leather-bound journal) Sarah. Look at this. (holds up the journal) Ninety days. I have written something every day for ninety days. (laughs) Most of it is garbage. Most of it is, you know, the kids are loud, the meeting was long, I ate too much pasta. (sighs) But sometimes. Sometimes a real thing comes out. (firmer) Last night I wrote about my father. (beat) About the night before he left. I haven't thought about that night in twenty years. I didn't know I was carrying it. (softer) Sarah, I sat at this table at midnight and I wrote three pages about my father. And then I made tea. And then I went to bed and I slept. Real sleep. (catches breath) Doctor Patel said, just write what's there. He said, you do not have to share it. (long beat) But I want to share this part. Tonight. Just the part about Dad. Can I read it to you?
Sybil — 19, attending her first AA meeting in college
(In a church basement, white-knuckling a paper cup of coffee) Hi. I, hi, sorry. Sorry. (long beat) I'm Sybil. I'm not, I'm not supposed to say a last name, right? Just Sybil. (laughs nervously) I'm nineteen. I know I look younger. I get that a lot. (sighs) I came here because my RA wrote me up. Twice. The second time, she sat me down, and she said, Syb, this is not normal college drinking. (beat) And I wanted to fight her, but I think she's right. (firmer) My mom is in recovery. Fourteen years. So I always thought, you know, if I'm not like Mom was, I'm fine. (softer) But I drank a bottle of wine alone last Tuesday and I didn't tell anybody. And I haven't been able to stop thinking about doing it again. (catches breath) I don't know what I am. I don't know if I'm an alcoholic. I'm nineteen. (long beat) But I'm here. Right? That's, that's the first step. That's what the book said. So I'm here.
Gideon — 46, attempting his first breathwork session at a wellness studio
(Lying on a yoga mat, talking to the practitioner) Maya. Maya, wait. Before we start. (sighs) I want to be honest. I think this is going to be a waste of time. (laughs nervously) Don't take it personally. I'm a structural engineer. I think in load-bearing walls. Breathwork sounds like, you know, sounds like something my ex-wife paid four hundred dollars for and came home crying about. (beat) She wanted me to come with her. I said no. That was eleven years ago. (firmer) She's gone. The marriage is gone. And I am lying on a yoga mat at the place she used to go because I, I do not know how to feel things anymore, Maya. I haven't felt anything in a long time. (softer) My daughter said I should try. She said, Dad, you breathe weird. You hold your breath when you're talking. (catches breath) Okay. Okay, I'm ready. Tell me what to do. I'm going to try and not be a structural engineer for an hour.
Hazel — 62, joining a tarot class at her local community college
(In a brightly-lit community center room, to the woman across the table) Vivian, was it? I'm Hazel. (laughs nervously) I have lit a candle in a house of worship for sixty-two years. I have prayed every night since I was four. And now I am here, in a community college classroom, learning to shuffle cards with pictures on them. (sighs) My priest would call this, well. He would have a word. (firmer) But Father Donovan retired in February. And the new priest is twenty-six. He told me last week that I should think about embracing the new century. I told him I'm still working on the twentieth. (laughs) So here I am. (shuffles cards clumsily) The instructor said pull a card. Just one. (pulls one, looks at it) The Hanged Man. I have no idea what that means. (softer) Is it okay if I, can I look it up later? Don't tell anyone I'm here. My daughter would worry.
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