While shoveling out (with very large shovels) my writing room--a sort of dried-out bog of paper with occasional bog bodies in the form of mummified insects--I found three pages of talk from my youngest child, recorded just after he turned five. I'd inserted the long stream of chatter into a letter to my parents, far away.
It's mostly monologue, with a stray question here and there. The burblings cover lots of interesting ground: the differences between girls and boys, what a mama and a dada are good for, how to make an ill person feel happy (give him a toy gun, a pretty cake, a pretty little boy) , and so on.
Here's one of my favorite bits. It works well as advice for writers:
N: "A long story. It was a good story. It really was. Here comes Cockpit Man...
"Am I a genius? Am I a genius? Am I? Am I?
"I don't know. Am I a genius?
"What's a genius, what's a genius, what's a genius, what's a genius?"
M: "A really, really smart person. Do you think you are one?"
N: "Yeah, a genius. I am.
"Ow, ow, ow. I just clipped my finger. With Zurg. Ow, ow. It hurt me real bad. Do you know how I hurt myself? With this. With his arm. That thing's real sharp."
N: "That stupid genius!"
Later: I wrote that post before I remembered our annual "genius" hoopla: today Jonathan Lethem won a MacArthur. If I had expected anything, it would have been a name more obscure--Cinder Ash of Ramsine, Arkansas, or some such--a patient toiler magically uprooted from jobs and duties and set down on five sacks of gold. But I suppose that even a prince is not displeased with five sacks of gold and a dandy new crown and confetti and champagne all around!