Point of View #1
_
What
is Point of View?
Narrative point of view (POV) is the angle of vision from which the reader accesses the story. It is the primary vehicle that takes your reader through the experience you create with your writing. We might conceptualize this by imagining a ballroom full of people. The room and all inside it are the narrative, the plot events and the setting and theme, all the meat on which you hope your reader will feed. Now imagine that this room is covered with windows. They bedeck all the walls from floor to ceiling, and even the roof is made of crystal clear glass. Any one of these individual windows is a particular point of view. It is the angle from which a reader can witness the story as it happens.
Consider the different experience of viewing this room and all its goings-on from a direct frontal view (which we might call a distant third person POV) as compared to a view from the top down (maybe an omniscient POV). Each experience would be unique, allowing some shared experiences but others that are vastly different. The frontal view puts the viewer on a roughly similar plain as those she is viewing. She would see many facial expressions and would be better able to focus on particular individuals; however, it would be impossible for her to witness what is going on at the peripheries of the room, as her view would be blocked. The observer from above, on the other hand, can follow the happenings of the entire room with relative ease. Everyone and everything appears to her as a head and shoulders bobbing about in a mass of fellows, almost like a pip or dot on a map. What does she lose for this greater overall understanding? Intimacy. She sees few facial features and, because of the odd angle at which she watches, is certain to misinterpret or miss entirely much of the interaction going on before her.
This is point of view: the window through which you force your reader (and readers are given no choice) to witness your story. Because of this, point of view dictates your story. It determines the strengths and richness of your narrative, as well as its limitations. Will your story sweep across a culture from the view of many heads and hearts, ultimately leaving a powerful communal impression but no residual savor of any single vessel in which your reader resided? Will you offer an intimate experience into one person’s life and perspective, and restrict the reader to the bias and limitations, mental, emotional, and physical/spatial (one character can’t be everywhere and witness everything), of that particular vehicle? Plot and setting make the bones and blood of your story; point of view makes the body live.
3 Facets of Point of View
When we talk about point of view, we are actually addressing a three faceted concept. Every point of view contains a specific option in each of the following aspects: person or perspective POV, character POV, and tense (or POV in time). To utilize the full potency of narrative point of view, each of these facets must be well understood, as well as the options within each.
Person/Perspective Point of View
This aspect of point of view comes in three varieties: first person, second person, and third person. Each is easiest to understand in regard to the pronouns they use.
First and third person, however, are both viable options that bring different possibilities to the table. Let’s start with first person. While not used as frequently as third, first person perspective offers some interesting options to a writer. Most significant of these is the strong subjectivity this lends a story. When the character narrates her own story to the reader, everything the reader perceives is colored by the personality of the character, including their limited faculties, biases, and assumptions. There is no such thing as objective first person narrative, though you’ll hear otherwise. Even if the character is telling the reader the “facts” of the story without coloring them, there is no way for the reader to know this. Because of this, a first person narrative cannot exist primarily on the level of plot; it is always, by necessity, a vehicle of characterization. Now, as all really good story is a vehicle of characterization, first person perspective can be a fine training tool into how to write great story. Additionally, it provides the most intimate perspective of all point of view options (followed closely by near third person). If you want your readers to really fall in love with a character, first person may be a good choice. Just remember that first person works best to communicate an unreliable (not unlikable) narrator; such a story is every bit as much about how the character tells the story as the story itself.
But keep in mind that first person perspective has some significant limitations. One is that you, as the writer, can never inject anything into the text that the character could not know, would not think, or does not understand. All the limits of the character are limits upon you as the writer. Another limitation is placed upon elements of the narrative you do want the reader to understand objectively. First person does not allow us as writers to hop out of our character’s head for a moment to establish enough distance to comment objectively on what is going on (third person’s variable distance does allow this). First person does not allow contrast between the objective and subjective, at least not beyond the reader’s ability to untangle the bias of the character and guess at what may have really happened. So while first person is a powerful tool in a writer’s toolbox, it isn’t one of the most frequently used. If you do intend to wield it, be sure you have the right job in mind. Most stories in most genres function better using third person. If, however, your story really focuses on a single person above all, first person may be the perfect compositional choice.
Third person is the most commonly used perspective point of view, and for good reason. Third person offers the writer the most flexibility in terms of variable objectivity/subjectivity, and permits shifts in point of view more readily than other options. In fact, third person can be viewed not as a single perspective, but as a continuum of them, from close and intimate to distant and objective. Adjusting this distance from the character determines the feel of the story. A close, highly subjective third person allows near the intimacy of first person; a moment later, however, you might decide to lift up and away from the character, giving yourself enough distance to provide exposition or comment on the character’s actions or thoughts to better help the reader understand what is truly going on, and not just the character’s attempt at comprehending events. What does using third person cost you? Not much. If you use a third person narrator, she by necessity cannot be too intricately involved in the events of the plot (otherwise this would become first person). If your objective is to provide the most intimate relationship with a character in your story above all, third person may not offer quite the potency of first person. But for most stories and in most situations, third person allows a mixture of effectiveness and flexibility that other perspective cannot offer. Because of this, third person should always be your default setting for a story, and never abandon it without a specific rhetorical reason for the adaptation.
Character Point of View
Simply stated, character point of view means which individual in the story you chose to use as your reader’s window. It isn’t difficult to understand the difference between telling the story of a divorce from the perspective of the wife from that of the husband. What can be a little trickier is figuring out which of those characters would offer the reader the richest story. Here are a few suggestions about deciding which character to use for their point of view. First, always consider the character that will undergo the most significant change in the scene in question. Characters that are significantly challenged, that have the most at stake—particularly emotionally—almost always make the best point of view characters. Also, consider what you want your reader to take away from the scene in question. If one character’s perspective would communicate this effect better than other options, use her. Finally, the more importance you place on the central plot and its effect, the more central the point of view character should be. If you chose a peripheral character for your point of view, understand that the story will depend a great deal, not on her reaction to plot events, but rather to how such events affect her relationship with other, more major characters. Think Nick in The Great Gatsby. This narrator is not central to the events of the novel; instead, the heart of the story is how his worship of Gatsby crumbles to disillusionment over the course of the novel. Writing a story from peripheral points of view is very difficult because the story becomes disproportionately internal, which is always harder to write than exterior action and conflict. Great stories can be told this way, but don’t delude yourself into thinking doing so is easy. As a rule of thumb, always chose a point of view character who is central to the plot events of the scene, who is highly emotionally involved in the conflict, and who is going to be challenged to change in some way beyond other characters in the scene.
Tense
Tense is the temporal situation of your narrative, whether it is presented in the past, present, or future. Like second person perspective, the future tense is almost never used. The nature of prediction works contrary to the essence of narrative because it is by definition hypothetical. People just don’t care as much about the hypothetical as they do the literal, especially if the concepts being covered are complex and wildly extrapolated. Unless you know that your reader is going to consider you a prophet and accept your prognostications as absolute certainties (almost impossible to achieve), stay away from future tense. (Note that this does not mean characters in a past or present tense story cannot predict the future. This is not the same as presenting a future tense narrative.)
Present tense is far more applicable than future, though it is much less common than past tense. Present tense portrays events in the narrative as happening live on camera, as the reader witnesses. On the surface, this appears a clearly superior technique. After all, what better way to make a story more gripping and immediate than making it literally immediate? To a degree, this is true. Well-written present tense prose can enhance immediacy for some readers—but the fact is that if a story is well written, tense usually becomes a subtle background element. It will never dictate the function of a story. Present tense poorly written, however, has a similar effect to that of second person perspective: it can create feelings of resistance in the reader. They may feel that you are using a tactic to make events they don’t care about feel more relevant. Because of this, I suggest present tense should only be used for a specific rhetorical purpose that past tense cannot achieve. Also, understand that most novels (especially that have commercial success) are in third person, and some agents and editors don’t care for present tense prose. So weigh this choice carefully before adopting it. (Note that there is an established exception for synopses. All synopses are written in third person, present tense. Breaking this convention is a quick way to tell someone you haven’t done your homework and aren’t really that serious about being published.)
Past tense is the temporal equivalent of third person perspective, a safe, widely applicable default setting. Using the past tense won’t make your story feel old or distant, or sap tension from the narrative (unlike bad backstory). It will approach your reader on a plain they are familiar with, which can facilitate their investment into the narrative. Also, if the story ever drags past tense is unlikely to feel artificial or excessively aggressive. Plus, if the story ever drags so much that writing in past tense makes it feel even less relevant, your story has already passed life support into the realm of catatonia and death. As with third person perspective, consider writing in past tense your standard unless you have a very good reason to do otherwise that cannot be achieved as well through another means.
POV as Story
Perhaps the single most common misconception about story is that plot is narrative. Plot is not narrative; the point of view characters’ emotional responses to plot events is story.
To understand this, let’s use an example story. Our story will be a modest tale of domesticity, of generational distinction and responsibility—of a mother and a child fighting over a cookie. The setting for our tale is an average middle class American kitchen. (Note that in your stories, an extraordinary setting almost always beats an average one. Please don’t overlook the power of place.) Our plot events are as follows: our child asks the mother for a cookie; the mother says no; the child demands; the mother says no again; the child cries; the mother send the child to its room. (The “it” will make more sense in a moment.)
We have our story’s setting and its plot, and, by necessity, introductory aspects of the characters. Yet does anyone reading this actually think what we’ve generated is likely to earn a spot on anyone’s favorite story list? No, because what we have is not a story. It is a series of events in a particular location. Now, watch what happens if we add characterization to the mix.
Our child is now a little boy of four. He is asking for the cookie both because he likes cookies (very reasonable) and because he has been playing outside and is hungry. Note that motivation is an aspect of characterization, not plot or setting. This little boy ate a healthy breakfast and has had no sweets that day. The mother we will make young, say twenty-five, and the boy is her only child. She works weekdays and this is Saturday, a time she has appointed for cleaning the house. Because of her busy schedule, she often feels she feeds the boy less healthily than she would wish, and so is reluctant to follow the same pattern on weekends when she has time to prepare healthier food. Additionally, she is just starting lunch, which will be ready in fifteen minutes. These things explain why she does not want to give the child the cookie.
So now do we have a story? Closer, but not yet. What is missing? Which story are we telling—the mother’s or the child’s? Each is a completely different narrative, despite taking place in the exact same kitchen and including the exact same sequence of events.
Consider the story of the mother: Her child comes to her and asks for a cookie. Distracted both by her cooking, a rare activity that she wants to improve, and by thoughts of other chores that need completing that day, she answers with a kind but direct, “No, it’s almost lunch.” She says no more and her focus is still on other matters. She thinks about the new recipe she is trying and dreads that her boy will refuse to eat it. She thinks about vacuuming and whether she will move the furniture this week, promising she will as she did not last week. She thinks about her husband watching football and how stupid football is. Then she thinks about how stupid her husband sometimes is. She knows she should feel badly, but really doesn’t because it’s true. Then she thinks— Her thoughts are interrupted by the boy’s insistence that he have a cookie. His expression, and the commanding tone, remind her of a mini-argument she had that morning with her husband about how much TV he watches on his day off. She sees this irritating trait of the father in her son and decides then and there to stop it. She again refuses to give him a cookie, telling him he will eat lunch and only if he behaves will he get a cookie afterward. She feels this is a very good solution; it insists on discipline without forcing the boy to give up his want entirely. And after all, he hasn’t eaten sweets all day. Feeling good about her parenting, she is surprised when the child starts to cry. She knows the tears are real and not just manipulative, but can’t figure out why. She did what was right and look what happened. In her confusion, she becomes angry, and sends the child to his room. When he runs away and shuts the door, still weeping, she realizes that she raised her voice at him. She yelled at her son over a cookie. She feels the need to cry, and chastises herself for it. Then she cries anyway.
That is a story, brief and shallowly told, but a genuine story. Now let’s compare it with the story of the boy.
He comes in from playing, happy and grubby. He wipes his feet on the mat outside the kitchen door because Mom likes him when he wipes his feet on the mat, and he likes it when Mom likes him. He’s hungry, but wants to go back out to play. He needs something he can eat quickly while running back outside. A cookie will do nicely because it fits in one hand, or in two if Mom breaks it, and it tastes good. He finds Mom in the kitchen doing food. This is good; he wants food. He asks her for a cookie, being sure to ask “please” because people don’t give away things without that secret magic word that Dad taught him. He is wondering why it is a secret word when everyone says it, and what kind of cookie he will get, when she tells him no. He doesn’t understand. He said the secret magic word. He gets to eat one cookie every day, and hasn’t eaten one all morning. He has played outside and is hungry, and Mom won’t give him food. It isn’t supposed to work that way. It doesn’t make sense. He tells her this, insisting she get him a cookie. Instead of understanding better, as he intended, she looks at him with mad eyes and says no. He doesn’t understand why she’s mad and tries to think of what he did. He wiped his feet. He said please. He even didn’t ask for a cookie earlier, when he always wants a cookie. He did everything right—but she is still mad. He is bad, and he doesn’t know why. He cries. She is madder. When he cries he must be very bad. She sends him to his room. He runs and shuts the door, and promises never to open it again. Then he thinks how hungry he is and that he’ll starve. Then he thinks he’ll run away, because he doesn’t like Mom telling him he’s bad—even if it’s true.
One setting. One plot. Two stories. The only difference is through whose eyes we witness what happens. The point of view character you chose doesn’t just influence your story; it determines it on every page, and paragraph, sentence, line, and word.
The Strength of Written Story: The Mind and Heart
Every medium lends its own unique strengths and limitations to the art of storytelling, to the point of determining the stories told through it. There are advantages to every storytelling medium. Film and other visual media convey setting and other images in ways and depths with which written word cannot compete. (A major reason why objective description of setting is becoming ever rarer to the point of nearly dead.) Narrative oratory allows for a distinct style of reception and for variance of performance, and often affects composition in terms of accenting alliteration and the subtle meter that finds its way into prose. Just as any other narrative medium, written story possess both limitations and strengths. The greatest strength of written story happens to be utterly confined to characterization and point of view: access to the mind and heart.
When we watch a movie or television show, or even most plays, we are by necessity at some level estranged from the characters in the story. We hear what they speak and see what they do, even witness their expressions—but their thoughts are dark to us. The ultimate why for every action and word, at least as well as they understand it themselves, is impossible for us to access. Think of movies or television shows you’ve seen that use voiceover. How often does it work? Rarely, if ever. The film American Beauty did as well as is possible, I believe, but far more common is what I call The Wonder Years Effect. Word-for-word thought in visual media is awkward, artificial, and hokey. It is a great blind spot that creates a gap between character and viewer. This distance is an absolute gulf. Visual media, no matter how popular, can never provide the intimacy of a character’s mind and heart.
Written story can, and all truly good narrative recorded in words does, access the mind and heart. When we write story our ultimate end is not to communicate the tragic event or triumphant speech—rather, it is to transmit the thoughts such provoke and promote, and the feelings these thoughts communicate. We humans think in words. Not exclusively, but in large measure. This makes written and spoken language, to a degree, the language of thought. This gives us writers access to the most honest level of human understanding. We can communicate the truth beneath the spoken lie; the reason for the action; the cause of inactivity. For great stories, the heart of the narrative is always internal. No scope or importance of exterior events, whether the loss of a job or destruction of a planet, is matured to full potency without being allowed to resonate within the inward parts of our characters. What our characters think and feel is story; everything else is just a catalyst.
Thought Is Feeling
This concept is far too significant and complicated to address fully here, but it must be understood at least foundationally for any writer to ever truly compose a genuine point of view. It is my profound belief that narrative is, literally and in essence, the communication of emotion. Words are particularly poorly suited for this task. In many ways, body language and expression, even proximics, are superior at communicating what we feel to those around us than is spoken language. I doubt any of us have never felt sorrow, true core-shivering agony and loss, in some capacity. Now imagine trying to tell someone of this experience with the words, “I’m sad.” The symbol “sad” is so inferior to the experience that it hardly deserves the connection.
This being said, it may be very difficult to see how narrative could be the method specifically evolved to communicate emotion, especially in its written form. If words are such poor carries of emotive content, then how can written story be the most intimate communicator of feelings? Because thought and emotion are conjoined.
We are not passive witnesses to our own lives, constantly being acted upon and receiving these experiences without interpretation. Every moment of our lives we comment upon all we do, and witness, and are. There are personality theories in development that even propose the nature of self to be an ever-evolving story about ourselves and what happens to us that we continually tell ourselves. Everything we experience comes with our commentary. This commentary, the intellectual processing of experience and speech and emotion, is the strength and great binding attribute of written narrative. We who write stories have an obligation to take our readers to this place of intimate truth that our fellows in other artistic forms and mediums cannot travel.
Our story is not told when our character speaks these words: “I love you.” It is only truly told when we add the thought beneath, the subtext, to give the full picture: “‘I love you.’ I hate you.” Do you see the power in that simple move? By nothing more than adding those three words and using the power of juxtaposition (which will be more explicitly addressed later), we now see a person who speaks a lie, knowing she is lying. We know this person has something invested in whom she addresses; otherwise, why not be honest? We know this is not a simple lie, a manipulative deception of convenience or simple gain, because deep down this person hates with the passion to say it to herself; she cannot even speak the lie without admitting the truth, if only inwardly, so great is her aversion to this person. The thought is the feeling, even with that blunted instrument word “hate.”
But the greatest emotional intimacy comes from moving beyond the labels such as “hate,” or “joy,” or “sorrow” to the true experience of these concepts. A shy teen famished for self-esteem does not feel “worthless and embarrassed.” She feels thusly, in her own words arising from the moment of pain: “Why did you wave, Stupid? Did you think he’d look, or even notice? Why would he? No reason. No reason.”
The mind is the portal to the human heart, and it is hearts that touch through story on the written page. A character feels what a writer has felt, and a reader, and through the go-between that is a point of view character, two people achieve that precious glimpse of emotional commonality. They communicate what they feel and, in some measure, find understanding.
Anything less than this is a shallow bauble when compared with narrative’s true purpose. There is nothing wrong with a galloping plot that makes you ravenous to know what will happen next. There is nothing wrong with a setting that is tangible and real and relevant, and that can take you somewhere else. But there is something uniquely right about the deepest, most potent parts of ourselves—our emotions—feeling a gentle touch of union and oneness. This, in all the world, is what keeps people from being alone. If we can do that in our stories, for ourselves and others, how can we ever be satisfied with less?
Narrative point of view (POV) is the angle of vision from which the reader accesses the story. It is the primary vehicle that takes your reader through the experience you create with your writing. We might conceptualize this by imagining a ballroom full of people. The room and all inside it are the narrative, the plot events and the setting and theme, all the meat on which you hope your reader will feed. Now imagine that this room is covered with windows. They bedeck all the walls from floor to ceiling, and even the roof is made of crystal clear glass. Any one of these individual windows is a particular point of view. It is the angle from which a reader can witness the story as it happens.
Consider the different experience of viewing this room and all its goings-on from a direct frontal view (which we might call a distant third person POV) as compared to a view from the top down (maybe an omniscient POV). Each experience would be unique, allowing some shared experiences but others that are vastly different. The frontal view puts the viewer on a roughly similar plain as those she is viewing. She would see many facial expressions and would be better able to focus on particular individuals; however, it would be impossible for her to witness what is going on at the peripheries of the room, as her view would be blocked. The observer from above, on the other hand, can follow the happenings of the entire room with relative ease. Everyone and everything appears to her as a head and shoulders bobbing about in a mass of fellows, almost like a pip or dot on a map. What does she lose for this greater overall understanding? Intimacy. She sees few facial features and, because of the odd angle at which she watches, is certain to misinterpret or miss entirely much of the interaction going on before her.
This is point of view: the window through which you force your reader (and readers are given no choice) to witness your story. Because of this, point of view dictates your story. It determines the strengths and richness of your narrative, as well as its limitations. Will your story sweep across a culture from the view of many heads and hearts, ultimately leaving a powerful communal impression but no residual savor of any single vessel in which your reader resided? Will you offer an intimate experience into one person’s life and perspective, and restrict the reader to the bias and limitations, mental, emotional, and physical/spatial (one character can’t be everywhere and witness everything), of that particular vehicle? Plot and setting make the bones and blood of your story; point of view makes the body live.
3 Facets of Point of View
When we talk about point of view, we are actually addressing a three faceted concept. Every point of view contains a specific option in each of the following aspects: person or perspective POV, character POV, and tense (or POV in time). To utilize the full potency of narrative point of view, each of these facets must be well understood, as well as the options within each.
Person/Perspective Point of View
This aspect of point of view comes in three varieties: first person, second person, and third person. Each is easiest to understand in regard to the pronouns they use.
- First person perspective is the firsthand, personal witness—the “I” based narrative. The point of view character relays the story directly to the reader and thus fills the function of a narrator. Sometimes the character literally relays the story according to memory, while others they communicate it in time as experienced (this is determined by tense).
- Second person is command, where the point of view character is the reader or “you.” The effect is designed to portray choices and experiences as arising from the reader and not an exterior source (the text). This perspective is by far the least commonly used, and deservingly so (we’ll examine why in a moment).
- Third person perspective is the most objective. It functions as a commentary on characters from some type of distance both from the characters themselves and from the reader using the pronouns “she”, “he”, “it”, and “they”. Third person is the most common perspective used in modern narrative, once more for good reason, and the most versatile.
First and third person, however, are both viable options that bring different possibilities to the table. Let’s start with first person. While not used as frequently as third, first person perspective offers some interesting options to a writer. Most significant of these is the strong subjectivity this lends a story. When the character narrates her own story to the reader, everything the reader perceives is colored by the personality of the character, including their limited faculties, biases, and assumptions. There is no such thing as objective first person narrative, though you’ll hear otherwise. Even if the character is telling the reader the “facts” of the story without coloring them, there is no way for the reader to know this. Because of this, a first person narrative cannot exist primarily on the level of plot; it is always, by necessity, a vehicle of characterization. Now, as all really good story is a vehicle of characterization, first person perspective can be a fine training tool into how to write great story. Additionally, it provides the most intimate perspective of all point of view options (followed closely by near third person). If you want your readers to really fall in love with a character, first person may be a good choice. Just remember that first person works best to communicate an unreliable (not unlikable) narrator; such a story is every bit as much about how the character tells the story as the story itself.
But keep in mind that first person perspective has some significant limitations. One is that you, as the writer, can never inject anything into the text that the character could not know, would not think, or does not understand. All the limits of the character are limits upon you as the writer. Another limitation is placed upon elements of the narrative you do want the reader to understand objectively. First person does not allow us as writers to hop out of our character’s head for a moment to establish enough distance to comment objectively on what is going on (third person’s variable distance does allow this). First person does not allow contrast between the objective and subjective, at least not beyond the reader’s ability to untangle the bias of the character and guess at what may have really happened. So while first person is a powerful tool in a writer’s toolbox, it isn’t one of the most frequently used. If you do intend to wield it, be sure you have the right job in mind. Most stories in most genres function better using third person. If, however, your story really focuses on a single person above all, first person may be the perfect compositional choice.
Third person is the most commonly used perspective point of view, and for good reason. Third person offers the writer the most flexibility in terms of variable objectivity/subjectivity, and permits shifts in point of view more readily than other options. In fact, third person can be viewed not as a single perspective, but as a continuum of them, from close and intimate to distant and objective. Adjusting this distance from the character determines the feel of the story. A close, highly subjective third person allows near the intimacy of first person; a moment later, however, you might decide to lift up and away from the character, giving yourself enough distance to provide exposition or comment on the character’s actions or thoughts to better help the reader understand what is truly going on, and not just the character’s attempt at comprehending events. What does using third person cost you? Not much. If you use a third person narrator, she by necessity cannot be too intricately involved in the events of the plot (otherwise this would become first person). If your objective is to provide the most intimate relationship with a character in your story above all, third person may not offer quite the potency of first person. But for most stories and in most situations, third person allows a mixture of effectiveness and flexibility that other perspective cannot offer. Because of this, third person should always be your default setting for a story, and never abandon it without a specific rhetorical reason for the adaptation.
Character Point of View
Simply stated, character point of view means which individual in the story you chose to use as your reader’s window. It isn’t difficult to understand the difference between telling the story of a divorce from the perspective of the wife from that of the husband. What can be a little trickier is figuring out which of those characters would offer the reader the richest story. Here are a few suggestions about deciding which character to use for their point of view. First, always consider the character that will undergo the most significant change in the scene in question. Characters that are significantly challenged, that have the most at stake—particularly emotionally—almost always make the best point of view characters. Also, consider what you want your reader to take away from the scene in question. If one character’s perspective would communicate this effect better than other options, use her. Finally, the more importance you place on the central plot and its effect, the more central the point of view character should be. If you chose a peripheral character for your point of view, understand that the story will depend a great deal, not on her reaction to plot events, but rather to how such events affect her relationship with other, more major characters. Think Nick in The Great Gatsby. This narrator is not central to the events of the novel; instead, the heart of the story is how his worship of Gatsby crumbles to disillusionment over the course of the novel. Writing a story from peripheral points of view is very difficult because the story becomes disproportionately internal, which is always harder to write than exterior action and conflict. Great stories can be told this way, but don’t delude yourself into thinking doing so is easy. As a rule of thumb, always chose a point of view character who is central to the plot events of the scene, who is highly emotionally involved in the conflict, and who is going to be challenged to change in some way beyond other characters in the scene.
Tense
Tense is the temporal situation of your narrative, whether it is presented in the past, present, or future. Like second person perspective, the future tense is almost never used. The nature of prediction works contrary to the essence of narrative because it is by definition hypothetical. People just don’t care as much about the hypothetical as they do the literal, especially if the concepts being covered are complex and wildly extrapolated. Unless you know that your reader is going to consider you a prophet and accept your prognostications as absolute certainties (almost impossible to achieve), stay away from future tense. (Note that this does not mean characters in a past or present tense story cannot predict the future. This is not the same as presenting a future tense narrative.)
Present tense is far more applicable than future, though it is much less common than past tense. Present tense portrays events in the narrative as happening live on camera, as the reader witnesses. On the surface, this appears a clearly superior technique. After all, what better way to make a story more gripping and immediate than making it literally immediate? To a degree, this is true. Well-written present tense prose can enhance immediacy for some readers—but the fact is that if a story is well written, tense usually becomes a subtle background element. It will never dictate the function of a story. Present tense poorly written, however, has a similar effect to that of second person perspective: it can create feelings of resistance in the reader. They may feel that you are using a tactic to make events they don’t care about feel more relevant. Because of this, I suggest present tense should only be used for a specific rhetorical purpose that past tense cannot achieve. Also, understand that most novels (especially that have commercial success) are in third person, and some agents and editors don’t care for present tense prose. So weigh this choice carefully before adopting it. (Note that there is an established exception for synopses. All synopses are written in third person, present tense. Breaking this convention is a quick way to tell someone you haven’t done your homework and aren’t really that serious about being published.)
Past tense is the temporal equivalent of third person perspective, a safe, widely applicable default setting. Using the past tense won’t make your story feel old or distant, or sap tension from the narrative (unlike bad backstory). It will approach your reader on a plain they are familiar with, which can facilitate their investment into the narrative. Also, if the story ever drags past tense is unlikely to feel artificial or excessively aggressive. Plus, if the story ever drags so much that writing in past tense makes it feel even less relevant, your story has already passed life support into the realm of catatonia and death. As with third person perspective, consider writing in past tense your standard unless you have a very good reason to do otherwise that cannot be achieved as well through another means.
POV as Story
Perhaps the single most common misconception about story is that plot is narrative. Plot is not narrative; the point of view characters’ emotional responses to plot events is story.
To understand this, let’s use an example story. Our story will be a modest tale of domesticity, of generational distinction and responsibility—of a mother and a child fighting over a cookie. The setting for our tale is an average middle class American kitchen. (Note that in your stories, an extraordinary setting almost always beats an average one. Please don’t overlook the power of place.) Our plot events are as follows: our child asks the mother for a cookie; the mother says no; the child demands; the mother says no again; the child cries; the mother send the child to its room. (The “it” will make more sense in a moment.)
We have our story’s setting and its plot, and, by necessity, introductory aspects of the characters. Yet does anyone reading this actually think what we’ve generated is likely to earn a spot on anyone’s favorite story list? No, because what we have is not a story. It is a series of events in a particular location. Now, watch what happens if we add characterization to the mix.
Our child is now a little boy of four. He is asking for the cookie both because he likes cookies (very reasonable) and because he has been playing outside and is hungry. Note that motivation is an aspect of characterization, not plot or setting. This little boy ate a healthy breakfast and has had no sweets that day. The mother we will make young, say twenty-five, and the boy is her only child. She works weekdays and this is Saturday, a time she has appointed for cleaning the house. Because of her busy schedule, she often feels she feeds the boy less healthily than she would wish, and so is reluctant to follow the same pattern on weekends when she has time to prepare healthier food. Additionally, she is just starting lunch, which will be ready in fifteen minutes. These things explain why she does not want to give the child the cookie.
So now do we have a story? Closer, but not yet. What is missing? Which story are we telling—the mother’s or the child’s? Each is a completely different narrative, despite taking place in the exact same kitchen and including the exact same sequence of events.
Consider the story of the mother: Her child comes to her and asks for a cookie. Distracted both by her cooking, a rare activity that she wants to improve, and by thoughts of other chores that need completing that day, she answers with a kind but direct, “No, it’s almost lunch.” She says no more and her focus is still on other matters. She thinks about the new recipe she is trying and dreads that her boy will refuse to eat it. She thinks about vacuuming and whether she will move the furniture this week, promising she will as she did not last week. She thinks about her husband watching football and how stupid football is. Then she thinks about how stupid her husband sometimes is. She knows she should feel badly, but really doesn’t because it’s true. Then she thinks— Her thoughts are interrupted by the boy’s insistence that he have a cookie. His expression, and the commanding tone, remind her of a mini-argument she had that morning with her husband about how much TV he watches on his day off. She sees this irritating trait of the father in her son and decides then and there to stop it. She again refuses to give him a cookie, telling him he will eat lunch and only if he behaves will he get a cookie afterward. She feels this is a very good solution; it insists on discipline without forcing the boy to give up his want entirely. And after all, he hasn’t eaten sweets all day. Feeling good about her parenting, she is surprised when the child starts to cry. She knows the tears are real and not just manipulative, but can’t figure out why. She did what was right and look what happened. In her confusion, she becomes angry, and sends the child to his room. When he runs away and shuts the door, still weeping, she realizes that she raised her voice at him. She yelled at her son over a cookie. She feels the need to cry, and chastises herself for it. Then she cries anyway.
That is a story, brief and shallowly told, but a genuine story. Now let’s compare it with the story of the boy.
He comes in from playing, happy and grubby. He wipes his feet on the mat outside the kitchen door because Mom likes him when he wipes his feet on the mat, and he likes it when Mom likes him. He’s hungry, but wants to go back out to play. He needs something he can eat quickly while running back outside. A cookie will do nicely because it fits in one hand, or in two if Mom breaks it, and it tastes good. He finds Mom in the kitchen doing food. This is good; he wants food. He asks her for a cookie, being sure to ask “please” because people don’t give away things without that secret magic word that Dad taught him. He is wondering why it is a secret word when everyone says it, and what kind of cookie he will get, when she tells him no. He doesn’t understand. He said the secret magic word. He gets to eat one cookie every day, and hasn’t eaten one all morning. He has played outside and is hungry, and Mom won’t give him food. It isn’t supposed to work that way. It doesn’t make sense. He tells her this, insisting she get him a cookie. Instead of understanding better, as he intended, she looks at him with mad eyes and says no. He doesn’t understand why she’s mad and tries to think of what he did. He wiped his feet. He said please. He even didn’t ask for a cookie earlier, when he always wants a cookie. He did everything right—but she is still mad. He is bad, and he doesn’t know why. He cries. She is madder. When he cries he must be very bad. She sends him to his room. He runs and shuts the door, and promises never to open it again. Then he thinks how hungry he is and that he’ll starve. Then he thinks he’ll run away, because he doesn’t like Mom telling him he’s bad—even if it’s true.
One setting. One plot. Two stories. The only difference is through whose eyes we witness what happens. The point of view character you chose doesn’t just influence your story; it determines it on every page, and paragraph, sentence, line, and word.
The Strength of Written Story: The Mind and Heart
Every medium lends its own unique strengths and limitations to the art of storytelling, to the point of determining the stories told through it. There are advantages to every storytelling medium. Film and other visual media convey setting and other images in ways and depths with which written word cannot compete. (A major reason why objective description of setting is becoming ever rarer to the point of nearly dead.) Narrative oratory allows for a distinct style of reception and for variance of performance, and often affects composition in terms of accenting alliteration and the subtle meter that finds its way into prose. Just as any other narrative medium, written story possess both limitations and strengths. The greatest strength of written story happens to be utterly confined to characterization and point of view: access to the mind and heart.
When we watch a movie or television show, or even most plays, we are by necessity at some level estranged from the characters in the story. We hear what they speak and see what they do, even witness their expressions—but their thoughts are dark to us. The ultimate why for every action and word, at least as well as they understand it themselves, is impossible for us to access. Think of movies or television shows you’ve seen that use voiceover. How often does it work? Rarely, if ever. The film American Beauty did as well as is possible, I believe, but far more common is what I call The Wonder Years Effect. Word-for-word thought in visual media is awkward, artificial, and hokey. It is a great blind spot that creates a gap between character and viewer. This distance is an absolute gulf. Visual media, no matter how popular, can never provide the intimacy of a character’s mind and heart.
Written story can, and all truly good narrative recorded in words does, access the mind and heart. When we write story our ultimate end is not to communicate the tragic event or triumphant speech—rather, it is to transmit the thoughts such provoke and promote, and the feelings these thoughts communicate. We humans think in words. Not exclusively, but in large measure. This makes written and spoken language, to a degree, the language of thought. This gives us writers access to the most honest level of human understanding. We can communicate the truth beneath the spoken lie; the reason for the action; the cause of inactivity. For great stories, the heart of the narrative is always internal. No scope or importance of exterior events, whether the loss of a job or destruction of a planet, is matured to full potency without being allowed to resonate within the inward parts of our characters. What our characters think and feel is story; everything else is just a catalyst.
Thought Is Feeling
This concept is far too significant and complicated to address fully here, but it must be understood at least foundationally for any writer to ever truly compose a genuine point of view. It is my profound belief that narrative is, literally and in essence, the communication of emotion. Words are particularly poorly suited for this task. In many ways, body language and expression, even proximics, are superior at communicating what we feel to those around us than is spoken language. I doubt any of us have never felt sorrow, true core-shivering agony and loss, in some capacity. Now imagine trying to tell someone of this experience with the words, “I’m sad.” The symbol “sad” is so inferior to the experience that it hardly deserves the connection.
This being said, it may be very difficult to see how narrative could be the method specifically evolved to communicate emotion, especially in its written form. If words are such poor carries of emotive content, then how can written story be the most intimate communicator of feelings? Because thought and emotion are conjoined.
We are not passive witnesses to our own lives, constantly being acted upon and receiving these experiences without interpretation. Every moment of our lives we comment upon all we do, and witness, and are. There are personality theories in development that even propose the nature of self to be an ever-evolving story about ourselves and what happens to us that we continually tell ourselves. Everything we experience comes with our commentary. This commentary, the intellectual processing of experience and speech and emotion, is the strength and great binding attribute of written narrative. We who write stories have an obligation to take our readers to this place of intimate truth that our fellows in other artistic forms and mediums cannot travel.
Our story is not told when our character speaks these words: “I love you.” It is only truly told when we add the thought beneath, the subtext, to give the full picture: “‘I love you.’ I hate you.” Do you see the power in that simple move? By nothing more than adding those three words and using the power of juxtaposition (which will be more explicitly addressed later), we now see a person who speaks a lie, knowing she is lying. We know this person has something invested in whom she addresses; otherwise, why not be honest? We know this is not a simple lie, a manipulative deception of convenience or simple gain, because deep down this person hates with the passion to say it to herself; she cannot even speak the lie without admitting the truth, if only inwardly, so great is her aversion to this person. The thought is the feeling, even with that blunted instrument word “hate.”
But the greatest emotional intimacy comes from moving beyond the labels such as “hate,” or “joy,” or “sorrow” to the true experience of these concepts. A shy teen famished for self-esteem does not feel “worthless and embarrassed.” She feels thusly, in her own words arising from the moment of pain: “Why did you wave, Stupid? Did you think he’d look, or even notice? Why would he? No reason. No reason.”
The mind is the portal to the human heart, and it is hearts that touch through story on the written page. A character feels what a writer has felt, and a reader, and through the go-between that is a point of view character, two people achieve that precious glimpse of emotional commonality. They communicate what they feel and, in some measure, find understanding.
Anything less than this is a shallow bauble when compared with narrative’s true purpose. There is nothing wrong with a galloping plot that makes you ravenous to know what will happen next. There is nothing wrong with a setting that is tangible and real and relevant, and that can take you somewhere else. But there is something uniquely right about the deepest, most potent parts of ourselves—our emotions—feeling a gentle touch of union and oneness. This, in all the world, is what keeps people from being alone. If we can do that in our stories, for ourselves and others, how can we ever be satisfied with less?
