I can reduce my writing process to this: The plot comes first; it rolls around in my head for days (or weeks or months), and when I get to the business of writing, I know what’s going to happen. As to whom it will happen to, I discover those characters through the physical act of writing. Themes, symbolism, and narrative voice occur to me and become distinct upon rereading and revision. And voila, a story.
Sometimes it’s really that simple. Sometimes it’s magic. Most of the time though, the last stage, the revision, means razing a story down to an empty word document and starting over. As I’ve spent time refining my craft, I’ve tried to identify the elements that lead to the greatest number of start-from-scratch revisions. For me, the greatest culprit is point of view.
On my favorite writing podcast, The Shit No One Tells You About Writing, Bianca Marais is constantly telling writers to pick the point of view which best serves their story, and not just the one they are most comfortable with. This is common advice. In Refuse to Be Done,
tells novelists who are stuck to, “experiment with a single scene that isn’t working as well as you’d like by rewriting it from another point of view.” So the experts know: a bad POV can stop a story in its tracks. But how do you know, either at the outset of a rewrite or when weighing several versions of a story from different perspectives, what the correct point of view is?While I have read a lot of craft books, I’ve found very few resources to help a writer decide (I should note there is a very good pros and cons style list by James V. Smith Jr. in Chapter 16, “Understanding Differences in POV,” of Crafting Novels & Short Stories), and as such, I’ve decided to create my own. The following list is divided into three dimensions which I consider key considerations in determining a story's point of view.
Dimension 1: Who’s talking and to whom?
First, consider who is telling your story and to whom. The POV terms you are likely most familiar with occur here: first-person, second-person, and third-person. Let’s look a little closer.
A first-person point of view will almost always allow you the most intimacy of the first dimension. Characterized by a self-aware narrator who exists as a character within the story, stories utilizing this POV will restrict the events narrated to moments when the narrator was present. This POV demands a thorough understanding of your narrator’s vocabulary and patterns of speech (their voice becomes the narrative voice and tone), and a deep understanding of how they see, process, and relate. If you are writing a story with an unreliable narrator, a “quiet” story (dependent heavily on the inner life of your protagonist), or a very voicy story, this might be the POV for you.
Second-person point of view is one of the boldest perspective moves a writer can make. In this POV, the protagonist is the reader and is referred to as “you” throughout the narration. When choosing this perspective, consider that a direct address can be jarring for a reader, and ask whether the length and content of the piece is such that this address would not overwhelm (unless that is your intention!) your ideal reader. A fascinating aspect of this POV is that a second-person narrator can be a character, taking on the qualities of a first-person narrator and referring to themself as “I”, or not, simply narrating a story about “you,” but never taking on sentience or identity. This choice, more than any other, requires compelling reasoning. This might be the correct perspective for your story if you are trying to jar your reader, if the reader’s entrance into the story as a character is necessary, or if you want to include elements of both first- and second-person point of view.
Third-person point of view is the most flexible perspective. The narrator refers to the characters with third-person pronouns (i.e. he, she, they), by name, or by some other noun. This perspective never enters the text as a character. Though the narrative voice may express a specific attitude or opinion on the happenings of the story and may enter the thoughts of the characters within the story, the narrator themself does not play a part in the events of the story. This perspective is best suited for stories where you will need to access the thoughts of multiple characters or where you will need to relate scenes that do not involve your protagonist.
Dimension 2: Why are they talking?
This second dimension asks that you consider the intimacy or emotional distance with which a story is being told. In The Art of Fiction, John Gardner calls this “psychic distance,” though it is also commonly referred to as “narrative distance” in other craft books. I will detail the extremes, but know that you can select anywhere along this spectrum as the overall intimacy of your story, or you can (intentionally! Always intentionally!) move around this spectrum throughout the course of your narrative.
An intimate perspective, or close psychic distance, means that your narrator either has their own internal life and opinions on events or access to character(s)’ internality. In first-person POV, the most obvious example of an intimate narrator is the narrator-protagonist. If the events of the story are directly affecting or are being created by your narrator, your reader will expect your narrator’s thoughts and emotional reactions. In a second-person point of view, an intimate perspective might mean a narrator who is also a character. While the protagonist will remain the reader (addressed as “you”), this type of narrator will reflect (or rage or despair) their involvement in the reader’s life. In third-person point of view, a close narrator has access to some (third-person limited omniscient) or all (third-person omniscient) character’s thoughts. Use intimate perspectives when you plan to state emotions explicitly, when you believe you will need to “explain” a character’s motivations, or when you are hoping the reader will “see themself” in your story.
A distant perspective means your narrator does not have or does not express internality. In first-person, this could be an observer narrator, present for the action of the story, but not involved in the events. In second-person, this would be a detached and non-judgmental narrator; often these stories are framed as instructions. In third-person, this would be an objective narrator, opinionless and uninterested in describing interiority. This distance might be appropriate in stories that require an objective telling (i.e. they would be too grotesque or shocking to tell with emotionality), stories with obviously sympathetic characters whose actions are easily understood, or when sterility is key to the thematic import of the piece.
Dimension 3: When are they talking from?
The third dimension is all about the immediacy of a perspective. When considering this dimension, you will want to think about when a story is being told.
A story related in present tense will almost always have more immediacy than the same story written in past tense. By necessity, the reader and the narrator are discovering together the unfolding events. This type of perspective tends to be less lyrical than past tense, because sensory detail in present tense are less likely to be noticed. Think of it this way: if you find yourself halfway across a railroad track when the guards begin descending, you’ll be more worried about getting out of the way than about the static feeling in the air, but if you tell the story of this event after-the-fact, you might remember (or embellish) all the details—the air was charged, the grill of the oncoming train was bright red, as though it had already mowed down others; the lights were so bright, that when I turned to find my shifter, I was blinded, fumbling as imminent death approached—to stretch out that singular moment. Present tense works well in stories where plot is more important than syntactics and immediacy is necessary.
A story told in past tense can sometimes necessitate a double understanding of your narrator, particularly if you are writing in the first-person point of view. For example, if your narrator is sixty years old, telling the story of her teenage years, the perspective of your teenage protagonist will need to be filtered through the insights and opinions that she herself gained in the following 45-ish years. Another important consideration when choosing a tense, is the type of foreshadowing you imagine occurring in your story. In the past tense, your narrator can very literally hint at what’s to come. For example, they could say “she wouldn’t always be that happy.” The foreboding may be heavy-handed, but it is a propulsive force that is not available in present tense. In both tenses, foreshadowing can occur via observation of other characters or situations, though this is often the type of foreshadowing a reader notices on a second read. Past tense is a good option if your story and its themes do not demand immediacy, if you have a compelling reason for considering past events with uncertainty, or if you are planning on layering in forward narrative knowledge.
A note on breaking the rules
I would be remiss to claim this list is all-inclusive of perspective considerations, nor have I always followed my own advice as outlined in this kernel. There are other reasons to consider the dimensions here, and plenty of reasons to subvert expectations completely. Maybe your first-person narrator is a gossip, so why not have him tell an entire tale they were never or rarely present for? Maybe your protagonist never seems to react quickly enough, so write a present-tense story entrenched in delicious detail. And of course, a story doesn’t have to be written from a single point of view. In one of my favorite craft books, Consider This, Chuck Palahniuk writes, “If you were my student, I’d tell you to shift as needed between the three POVs [first-person, second-person, and third-person]. Not constantly, but as appropriate to control authority, intimacy, and pace.”
Using these three dimensions as a guide, I have been able to approach point of view with intentionality, and I hope that they will provide you with the same focus. I’d love to hear in the comments the dimensions that you take into account when choosing narrative voice, your favorite points of view, and how you’ve seen POV expectations subverted.
My kernel of advice: Be intentional when selecting a perspective, and make sure that perspective is amplifying other elements of your story.
Inspiration, Information, & Insight
Shelby still feels like she doesn’t have enough time in the day, and therefore she hasn’t been reading and keeping up with the literary world as much as she would have liked to. She has been consistently working on her novel-in-progress, which is her number one priority as she aims to have a first draft complete by the end of the year.
Sarah read two stunning short stories this week. Jonathan Escoffery’s “Under the Ackee Tree” has the most beguiling second-person point-of-view and devastating story arc, which spans forty years and three generations. (To enjoy the full cadence of the Jamaican patois listen to the audio for free at Ursa.) Lauren Groff’s “The Wind” is equally devastating and uses a brilliant framing device that adds an extra layer of depth.
Neidy is reading two books that Shelby recommended: On Earth as It Is on Television by Emily Jane and Night of the Living Rez by Morgan Talty. She is impressed by Talty’s subtlety and ability to say just enough to leave the reader salivating for more. She also began reading Wonderbook by Jeff VanderMeer. It is a craft book unlike any she’s read before, magical and filled with advice and inspiration in equal measures.
Natalia switched to Audible with Infinite Jest and it has brought a whole new layer to the characters. Otherwise, she started My Name Is Lucy Barton by Elizabeth Strout. It’s such an emotionally intelligent book and she’s hoping to learn from the paired down sentences with perfectly good timing and rhythm. She also wrote a nonfiction essay she’s planning to submit to an alumni essay competition.