 | 21 Apr 11 |
I presented this as a two-day workshop over on the fabulous Romance University — and I highly recommend that if you’re interested in seeing some great examples as we workshopped actual works-in-progress (very short snippets), please follow the link there and read the comments. I’ll be going back to RU in May with another workshop, where people will be able to submit longer (2 to 3 page sections) pieces. Meanwhile, it occurred to me that you all might be interested in my screenwriter’s-eye-view of POV and why it almost is never just the basics of what so many writing programs teach (1st, 2nd, 3rd, omnipotent), but is, instead, your single most important key into creating a world that rocks the socks off your readers, comes alive, and showcases your voice.
THE ART AND SOUL OF POV
It’s a sad fact: you—a writer—have very little time to grab a reader and do it so well, they’re compelled to keep reading. You might have as much as five pages for that first reader (the agent, or the editor), but it’s even more brutal in a bookstore. Most readers who browse, who get enticed enough to pick up the book (as a result of the title / name / or cover which pulls them in) and read the back copy (often not written by the writer) don’t even bother to open the book—their mind is often made up based on things outside the author’s control. Few authors can mandate what their covers look like, and few have title approval. A higher percentage contributes to the back cover copy, but that’s still edited to fit the space and often tweaked by people in marketing who’ve never even read the book. The one thing a writer does control is the writing, and if a browser bothers to pick up the book in the bookstore or click on an excerpt on the web, then you, as the author, have precious little time to grab their attention.
One of the first tools we have at our disposal is POV: point of view. Now, that might seem obvious, and it might seem like a surface choice. Do you write in first person? Or third? Close third or more distant third? Omniscient? Or maybe even second person? (Please don’t.) (Just my personal bugaboo.)
Those are weighty decisions that affect almost everything else you will do in the book. There are pros and cons to each, when you’re considering your story. (We’ll talk about those in a moment.) But there’s another entire facet to POV that a lot of people fail to utilize to the potential they have at hand, and that is that POV also stands for persistence of vision. In pure physiological terms, persistence of vision is defined as:
“The phenomenon where the retina retains an image for a brief split-second after the image was actually seen, and lends itself to animation by fostering the illusion of motion when we view images in closely-timed sequence to one another. We don’t notice the fractional skips between images because that persistence fills in the momentary gap to make the motion seem seamless.”
Now, technically, that specific theory works in conjunction with other physiological mechanisms at work to help our eye understand film as it progresses frame-by-frame, but we don’t need all of that for our purposes here. Just keep in mind the fact that there is a tendency of the eye—or our inner perceptual ability—to hang onto images in sequence which then builds a larger image, an impression of movement, an impression of reality.
This is how we build characters: image by image until we have created a series of images associated with that character. The images we choose to utilize when showing that character need, therefore, to be consistent with that character’s point of view, and that’s going to be affected by that character’s background, job, economic situation, personal histories, health, etc. — the soul of the character needs to bleed through every word choice you make while in their point of view.
Here’s what I mean by that: whether you’ve chosen first, second, third or omniscient point of view, you have to show us the character, without always telling us about the character. One of the things I see many writers—even long established writers—do that is robbing their work of impact is that they tell me a great deal about the characters as the characters show up in the scene. What that does is inform me intellectually—but it doesn’t bring the person alive, doesn’t make them feel real. If they had utilized point of view carefully, however, they could have shown me things about the character that only that character in that book would have seen in that particular way, which makes that character real. It’s a combination of point of view (whether it’s 1st, 3rd, etc.) and “persistence of vision” — how that character sees what they see and how they interpret what they’re seeing. No two characters in any book should see the world in the same exact way. None of us do in real life.
I’ll give you a couple of examples. Let’s say that there’s a small bistro in the neighborhood: worn black and white square tiles, old mahogany bar, small tables with red checkered table cloths crowded as close together as possible, vases on the tables of real flowers, probably droopy white daisies, something affordable. Every table has the typical salt/pepper shakers, ketchup, Parmesan cheese, packets of sweetener for the tea that most people order there. There are a few patrons scattered about, a bartender whose seen better days, and overhead lighting that doesn’t seem to be making much of an effort.
Okay, let’s stop there for a moment. You probably were able to see the place, because I gave you enough visual cues to lead your eye. What I also did was give you cues in the same approximate order that you would normally take in on your own, if you should walk through that door. That’s important, that order. You’ll do yourself a major favor if you think about specific powerful details as you enter the room. Ask yourself, what’s the impact point? What’s the first thing the eye grabs? It’s usually color (black and white worn checkered floor, mahogany bar, white daisies, ketchup bottles, etc.). Next, it’s lighting and space—does the space seem crowded, spacious, etc., and what is the quality of the lighting.
And even so, we’ve only done maybe half the job that we could do for that space. Because right now, you have no idea who’s seeing that space. It’s a generic description. It’s visual, sure, but when you don’t have much space to grab your reader, you’ve got to give them much more than just visual. You’ve got to give them character and attitude, too.
Here’s where I tell you the warning of how many manuscripts and scripts—when I was a screenwriter—that I read where I got several pages into a story that had lush description, and several pages in, I still did not know more about that character who was in those scenes than I did when I started the manuscript. If I can get several pages into your story and not know your character? You have failed. That’s harsh, but it’s the truth. Do not waste my time, as a reader. Do not fritter away your opportunity describing crap for the sake of “setting the scene.” Setting the scene is a waste of time if you don’t clue me in to who you’re setting the scene for / with. Whose point of view it is. Give me attitude, give me character in what they’re choosing to share with me, and you’ll pique my interest.
So let’s go back to that bistro and think about that setting. [edited to add: We are going to assume this is NOT the beginning of our story, because I don't want to confuse this issue with opening lines in a pOV -- that's something I'll cover in the next workshop.] Let’s say that your main character is a cop, walking into that scene. A cop is going to see that bistro much differently than a down-and-out-of-work twenty-year-old who’s been on the grift, looking for a little cash-under-the-table job. A cop’s point of view—whether you utilize the mechanics of first person or third or omniscient—his point of view, his “vision” is going to have a specific kind of attitude, a wariness, an assessment, that is different from any other character walking into that same bistro.
We’ll use first person here. (First person is generally used when you want the reader to very closely identify with the character and not have any ability to know more than what the character knows in that moment. It’s typical of first person stories to be told through the point of view of the main character for the length of the work, but there are exceptions—a narrator, for example, or multiple first-person characters, where the POVs switch between characters, usually with each subsequent chapter.) Here’s the unedited, unpolished, off-the-top-of-my-pointy-head example:
I hated that damned bell on the door; every eye in the place turned toward me when I entered, and it felt like a target painted dead center mass for the few seconds it took me to move through the door, through the thick greasy smell of fried bacon and stale beer, move the twenty-one steps across the scuffed checkerboard tile to a table in the back where I could look out over the place. The lighting was crap—like it had given up trying last century and nobody bothered to notice. It made everything I had to do here tonight that much harder. Didn’t help that I couldn’t wear my vest here, and here is where I’d most likely get shot. Fucked, that’s what that was.
Murray was hunched behind the bar as usual, working a rag on some invisible spot on the bar, hardly listening to some grifter kid try his spiel about how much he needed work while he was surreptitiously trying to lift the wallet of the old man sitting next to him, just below Murray’s line of sight. I gave Murray a nod and eyeballed the kid—let him stop the idiot. I sure as hell wasn’t blowing my cover for petty theft.
The chair wobbled—this was the worst of the rickety tables. There were two college girls at my favorite spot, the one closest to the easiest exit; they were wailing about boyfriends who done them wrong, each looking to try to top the other one. I could tell ‘em each that they were going to keep gettin’ crap from guys if they hung out at shitholes like this. We were three-and-a-half blocks into hell-and-gone cheap-ass territory, barely on the outskirts of ghetto. I could’ve told ‘em to go over to Charlie’s, over on sixth. They had better food, better beer, slightly better idiots willing to fork over dough for the pleasure of listening to them whine. Didn’t bother though. Girls like that never learn.
As soon as I’d walked in, I’d counted seven people in the room besides me: Murray, the kid, the old man, the two girls made five. I hated the way the tables crowded together, stained tablecloths barely cleaned from previous patrons. It made moving fast, getting to my gun, just that much more of a hassle. I hated hassle. I hated a lot of things, but I really fucking hated hassle. I’d discounted the five I already mentioned as soon as I saw ‘em. That meant that one of the two people left was the asshole I was looking for, the perp trying to hire a hit-man to solve a problem. I was the hit-man. Or at least, that was my role tonight. I looked it. Smelled like it—smelled like six days of booze and cigarettes crammed into one. Well, that’s how I usually looked and smelled. Probably why the sarge wanted me for the job.
Of the two people left in the room, the lady near the front window was a contender, but not likely—she just looked too worn out to give a good damn about having anyone killed. I pegged her as a cleaning lady, coming off a rough night, too tired to do much more than scrape at her burned toast and runny eggs. She had dust on her gray sweater and smudges on her too-thin face and gray eyes that looked beaten. That left the shiny happy broad over in the opposite corner. The redhead who kept reapplying her lipstick pulled from a purse the size of a postage stamp, using her mirror to scope out the room. She wasn’t completely dim, then. That’s a problem. I don’t mind stupid criminals. It’s when they’re stupid-but-think-they’re clever that someone usually gets hurt.
Lately, that someone had been me. I was battin’ a thousand in shitty luck, and tonight, I had a bad feeling.
One day, I’m gonna learn to listen to that.
Okay, not that that’s great, but I wanted to show you how that set up does several things in 650 words and what you “get” about that room is now significantly different than the generic version: 1) we know that room is being described by a very specific person with a very specific attitude, and (2) we know he’s a cop—though he never actually tells us and (3) we know he’s weighing and measuring everyone in the room, and how the room is laid out, (4) who might be carrying a weapon, (5) that he was in danger and knew it and (6) that he was going to do his job anyway. At the same time, you’ve gotten enough details to see the scene (the bistro)—and it’s the same details as what I described earlier, but it’s told with his very specific perception / attitude. That cop would count the people when he walked in, would assess the threat level, would look for ways to place himself in a position of retreat, should he need it, etc. Other patrons might not notice anything like that. Without actually telling you his attitude (I never said “he has a pessimistic attitude”), I showed it through his slant on what he saw, and how he perceived those things around him. That attitude has to be consistent throughout. Every time we’re in his point of view, we should have his persistence of vision—his specific way of seeing the world—which does more to characterize him than all of the descriptive modifiers any author could attach to him.
Let’s look at the same scene told through one of the other patron’s eyes. This time, I’ll use third person. (Third person is generally used when the author wants to convey a little bit more about the scene than a character might convey in the strict sense of “telling” the story. If an author wants the reader to know more than the protagonist knows, the author can switch to other characters’ POV—generally done now in their own sections or their own chapters (but that’s not a hard and fast rule, obviously)—which can reveal information that creates stress for the reader, because they know more about the danger the protagonist is in than the protagonist does—yet. And the reader feels tension as the protagonist catches up to that realization.) Now, I’m purposefully not doing dialog or action here, just a section of description to show point of view. Again, unedited, unpolished, off-my-pointy-head… here ya go:
It was a quaint place, as places go, for hiring a killer. She hadn’t expected it to even have tablecloths, or actual silverware. She’d done a little bit of research before agreeing to meet with the killer-for-hire here: rundown little bistro out on the edge of civility, struggling to survive in this economy. She felt for the place, really. She knew what it was to be struggling on the edge, barely able to make ends meet, trying to figure out a solution.
They’d done a fairly decent job, here: there were daisies in the vases on the tables. Sure, the vases were cheap—the kind you’d get at Wal-Mart, maybe, but there was nothing wrong with Wal-Mart. She didn’t know why people always said Wal-Mart with their noses in the air, like they were too good for the place. She bet every one of those people secretly shopped there and didn’t want to admit they were the same as regular, normal people. She just really didn’t understand people like that. Staring down their noses at perfectly good vases, for example, acting all high and mighty. People like that? Were no good. No good at all. She wanted to give them a piece of her mind, sometimes, and she bit back the words. It didn’t make for a good alibi to be the kind of person who stuck out in people’s memory as having been angry. No, no, she’d just bide her time. Her time would come.
But she liked the little white daisies. Real flowers instead of plastic. They were trying hard to be pleasing. The whole place was, really, with its warm red walls and polished woods and determination to be clean. They hadn’t given up, given in to the harsh realities of life. Not even that waitress in the kitchen who’d looked harried, who’d worked hard to keep the tables bussed and the orders coming out quickly, who’d been crying her eyes out over something bad that had happened this past week, she’d said, as she apologized for sobbing over her order. She had wanted to soothe the girl, to empathize. Empathizing, though, made you memorable. She knew better than to be memorable.
She’d been waiting for the killer for the last hour, coming in early to get a feel for the customers—which ones were the regulars (the old guy at the bar looked like he’d grown there since the fifties… she was actually surprised when he was able to stand to go to the restroom)… and the not-so-regulars… the hussy who kept applying her lipstick, checking out the room. Probably some floozy, waiting for some woman’s husband to come along, checking out all of the angles, making sure the wife wasn’t hanging around in the shadows, about to catch them. She was probably someone in the process of breaking up a home, that slut.
She was in the middle of thinking about changing her hired-killer order to a two-fer when the skeevy guy came in, creeping across the room like some sort of nasty beetle, his eyes shifting around, taking everything in, looking at her, passing her over as just another fixture. It was probably the dust on her sweater, the smudges on her face, the sturdy cleaning-lady shoes that had done it. It was what she’d intended, to be forgettable. Still, it rankled. She’d apparently been forgettable to Harry, too, with him cheating on her with another hussy, just like that one over there in the corner.
The skeevy guy was reflected in the big picture window, since it was dark outside. She watched him without being obvious about it, and he looked tense. He checked out everyone in the place, over and over, waiting. Nodded to the bartender about something she couldn’t see. She thought maybe he was the killer-for-hire, but there was something odd about him. Something a little too TV-villain perfect, and little warning bells went off in her head. Maybe he was a cop.
He was already making his way over to the hussy, and she watched, eating her bad eggs—they really could do a lot better in this place with a decent cook—and the skeevy guy asked the girl, “So, you looking for me?”
The girl screamed, then, and jumped up and did the damndest thing: she shot the guy. Twice. And then ran.
Okay, that’s 725 words, and we have an entirely different POV: we’re in third person, and specifically getting that person’s attitudes about life, about her surroundings, about the people there, the details that she would notice that the cop wouldn’t. We’re seeing her point of view as well as her persistence of vision: her take on that world. Nowhere does she tell us what she does for a living (but we get the details–her focus on cleanliness). Nowhere do I give you her slant on life, but you can tell it’s a bit schizophrenic—empathizes with the place, loves the daisies, but is obviously contemplating killing not just Harry, her husband, but some random woman who she feels is a hussy. We know a great deal about that woman just from what we see through her vision. How she sees her world and the details she picks out matter. They’re tools for you to use.
We could keep going with the other characters, playing with other forms of point of view. Omniscient has the advantage of giving us a lot more information than the protagonist usually has, and as such, can sometimes create a lot of tension (we see the bomb beneath their seat that they have no clue is there)… but it can also leave us feeling a bit detached, emotionally, from the characters if not handled very carefully. There’s also the risk of losing or confusing the reader with too much head-hopping (moving back and forth between character’s POVs)—which you can do in omniscient, but it is a real risk, and the reader has to be carefully led (the segues better be fabulous).
The pros and cons of the mechanics of point of view—which one you choose to use—have to be weighed carefully. If you want us to be in the shoes of the protagonist, then we can’t know more than he or she knows, and that in and of itself can create a lot of obstacles. One, for example, would be: how do you show important stuff that he needs to see which is a clue, but not have him pick up on the clue right now (which might mean he either looks dumb or he’d figure it out too soon and oops, the story is over). This issue definitely applies to first person, but can apply to third person, if the only point of view in the book is that one person.
The drawback to third person is that while yes, you have the ability to show some of the things the character doesn’t quite pick up on, you run the risk of the reader being too far out ahead of the character and getting frustrated with the story as the character catches up.
The pros to using omniscient is, of course, scope: big epics, S/F/F (where there’s a tremendous amount of world-building), and period pieces can truly benefit from omniscient. The pros to first person is that immediacy of emotion / reaction—the reader tends to more closely identify with the character. The benefit of third is that you have some of the advantages of first (that close identification with the character), but you have a bit more ease in switching into another character’s point of view (and I’d generally recommend doing that with a section break or a chapter break when you make the switch, just to keep the voices of each character clear). The disadvantage to multiple point of view characters (third person or omniscient) is that, if you’re doing your job right, you’re creating different voices (styles of thinking/speaking/seeing the world) for each character. (This is not to be confused with “voice” of the overall project. That’s a different subject for a different day.) If you’re utilizing POV well—giving us the attitudes and details that only that character could give us, then when you switch into another character’s point of view, we should be able to tell it just from what they relate to us and how they are seeing their world.
***
If you have an example from a work-in-progress — feel free to post and ask. I’ll try to get to everyone today. (Short samples, please! I’ll ask questions if I need more info.)
Or, I’d *love* to see examples from any work (your own, or someone you want to quote — please give author and book reference so I can find them!). A couple of sentences to show the above at work, where you really “get” the character from their POV by how they present their world.
© 2011, Toni McGee Causey. All rights reserved.
Toni McGee Causey lives in Baton Rouge, LA, and is the best-selling author of the BOBBIE FAYE trilogy. She has contributed a critically acclaimed short story to the KILLER YEAR: STORIES TO DIE FOR anthology edited by Lee Child and an essay in DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT MEANS TO MISS NEW ORLEANS. Additionally, she recently produced an indie film, LA 308. She and her husband, Carl, are licensed general contractors and, in order to support her writing addiction, they run their own company, specializing in civil construction.
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POV is important as a reader. It can make or break a story.
by Mary Preston April 21st, 2011 at 1:41 amMary, absolutely.
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 8:51 amI can’t even begin to express how fantastic this post is, Toni. A MASTER CLASS in POV. Thank you, thank you. Am printing, saving, and impressing these lesson’s on my writer’s soul. You are brilliant. xo
by Roxanne St. Claire April 21st, 2011 at 8:23 amLOL… well, I doubt very much the brilliant part, but thank you. Mostly, it’s just finally seeping into this hard head how to wrap my mind around what probably comes naturally for so many.
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 8:53 amHi Toni,
This is so wonderfully insightful! It makes me want to go back through my WIP and find more places to reveal my characters through their POV. As you say, it’s all about conveying their unique attitudes.
I’m reading a Patricia Cornwell book right now and she does an amazing job at this. Her veteran homicide cop sounds so different from her well-educated ME, who sounds so different from her psychologically disturbed villain… It really pulls you into the story and makes it so much more compelling, all through good use of POV.
Thanks for this post!
by Laura Griffin April 21st, 2011 at 8:46 amThank you, Laura! And I love the examples you’ve listed–makes me want to go grab another Patricia Cornwell book right now. It’s been a while since I read something from her. Need to remedy that.
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 8:55 amYou’ve given me so much to think about! Stephen King is amazing with POV. You really see his characters, what they see, what they feel, without him telling you much of anything.
First person is hard for me, but I’m writing a short story in first person because third was NOT working. Maybe I’ll post a snippet and you can help because you do first so well!
by Allison Brennan April 21st, 2011 at 10:09 amThanks, Allison–SK is a terrific example.
And post away! Although I have no doubt you’re handling it plenty fine. 
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 10:28 amToni, I want to be you when I grow up. And I want to read that book! (That isn’t a book but an off-the-top-of-your-head example. Damn, girl. That’s some good writing there!
My struggle with POV is constant. I want to be in every character’s head. I want him to look at her as she’s ranting at him and then I want her to look at him and realize how she’s hurt him with her words. Yes, I know. Big no-no. I usually end up writing a sort of omnipresent 3rd person, switching between POV’s until the first draft is finished. Then I go back to clean up the mess, picking the strongest POV. The good news is, each character has his/her own voice–including the secondary characters. I looked for some before and after examples in my writing but they were all too long. LOL
Thanks for the primer, Toni. Like Rocki, I’m printing this out for current and future reference!
by Silver James April 21st, 2011 at 10:28 amSilver, what is this “growing up” of which you speak? I know not of this thing.
As for writing in all of the POVs and then cleaning them up… man–that’s a *lot* of work.
I know you do photography – think of it like that. The best photos are from a distinctive POV, where we feel like we’re standing in the shoes of the photographer and we’re seeing that story that they wanted us to see unfold in that image. You couldn’t get the same identification, the same resonance, from a montage of photos all looking at the same object from every possible angle. (You might be able to do that for a couple of moments, but if you try it for very long, people start to scan/skim and feel disconnected.)
Same thing with too much information / too many POVs. Half the deliciousness of “story” is not always knowing what the other people are thinking… being in the shoes of the person who’s telling the story and being limited as to what you know. It creates tension and mystery.
Not that you don’t know this… (obviously, you do, or you wouldn’t be editing it). I’m just babbling.
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 10:43 amLOL! But your babbling carries so much wisdom! My process is definitely weird. And really, cleaning up the scenes to focus on one POV isn’t that hard–at least for me. I usually find that if I’m stuck on a scene, it’s because I’m consciously trying to keep in one POV. Once I get back into everyone’s head, the scene unfolds. To use a screenwriting term, lots of jump cuts in the film, which is dizzying for the viewer/reader. But for me, it helps gel what is important and whose feelings/thoughts/actions creates the tension and makes the scene compelling. (At least I hope I make it that way!)
And going with the photography analogy, a pro photographer I once shared drinks with told me that he would take 100 pictures of the same scene in order to find the one shot that had the color, light, and emotion he wanted–to capture the one frame where everything came together to create magic.
PS-I wasn’t kidding. I want you to write the book you started up there! I love the idea of the story through his eyes, and then the story through hers–perhaps two novellas joined in an anthology.
by Silver James April 21st, 2011 at 10:58 amThis is fantastic. I’m giving a workshop on POV at the Emerald City Conference, and only hope I’m fractionally as effective as this post.
Terry
by Terry Odell April 21st, 2011 at 11:13 amTerry’s Place
Aw, Terry, thank you! And good luck on the seminar!
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 4:19 pmgreat post, toni. i love being a little promiscuous with POV
I am very much drawn to the books where there is a main, usually first person pov and then other sections in 3rd to give glimpses into aspectes of the story that can’t be delivered by the protagonist. It’s a literary puzzle, and a gifted author who really differentiates voice can do great things with it. I’m thinking of a specific book, the title of which i can’t remember and it’s driving me crazy. Off to look around…
by Sophie Littlefield April 21st, 2011 at 11:16 amI love that — literary promiscuity.
I do love all sorts of styles mixed and matched, when the author grounds me solidly in the character of the moment. Whether it’s one POV all the way through, or multiples (I think I had 14 different POVs in book 2, which nearly killed me)… but I love it all. Except, maybe, 2nd person, but I have been known to find exceptions to that, too.
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 4:21 pmI love this blog post! You’re one of the brightest people I’ve ever met!
by Barbie April 21st, 2011 at 11:37 amLOL. Thank you Barbie. I think you need to meet more people.
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 4:21 pmWow, Toni! This is an awesome class!
by Debra Webb April 21st, 2011 at 11:58 amThanks, Deb!
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 4:21 pmToni, you totally rock! This is an intensive course on POV right on the blog!
by Jen Lyon April 21st, 2011 at 3:38 pmExcellent, and than you so much!
Thanks, Jen! I think I sort of freaked everyone out this morning with so much blog / length / intensity.
I hope it’s been helpful.
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 4:22 pmHave no WIP, I just love reading what you write!
by Catherine April 21st, 2011 at 4:28 pmThanks, Catherine!
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 4:39 pmWow, so much information illustrated so well. Thanks for the great post!
by Nina Pierce April 21st, 2011 at 4:56 pmThanks, Nina!
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 5:02 pmI doubt it’s a fabulous example, but I tend to feel that this line in my contemp. romance, Drew In Blue, pretty much reveals his perspective on his entire romantic past, rather than having him tick off a list of failed relationships….
“I dated Jared’s wife for about two months before the two of them hooked up. Nice enough girl. She always showed up at my door with casseroles and lasagnas. She even bought me flowers once. Dating her was like letting someone suffocate me with a wet pillow.”
by JMKelley April 21st, 2011 at 5:45 pmLOL! I love that last line. So perfect!
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 8:19 pmThis was a informative blog today.
by Diane Sadler April 21st, 2011 at 6:07 pmWow! I’m thrilled that Allison Brennan mentioned this blog on Facebook today — I feel like I’ve discovered a gold mine! I’ve written a couple of blog posts on deep point of view and the pros and cons of first-person vs. third-person POV, which pretty much mirror your thoughts but weren’t expressed nearly as clearly or with such excellent examples!
Thank you so much for this, Toni. I’ll be sending my clients here (I’m a freelance fiction editor specializing in thrillers, romantic suspense and mysteries) and will be stopping back here regularly myself, to see what else I can learn about the craft of fiction.
by Jodie Renner April 21st, 2011 at 6:16 pmThanks Jodie! Toni is brilliant
I always learn something. All the writers here have put up some great writing blogs, as well as some great fun blogs 
by Allison Brennan April 21st, 2011 at 7:54 pmThank you, Jodie! I’m so thrilled you found it useful!
And like Allison said, we have a combination of types of blogs–some days, more craft-centered and others, more c’est la vie.
I hope you stick around and really, if there’s a subject you’d like us to cover, feel free to ask!
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 8:22 pmThanks, Diane!
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 8:20 pmOh my gosh! I just asked about POV yesterday on my site and here you are, explaining it brilliantly! I love this post! I’m going to put up a link. Thanks!
by Julia Rachel Barrett April 21st, 2011 at 7:05 pmOh, Julia, thank you! And yay, how about that cool serendipity?
So glad you felt it was helpful!
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 8:23 pmWOW! I linked over here from Janet Reid’s blog and I’m so happy I did! I’ve put this on my favorites list. You’ve given such amazing information here–better than any writing book I’ve read (and reread!).
My manuscript is written in 3rd person. In the past, I’d struggled with injecting voice in there without it sounding like a cheap attempt at dropping too much of the character’s personality (much like an info dump). But I’m really pleased to see the sample of a 3rd person piece you drafted. I’ve been writing much the same way as that–having the character comment on things–even to the point of inserting one-liners from the character’s inner thoughts. I feel a LOT better now, knowing that it can be done.
I’m passing this link along to writer friends!
by Jeanmarie Anaya April 21st, 2011 at 10:28 pmThank you, Jeanmarie! I’m so glad that encouraged you and very much appreciate you passing the link along! Come hang out here with us anytime.
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 10:38 pmWow, thanks for the awesome lesson. I will link it, and print it for my refrence notebook. When I revised my WIP I decided to go with exclusive 3rd person. While it wasn’t easy to learn it, I have found I love the challenge of writing the whole book in one POV. I am looking forward to the next book that allows me to do it again.
by Michelle April 21st, 2011 at 10:44 pmThanks, Michelle!
I know how you feel. I went from writing in third person (with multiple POVs for the Bobbie Faye books) to writing in first person (just the one POV) for the newest psychological suspense. It took me several tries at those first pages before I finally felt like I got the hang of her voice, but now I love it, and (happily), can go back and forth between the styles.
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 10:47 pmI know I used the name Randa “too much”, but I haven’t gone back for a rewrite yet–this is my prologue and I’m on Ch. 17:
Randa had been running away from everything the past several years. Running from life, running from love,
running from everything she held dear. She wasn’t really living, just existing. Randa made the decision to
move to the only place that felt like home, to start over and find a new life worth living. And this year, she
would celebrate the holidays, especially Christmas, for this year would be a Tobacco Christmas.
Randa knew most people would hear the words Tobacco Christmas and think she was strange. Tobacco is
pretty much a taboo crop since the government buyouts began; she didn’t smoke and had no interest in
tobacco products. But her family’s history was tied to that plant, like it or not, it was the reason her kin
made-do most years. Aunt Corinna always said you knew if would be a good Christmas by how high the
price of tobacco sold, and her family had always called a great Christmas a Tobacco Christmas. So this
year, no matter what, she was going to have a great Christmas—a Tobacco Christmas.
Her name was actually Miranda Emmaline Sullivan—she laughed that her initials were MES since, at the
moment, her life was a little bit of a mess. She couldn’t explain the pull on her heart to East Tennessee.
She wasn’t born and raised there, didn’t go to school there, but it had always felt like home. She had visited
Pappy and Granny so many times over the years, she felt like an honorary GRIT—girl raised in the south—
even though she wasn’t. She could make sausage, biscuits and gravy just like Granny taught her, grow a
garden to put up canning better than most women in this day and age, and make a quilt for each friend’s new
baby. Her greatest beauty feature was her long cascade of dark curls. Most women envied them, but they
didn’t understand how hard it was to keep the curls nice. She felt like she was average in build and height
with a few curves in just the right places. Randa wished the rest of her life was on track.
Randa decided that moving wasn’t running away, but running to something—she just needed to figure out
what that was. She knew she had to get as far away from Jeffrey as possible. That cheater. How could he do
that after he asked her to marry him. After all she had been through with her parents’ unexpected deaths, the
subsequent legal stuff, the bank’s severance offer, and the sale of her house. He probably thought he’d get
her money. Fortunately, she hadn’t pooled her money with his and she was free to go. She may not have a
job, but the money from the civil suit’s punitive damages, the severance, and insurance, plus her savings,
she could stay afloat until she could figure out what to do. And, luckily, the cabin she had built was free and
clear. It was supposed to be the dream house for her parents’ retirement and a place for her to vacation, but
now it was going to be just for her. She had avoided it, empty—though furnished—like a shell; the way she
felt right now. But that mountain was the one place where she always felt whole, and that cabin could be
the place for her to heal. She couldn’t help but hum Dolly’s In My Tennessee Mountain Home…
by denise April 21st, 2011 at 10:50 pmDenise, first off, I like this character and her background and where she’s going — I’m really interested. What I’d like to nudge you to do, though, is to look carefully at this–you’re telling me this information about her, not showing me this information *through* her POV. (I do this all the freaking time and catch myself at it. It’s such an easy trap to fall into because you’re still conveying story and it *feels* like story because you, the writer, see the imagery. But you’re not showing us the imagery. You’re narrating.)
Here’s an example of what I mean — let’s take the idea of a Tobacco Christmas, and show it, instead of telling it:
Randa hung the last ornament on the tree–a great goliath of a thing that she never would have been able to afford any other year. But this year was a Tobacco Christmas.
One of those rare moments for her family when the tobacco sold for enough for them to get past just making do and actually having extra.
She glanced around her threadbare apartment, the worn out sofa she’d bought at Clive’s Used Goods, the spring on the right still popping up in spite of Clive tying it down with fishing twine when she complained.
…
etc.
Right now, in your version, we’re getting interesting information, but because we’re “hearing” it instead of “seeing” it — it won’t end up memorable. This is sort of a disembodied voice — and we need Randa grounded in a scene, in a place, with tastes and textures, so we can “see” her world and start living there. And you want us to start living there–and identifying with her–as soon as possible, so that we’re hooked and want to keep reading.
Thank you so much for posting! I know it’s a very hard thing to do and I think you’ve got a lot going for you here. Good luck with this and truly, I hope this helped!
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 11:05 pmToni,
Thank you! I get it. It makes sense. I really appreciate you took the time for feedback. Your honesty means the world to me. Now I have a better direction on how to fix things.
Happy Easter!
Denise
by denise April 21st, 2011 at 11:15 pmOh, YAY! Isn’t it fun when things just click?
I’m so glad this was helpful – thank you for posting!
by Toni McGee Causey April 21st, 2011 at 11:27 pmIt’s tough to trust the reader especially for me in the first draft.
My MC is in 1st person and despite showing and not telling and my outline holding up as I crunch through the draft, I still catch myself scene setting.
Do you think this is because I don’t know my MC well enough to trust that what I choose to show through her eyes will give the reader the signals they need to make the connections you explain so well in your post?
In other words – do I need to trust my MC to trust my reader? (unfortunately I think I know the answer to this question but it made me feel brainy for a few minutes to ask anyway, thanks for the great post).
by Timothy Steven Coote April 22nd, 2011 at 4:55 amTimothy, I think it’s a combination, actually — trusting the reader, trusting your MC, and, mostly, trusting yourself.
First drafts really are for crunching out those scenes and scene setting. I think you’re on the right track to go ahead and elaborate a bit more in that draft. For one thing, you don’t know what nugget you put down on page X that will come in handy on page XXX. It’s the muse at work, the subconscious, seeding the draft with tidbits that are rising to the surface from who knows where and for who knows why. That’s valuable, and I’d hate to see you cut yourself off from that process.
The real trick is to trust yourself that on your next pass through, you’ll start winnowing down to what you really need. By that point, you’l know your MC a lot better, and at that point, it really is about trusting that the reader will “see” the image without elaborate description. It’s that persistence of vision thing in action: readers have seen so much — throughout their lives, on TV, in movies — they can extrapolate pretty rapidly.
And thank you — it’s a great question.
by Toni McGee Causey April 22nd, 2011 at 7:34 amToni,
Thanks so much for posting about POV. I especially loved the idea of persistence of vision. It explains a lot. My current WIP uses alternating close third, and I find myself almost always in the character’s head. But I’ve read some works that are able to manage the psychic distance so the reader gets the feeling of zooming in from the narrator’s ideas to the character’s and then back out again. I’ve always thought that zooming through psychic distance is the most effective way to manage POV, but currently I struggle with zooming out, or getting back out of the character’s head once I’m in it. Here is the first couple pages of my WIP (almost done with the 2nd draft) of a fantasy manuscript. Ideas are appreciated.
Dead.
The Professor’s arm fell out of the luggage compartment, but she caught it before it clunked against the wall. Myna paused to consider him. They were well past dignity now, his face frozen in death’s rictus of pleasure. She laid the wrist atop his body and blew a long breath over him, almost a sigh, and watched his eyelashes flutter in the only intimate gesture he would get from her.
The trick was to let a man’s soul wither slowly. Not to rattle them with too familiar images—like looking into their own eyes. It was a pleasure she knew she wasn’t supposed to enjoy, this killing. But listening to a man’s thoughts light through her felt like a tongue glistening across her insides.
What’s this? Professor Rathek’s voice called out, and Myna arched up on her toes at the spasm that flitted in her. Where am I?
She poked her head out of the sleeper, no sign of the Conductor, before she slipped into the hallway. Now was another thrilling part of it all. If she were caught, there would be a scene. The Conductor would ask for her ticket, and instead she’d show him the dead man in the compartment.
Except she skipped off the train without being seen, and then almost hesitated. It was a pity, to turn her back on more death. The night was cold, and the heat of the song was already starting to wear thin, so she stuffed her hands into her woolen jacket while she walked away from the train station. This district on the southern edge of Iona, between the station and the university, was not a place for students at night. Degenerates littered its dark corners, men unchecked by the absence of the King’s hand in Iona. Myna peered down an alley for the shapes of men. If they lurked in the darkness, all that kept them rooted was the idea that should a girl escape to identify her attackers, the Queen would order their deaths.
But they would come if they thought they could be sure, if no one was watching. If they could get her to be quiet. They would come unless they thought she was the murderer killing men in Iona. She turned toward the edge of a bar, its raucous light bleeding into the night. There were men, maybe two along the wall, and she saw their silhouettes straighten. They and their shadows watched her.
Kill her! Rathek’s voice pleaded. She smiled then, feeling the little shiver of feeling that danced through her every time he spoke. He was already fading. But should a man make his way out of the alley and try to drag her into its corners, she could add another voice to Rathek’s.
She stepped toward the darkness and nearly walked into the alley to sing death into them. With Rathek inside her they wouldn’t expect her strength. She shuddered at the thought of listening to two more men inside her. But no, that would be going too far. It was one thing to kill a man because she must. It was another to kill because she wanted.
Bitch!
The shapes sagged back into the wall, even though she must seem easy prey. She sighed, and guessed she looked too unafraid.
Murderer! MURDERER! screamed Rathek.
That was true, Myna thought, as she left the dirt roads behind and felt Iona’s cobble stones round up into her feet. But I wouldn’t have killed you had you kept your distance.
He went silent then.
Damn, she thought. She tried never to talk to them. Conversation always shut them up, and then the pleasure seeped away all the faster.
I was only handing you a book you dropped.
True, but she didn’t respond. Talking with him would only end the delight sooner. She checked her watch. Nine. The dining hall would be closed, but maybe one of the cafes. When Rathek finally faded she would be starving.
I gave you the book, and I, I… your skin was warm. Just your hand! It was wonderful. It was…
He was almost done, so she put her hand on a statue of a lion or a leopard, and her knees buckled. The scent of grass and rock, the damp brick buildings, the warmth of the lamp above, the chill mountain air, the cool moss and darkening foliage of the forest beyond—it all came to her then, like it always did when a man left her and she became herself again. It was sweet. A final building, one last push of life across her mind.
What are you!
And he was done. Her hair skimmed the ground, she felt the blood rush, the sudden nausea, the emptiness.
When she righted herself she saw Iona as it was. A school for young women. Dark now. Students were tucked away, asleep or studying. Ahead, one or two girls walked quickly through the night, hurrying away from their colleges or the library or the dining hall to their dorms.
The café was closed, she remembered now. It closed at nine. Her stomach grumbled, and she ran a trembling hand through her hair. She was going to starve, though that was nothing she didn’t deserve.
Now that he was out of her she could barely remember how he had felt and she was glad. Glad to feel hunger. Something normal like everyone else. Except she wasn’t normal. She wasn’t like any of them at all. Rathek’s words rang loudly in her ears, floating to the fore and becoming her own: What am I?
by David Tames April 22nd, 2011 at 8:16 amDavid, first, I want to compliment you — this is intriguing. I’m immensely curious as to what she is and where and when. You have given me some great detail in the setting, but I’m going to push you for a slight bit more. (More on that in a moment.)
The one issue I had was (and since you said this is your first two pages, I am assuming this is literally your opening)… I am a bit lost. (Easily fixed.) I am also a bit confused. (Also easily fixed.)
The lost part (here’s where the detail comes in) is that I don’t know the time of the novel from this setting. If we’re in a modern-day train or if we’re some time in the past. For example, your first sentence mentions a luggage compartment, but I don’t know if this is a train yet (I guessed correctly). I’m going to edit that sentence to show you what I mean, but I do not mean to put words in your mouth or override your own style — this is just an example:
Obviously, if this is in the past, “stainless steel” and “high-speed train” would change accordingly. It’s that sort of minute, specific detail that you need to think about with each and every paragraph here so that I always know *exactly* where we are in your universe. It’s not going to add a lot of words — no need to expound in great lengths about the kind of train, etc., since that’s not important to the story… but give me specifics so that I can *see* everything.
If you do that all the way through, your scenes will come to life. (Even when she’s confused about her location, *we* still need to see what she sees and understand how she interprets it in that moment. You can then show the dichotomy of what it really is when she “clears” her head later of the professor.)
The second problem of confusion is a bit more difficult to solve, but I think it absolutely must be solved in this opening — especially since you’re writing fantasy (which I love). Even though Myna doesn’t know what she is (which is a terrific reveal at the end of that section), and you do definitely want to keep the reader in the dark with her until that reveal, we still need to see some concrete details about what she’s doing. This will accomplish two things: world-building (we start learning the rules about what she’s doing and how she’s doing it, even if we don’t understand what she is yet or the totality of this word – which would be too much infodump at the beginning…) and we’d also know immediately the type of story we’re reading (she’s not a ghost, so this is fantasy). It’s that first issue, though, that is going to be squirrelly to do, I realize, but I think if you approach it with the same concise concrete details, you’ll give us enough to carry us along because we’ll trust you that you’re going to keep giving us enough to understand the story as it unfolds.
Does that make sense?
I hope this helped!
by Toni McGee Causey April 22nd, 2011 at 10:00 amToni,
Thanks for your time in reading my words. Your comments are very valuable. I’ve kind of felt like my WIP is still missing a little something, and I think you hit it right on the head. I guess I’ve developed a habit of eschewing description for description’s sake. But now, on my third pass, I’m looking forward to peppering it in so that it works for my reader instead of sitting there on the page like big inert blobs of wordage.
Your series is next on my tbr list.
Thanks again!
by David Tames April 22nd, 2011 at 9:27 pmDavid, you are most welcome! I’m just relieved you found this helpful. I never want to derail a fellow writer (and this goes for everyone here). It’s always a hard balance when teaching to make sure that I’m zeroing in on something that I can articulate need work and why vs. changing something for change’s sake for style reasons. Best of luck!
by Toni McGee Causey April 22nd, 2011 at 10:31 pmDavid, you are most welcome! I’m just relieved you found this helpful. I never want to derail a fellow writer (and this goes for everyone here). It’s always a hard balance when teaching to make sure that I’m zeroing in on something that I can articulate need work and why vs. changing something for change’s sake for style reasons.
by Toni McGee Causey April 22nd, 2011 at 10:32 pmHi Toni,
You may not remember me, but I was one of the two guys who attended both your workshops at Desert Dreams last year. It certainly seems like you’ve got more to teach me, too.
Here’s a piece from one of mine:
” Outside of the dance floor, the lighting was bad, so bad that I could barely make people out a few feet in front of me. Combinations of strobe, blacklights, and streaming colored lamps bleeding over from the dance floor rattled my vision, and already provoked the beginnings of a headache that was going to make me wish for the night of drinking and revelry that should precede it.”
by Andy Adams April 22nd, 2011 at 8:19 amAndy, I do remember you — and am delighted to see you here. I hope you’re well and everything is going great!
Okay, on to the snippet.
Your first sentence is good. The second one gets overworked and could be streamlined for more impact. Here’s what I mean:
Stop the sentence there to give us the visual impact. By making the visual too complex, we lose the visual detail.
Also, beware of helper words that are in and of themselves visually vague. The word “combinations” for example – we can’t actually SEE “combinations” — so when you start that sentence off with that word, it’s like starting it off with a veil over our eyes. But strobes, blacklights and streaming colored lamps *are* visual and our brain automatically visually combines them because you’ve grouped them together. Remember: persistence of vision is going to add up the accumulating discrete parts and make it into a whole.
The rest of that sentence is a bit confusing – and diffuses the impact of the visual impact you just made by describing the lights. Simplify that by saying something like this:
I’m all for complex compound sentences (I do use them frequently), but it can also confuse the reader because they have a hard time holding onto the imagery in the first half of the sentence if you switch gears and start talking about something else in the second half. If you’re going to use them, have the subject stay the same (either the lights or the headache). [Of course, I do break this rule on occasion.]
I hope this is useful — let me know if I only confused you! And good to see you here.
by Toni McGee Causey April 22nd, 2011 at 10:12 am[...] The Art and Soul of POV by Toni McGee Causey This is how we build characters: image by image until we have created a series of images associated with that character. The images we choose to utilize when showing that character need, therefore, to be consistent with that character’s point of view, and that’s going to be affected by that character’s background, job, economic situation, personal histories, health, etc. – the soul of the character needs to bleed through every word choice you make while in their point of view. [...]
by Details Filtered Through POV | Kay Camden April 22nd, 2011 at 2:26 pmThis is the most interesting post I’ve seen in ages. Thanks to Janet Reid for referring so many of us!
I would appreciate your insights into my opening chapter:
Les Houches, France
20-May, 7PM
The string quartet stops playing when a gunshot shatters our evening. Dressed for the black tie dinner waiting inside, we stand frozen on the rooftop balcony. Thirty teenage girls, and fifty or so parents and coaches, become suddenly silent. We hold our drinks, in circles of three or four, hoping the flinch-inducing bang was not what our instincts tell us it was. Tablecloths flutter in the light breeze, fire bowls crackle, everything else falls silent. In unison, our faces snap away from Mont Blanc towering above us, toward the Swiss banker and tournament sponsor, Clément Marot. His body drops to the floor.
Shouting erupts near him, ten yards away from me. My head turns instinctively to the commotion. Across the tables where silver dishes of hors d’oeuvres sparkle softly in the dying sunlight stands a man holding a gun in his hand. For just for an instant, our eyes lock. In the next instant his eyes continue making contact with everyone else. His haircut is high and tight; a trim beard covers his grim face. He wears a short waiter’s jacket, black pants, a white napkin draped over his left arm. He raises the gun, pointing it skyward. Threatening everyone without threatening anyone. He shouts something in French. I don’t need to speak the language to know he’s challenging the crowd, looking for anyone who might mistakenly harbor a hero fantasy. The killer’s determined eyes sweep back across the crowd. He has dismissed me as a potential threat. His second mistake. Satisfied there are no challengers, he strides toward the exit.
My memory flashes an image of my mother’s body, held six inches off the ground, the killer’s hands wrapped around her throat, anger and violence choking the life out of her. I hate that day. I was a toddler, too little to stop her murder. It’s too late to save my mother now. And it’s too late to stop Marot’s murder. It’s not too late to stop his killer. I shouldn’t—but I have to. For a second I consider pulling my gun. Too crowded. Innocent people would get hurt. I’ll have to jump him. My gut tightens up, my heart leaps into my throat, and I start moving. Slipping my shoulder between fathers in tuxedos, mothers in evening gowns, and fellow athletes teetering unnaturally in heels, I position myself behind a big man. At five ten, I’m barely able to see over his shoulder. People step aside, opening a path for the killer that runs directly past the man in front of me. I sense my blocker tensing, intending to back out of the way like the others. Perfect.
I lean gently against his left shoulder. Any gentleman would step to his right rather than turn into me and knock me over. But this is France, making half the parents notoriously rude, so my plan might backfire. The man twists his shoulder into me, mutters pardonnez-moi, and steps to his right, placing me six inches off the killer’s path to the exit.
As he strides past me, I explode forward with instant violence. I hook his left ankle with my left foot, sweeping it firmly behind him while smashing my left forearm into his shoulder blade. A nasty move that could draw a red card on the soccer field, it seems oddly appropriate right now. He drops face-first to the floor. Luckily, the gun clatters free and away. Catching my balance, I focus my full one hundred forty pounds into my knees, landing them squarely on his lower back, forcing the air out of his lungs. Hands from a few suddenly emboldened onlookers reach out to restrain the man, each hand grabbing hair, arm, neck, feet, legs. One man reaches between spiked heels and secures the gun.
A strong arm wraps around my waist, pulls me rudely to my feet, and drags me backward through the crowd. I feel an angry tension in his arm and, for just a second, I consider slamming my elbow into his belly and stomping my heel into his shin. But this is not the right time. First I have to know what he’s thinking. Then we can discuss what comes next. Continuing backwards, we find open space near a wall. He spins me around to face him.
“I told you—no more heroics!†He’s steaming mad. His face is red. His veins pulse, eyes bulge. “You are not made of steel; you’re not invincible. He could have shot you. You could have been killed!â€
I shrug, look away, tug up my strapless dress before my boobs fall out.
Daddy doesn’t care that I just nailed a cold blooded killer. He’s worried that if I had gotten killed he would look like a loser for not catching the gunman himself. I mutter, “You’da done the same if you had a chance. Instinct. Where do you think I get it?â€
His chin snaps upward half an inch. Hurt. Yeah, that was mean of me. Usually I make genetic references as a joke, not in anger. I don’t share any genetic traits with the man who adopted me after my mother’s murder
***
by Andrew Montooth April 22nd, 2011 at 2:57 pmThanks in advance! Andrew
Hi Andrew — I apologize that it took me so long to get back to the computer today to respond! I’ve been traveling today.
I’m going to assume you have a very very specific reason for wanting to choose present tense. I genuinely think it works against you–it doesn’t make the scene feel more immediate to a reader (but I am biased against it, so ignore that if it doesn’t work for you). My gut instinct, though, is that past tense would actually give you more of the high impact you want for this scene.
[I am going to do two examples though -- one keeping it in present tense, which I had to use during my screenwriting days, so I am really familiar with the usage -- and one using past tense.]
Secondly, though, we have to address the fact that it is not clear that this is a woman telling the story until later in the scene, and I think that works against you. I also don’t know if she’s carrying a gun because she’s a cop or some other law enforcement type, if she’s a criminal and just happens to be in the right place to stop a murderer and wants to do so, or if she’s something else–a private eye, a civilian. I suspect private eye because of the comment from her dad about no more heroics, but I’m forced to guess, and I should have a few more clues in order to guess accurately.
Thirdly (and I truly fear I’m annoying you at this point), but this is important: by saying “we” and “our” so much through the scene, you’re keeping us at a distance from your character… that “we” and “our” keeps me from being in her specific POV. She’s narrating what’s happening – she’s not *feeling* it. Sensing it. There’s a distance there.
Okay, on to examples of what I mean, with the truly honest hope that this is of help and not derailing you. As with EVERY note you ever get, discard absolutely everything that does not resonate with you!
My experience with action scenes is that you’ve got to watch the rhythm of your sentences. Action scenes tend to need more of a staccato affect, though not every sentence — you do have to vary them. But when you do compound sentences like you’ve done at the top of your first paragraph, you’re creating a languid reaction in the reader which is at direct opposition to what’s happening in your scene. Utilize rhythms here to help create your mood.
Secondly, someone hearing a gunshot in that situation isn’t going to be focusing on all the little details — they’re going to be tense, wondering what’s happening, wondering if they were in danger, so you may want to push that more than I have in the example I just did to convey that brutal impact of the adrenaline surge that’s going to occur in the person we’re reading about. *especially* when you’re using present tense which we’re sort of assuming we’re seeing as-it’s-happening.
Here’s how I’d do this in third person.
To me, the past tense allows for a bit more observation by the woman so that we sort of get to know her a tiny bit better without actually slowing down the action. But that might not feel the same for you.
I changed the order of the gunshot / music stopping because that’s the order it happens, the order the ear would note it. It’s a more active way to view a scene. If you mention the music stopping and then the reason that stopped it, it’s a more reflective way to view the scene, which slows down the read. And slowing down the read can work to your advantage in reflective scenes where you’re having your character contemplate something, but in an action scene, it can hamper the immediacy of what you’re trying to accomplish.
With all of this, I’d *still* push you to color some of that detail with something about her that told her if she were a cop or a private eye or something else. It could just be a phrase (calling the gunman “the perp” indicates a cop, for example). But we need a bit more to ground us in who this person is, because we want to know if we’re going to invest time in her story.
I hope this helps. I really appreciate you posting this — I promise you, my first drafts get red inked ’til they bleed.
by Toni McGee Causey April 22nd, 2011 at 10:07 pmThank you very much for your ideas! I appreciate the time you spent reading and responding, it was most kind of you. Lee Child once told an inquisitive writer who asked for any advice: Writing is an individual vision, take no advice. (Easy for him to say.)
This is not a crime/noir/cop story, so I understand your direction and want to better understand & adapt the parts that fit. Many best sellers don’t introduce the MC for several pages (Cussler, Child, Rollins, Dan Brown, Deaver), is that the luxury of established characters? In my case, I’d hoped to pique reader curiosity about the young lady with some hints: “fellow athletes”, 5’10″ and only 140 lbs, “tournament”, etc. In the next page the reader discovers that she is a pissed off teenage soccer player who burns off her teen angst/anger by bringing down criminals. Introducing that up front shifts the focus to the crime and out of the personal issues that drive her. Too far out of the mainstream?
Many thanks again, Andrew
by Andrew Montooth April 23rd, 2011 at 11:10 amHi Andrew!
I think the question about when to introduce the MC is a whole blog by itself, and really, it varies depending on a ton of factors: whether the character is a series character, whether there’s something absolutely riveting about the writing or the voice or the action (or preferably, all three) that so rivets the reader, they’re willing to hang around to see who the story is about. You’re right in that established authors tend to have a little more leeway in that area just by the very nature of their relationship with their core readers: people who already know them will stick around and give them a chance.
Now, here, the problem is, we are already in her POV by default. There’s no specific reason to hide the specifics about who she is (it doesn’t pique our interest as much as it confuses us as to who we’re “seeing” this scene “through.” If you’ll look at Catherine’s sample below, I had the same problem: I thought her character was a ten or twelve year old girl… but she’s much older and able to contemplate marriage, and that threw me out of the read at that point because I had to mentally readjust how I was picturing this person whose story I’m seeing unfolding. That’s what’s happening with your story as well: I’m not picking up on the clues fast enough to know…
But what’s more important, I’m not sure I see why the reveal needs to wait. The surprise of her being younger and someone who goes after criminals is *far* more interesting up front. That? That is a character that would have knocked my socks off on the first page and had me curious and reading and eager to know why she’s like this and how on earth she’s survived this hobby / obsession.
See–what I think you have there is *fascinating* and you’re waiting around because you’re not trusting your own talent and insight into this girl. You’re relying on technique or style, by waiting, for no good reason, story-wise… but you’re very talented and you’ve clearly got a great character in mind. I’d love to push you to trust that, and let us into this character up front.
I tend to agree with Lee about “taking” advice–with this caveat: I think any writer can use what others have to offer as lessons that we can all learn from. Just articulating this stuff to you guys here this week has helped me in my own work. But in everything I say, and in everything I use, I have a hard and fast rule: use only what helps, and use it as a *diagnostic* tool… in other words, I’m not a doctor writing you a prescription. I’m the patient describing symptoms. You’re the doctor — it’s up to you to put your own spin on it to make the answer right and yours alone.
Best of luck with this – I think she’ll be a very interesting character!
by Toni McGee Causey April 24th, 2011 at 12:22 pmOh, I wanted to add for your last question — don’t worry about mainstream. You’re solid with this sort of character (think Hunger Games), and it doesn’t have to be about the crime if and only if you let us into her character up front. But by featuring the crime the way you’re doing in this draft, it *is* about the crime here. So I’d make it much more about her by letting us know who she is, let us into her POV.
by Toni McGee Causey April 24th, 2011 at 12:24 pmWow — thank you so much for this post!! Invaluable. I came over here from Janet Reid’s blog, but now I’m going to bookmark this and be a regular! I devoured every word and can’t wait to get back to my WIP and try to have the “soul of every character bleed through every word choice.” I also am amazed at the time you took giving excellent individual help to your commenters. So generous! THANKS! I can’t wait to read the next post.
by Karyn April 22nd, 2011 at 6:40 pmThanks, Karyn! I’m so glad you stopped by and that you found this useful.
I enjoy doing snippets like this. I have found as a teacher that often a small sample is so indicative of what we’re doing as a whole, that it’s a great tool to use for analysis. [Sometimes, when we look at the whole, it's overwhelming to think about allllll the stuff we have to think about, juggling all of those plates. I recommend picking out a small section, dissecting it and then thinking about those lessons and applying them to the whole.]
Best of luck with your WIP!
by Toni McGee Causey April 22nd, 2011 at 10:09 pmThis post was very helpful, but it was your mini-critiques that clarified the concepts for me. Thank you so much for sharing your expertise. The following is part of the opening scene from my WIP “Enchantment”
Channie Kerns looked over the edge of the cliff, backed up ten paces and stuffed the hem of her t-shirt into her waistband. Hunter’s clothes were draped across a fallen log, but she wasn’t about to strip down to her skivvies just because he did. She dug her toes into the dirt then took off like a beagle after a rabbit. Her stomach flipped as she hung weightless for a split second, then lurched into her throat as she fell. She tucked her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around her shins and prepared for impact.
The cold, emerald water needled the small of her back and took her breath away, but the look on Hunter’s face just before she cannonballed him was worth it.
She came up laughing, sucked in a quick breath of air and grabbed Hunter’s wrist before he dunked her head beneath the surface. They splashed and teased each other until they were so cold and water-logged they looked like plucked chickens.
Hunter slid his hands around the bare skin of Channie’s waist and licked his lips. Somehow, during all the horseplay, the hem of her shirt had worked its way out of her cutoffs. He pulled her through the water and didn’t let go until they reached the shore. He crawled onto the first ledge of the sheer cliff then offered Channie his hand. “Come on, let’s go get warmed up.†She could have scampered up the bluff twice as fast by herself, but she let him help her.
When they got to the top, Hunter grabbed a stained quilt out of his basket and spread it across the loose gravel and pine needles. The fact that it was pieced together in the double wedding ring pattern nudged Channie’s conscience. Was Hunter trying to hint that his affections would lead to a marriage proposal? He sat down, patted the quilt and cocked an eyebrow.
Everything Momma and Daddy had ever told Channie about boys flooded her mind. It was bad enough she’d let Hunter talk her into meeting him out here. The old bauxite quarry was off-limits for several reasons. It was outside the Clan’s boundaries, the kids from Whistler’s Gulch claimed it as their own, and it was dangerous. Every year at least one idiot drowned or broke their neck diving off the bluff or worse … wound up pregnant.
by Charlotte Abel April 23rd, 2011 at 2:22 amCharlotte, this is so well-done, I’m just going to nitpick, and believe me, it’s nuance only, but I think it’ll help.
1) I thought Channie (love the name) was about 10 or 12 until you mentioned the wedding quilt / hints of marriage and I had to completely revise how I was mentally picturing her in that moment. That’s a problem because it forces me to think of mechanics of story instead of staying *in* the story.
2) excellent use of detail to set the scene. My only quibble is that I’m not really getting Channie’s attitude about this place. You tell me at the end about it being dangerous / people drown / end up pregnant, but that’s something she’d probably be thinking about when she’s stripping down (or not) and flung out over the edge, hanging there mid-air. I can’t tell how she feels about that danger and this place — if it excites her, thrills her, if she’s a young woman awakening to her own sensuality or not. [If this is a romance, for example, she'd note maybe for the first time that Hunter wasn't still that scrawny kid he'd been while they were growing up. It might even shock her how that makes her feel--that brief insight for us into what kind of story this would be--that awakening.]
[That may not be the exact right place / type of thing to do here, but characterize this risk somehow throughout the graphs instead of handing us that information as exposition at the end. I do exposition on occasion, too, but if you can seed that info throughout with concrete details instead of generic drownings, etc., then you make it real and immediate. Then show how that makes her feel.]
3) also, moving even a brief reference to the danger of this place up to the beginning will increase the tension for us as we get to know Channie.
4) love your metaphors / similies. “plucked chicken” is my favorite.
I’d like to push you to find a way to use those to convey a bit more of her attitude as you go. (Not that you need to change these.)
Thanks, Charlotte, for the compliment on the article – I’m so glad this has helped.
by Toni McGee Causey April 23rd, 2011 at 10:03 amThank you so much for your kind words and insightful advice! Your suggested changes sparked several ideas for improving other scenes in this story.
To show my appreciation, I’m buying your book (although I’m certain the purchase will reward me more than you).
by Charlotte Abel April 23rd, 2011 at 11:48 amI just finished reading “Charmed and Dangerous.” I loved it, and gave it a five star review at Amazon. I also purchased the next book in the series and can’t wait to read it.
by Charlotte Abel May 1st, 2011 at 2:04 amWow, thank you, Charlotte! I’m so thrilled you enjoyed it and thank you so much for the great review!
You rock.
by Toni McGee Causey May 1st, 2011 at 8:40 amYou are very welcome. Thank you for writing such entertaining novels.
I intended to use “Girls Just Wanna Have Guns” as a reward for meeting word count goals, but I have no self control and have already cheated twice. I just LOVE Bobbie Faye! I have a feeling she’s going to keep me up late again tonight.
by Charlotte Abel May 2nd, 2011 at 12:18 amHello Toni:
I would like to thank you for your excellent post regarding POV. It is by far a very important eye opener for any writer. It is one that I plan to copy and keep near my computer.
Today was my first visit to this site, but I promise it will not be my last.Thanks to Janet Reid for referring it!
The comments and your honest feedback inspired me to post the following.If you get a chance, I would be very please to get your opinion.
Again, Thank You
Jack Dietz
Highland, CA
Chapter 1
Yellow! It was the color yellow that caught my eye but had only registered subconsciously, a few moments later, somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind. The color did not belong in the area that I had just finish scanning with my binoculars. I should know, since I have been viewing that area of mountain chaparral since early spring.
I had already continued on with my first search pattern on this warm September morning, looking for smoke within the boundaries of the San Bernardino National Forest that this Lookout Tower and me, employed as a Fire Lookout for the U.S. Forest Service, was responsible for, when the realization of what I had just seen finally swam into my conscious, as the binoculars swung back onto the yellow object…my fingers spinning the focus wheel as fast as it could go.
It should come as no surprise to anyone that it is always cooler at 4,000 feet above the valley floor, but the temperature wasn’t what was causing the icy chill going down my spine! It was the color Yellow. The object I was viewing was almost completely hidden in dried California scrub oaks, dense Manzanitas bushes and tall grasses among the rocks, hills and ridgelines that made up the landscape in the area that I was focused on. It was the color that stood out; almost like a call sign that was causing the icy chill, a bright color call sign. That call sign according to recent press reports was the signature of the So Cal Strangler.
I stared at it, frozen in place, my mind recalling the series of broadcasts that had been running on all the Southern California news channels that described in gory detail how the strangler butchered his victims, leaving only a colored object around their neck to wear and then calling the cops with just the color as his proof of his work and identity.
Those broadcasts kept reminding us daily that after 14 months, the police were getting nowhere on the case, while the bodies continued to piled up and there was no known living witness, let along a description of what the strangler might look like.
Those broadcasts also had the residents of the Inland Empire as well as the mountain resort communities’ scare to death. Even residents living in the LA area, 80 miles away were be interviewed on the nightly news….exuberantly telling viewers of their fears and who in turn swamping the 911 emergency lines with reports of strangers that they were sure was the So Cal Strangler.
The newspapers were also making it their lead story. Their attempts to out sensationalize each other, trying desperately to be first with breaking news, the daily editorials condemning the authorities and their investigation was the leading topic of conversations at work, at home and around town. Last weeks editorial in the San Bernardino Sun predicted that the next color the strangler would probably use would be yellow!
As I observed the area around the yellow object, the distance from the tower preventing a detailed image through the lenses, I suddenly noticed some movement behind a group of trees. A tall figure wearing a bright yellow stocking cap, yellow jacket and blue jeans appeared to be closing the tailgate of a dark-colored small truck. I watched as the figure move forward towards the front of the vehicle when the morning stillness was shattered by the squawk of the tower radio, which I had turned on just after waking up that morning, after spending the night in the tower.
The figure froze in his tracks for a moment, their head jerking around looking up towards the tower, realizing that it was manned and then jumped into his vehicle taking off in a cloud of dust toward a fire access road behind the mountain about three miles away. I guess I wasn’t thinking, ‘cause before I realized what I was doing, I had grabbed my keys, the two-way hand-held radio and flew down the stairs, jumped into my SUV and took off in a shower of rocks and dirt and noise, down the opposite mountain side toward the front gate. If I could reach it in time perhaps I could get a license number.
My SUV was soon hidden in its own cloud of dust as I flew over the bumps and washed-out crevasses which populated the fire road that was carved into one side of the mountain that led down from the tower. At the speed I was going, I didn’t want to think of the right side of the one lane road…..there wasn’t one. It was a sheer drop. One mistake or turn of the wheel and I would be hurtling down that mountain side with nothing to stop me but the Santa Ana river bed down in the valley at the base of the mountains 4000 feet below.
I rounded a corner where the road leveled out for a bit, picked up the radio and called dispatch. All I heard through the tiny speaker was static. The mountain was blocking my signal and I didn’t have time to stop and switch channels to use the repeater relay.
Disgusted, I tossed the radio back on the seat next to me. My hands were now clamped tight around the steering wheel. The skin over my knuckles was stretched at tight as wet leather as the wheel jerked back and forth as we fought each other for control.
Sweat stung my eyes and I wanted to let go of the wheel, but I didn’t dare take the chance. Instead, I focus my attention on the fire road and my attempt to beat whoever it was to the front gate which he or she would have to pass to get down the mountain.
Down and around I went, the SUV imitating a wild bucking bull as my head hit the roof one minute, my left side banging on the door handle the next. How I stayed on the road and not bounce off the edge, I’ll never know. Finally, I saw the main gate and slammed on my brakes skidding to a stop next to the white metal gate pole as the dust caught up, covering my vehicle in a choking cloud of dirt.
Before the dust had a chance to settle, I jumped out, running around a slight curve, past the gate and into the road, then suddenly was diving toward the other side, rolling toward the cliff edge, as a dark vehicle rounded the corner coming straight toward me!
I didn’t have time to look at anything as I started to roll off the edge. Desperately my fingers searched and grab a hold of a bush as my legs went over the side; the wheels of the vehicle just missing them as its front end slammed into a pile of boulders. It was at that moment, as my head turned away from the dust that the vehicle kicked up in the air, that I was able to look up and into the driver’s side window–locking eyes with the So Cal Strangler.
Experience had taught me that a person’s eyes usually revealed the owner’s true character. These eyes were gothic black, no reflection, and no light…just the darkness of death! Those eyes held me there on that edge, staring at me like a spider stares at a fly caught in its web, then the window started to slide down and I was not only looking at death, I was seeing its shape–the front end of a 9mm automatic.
He looked at me, a smile coming to his face as the hand holding the 9mm extended toward me! Some people say their life flashes before them at such of time. Mine didn’t. It didn’t matter not that I was thinking about it. My life wasn’t anything to remember.
I stared frozen in place, my eyes frantically searching for someway to escape. My fingers screaming with pain, the weight of my body was causing them to cramp up. Yet I couldn’t let go. They were the only thing keeping me from falling to my death. My mind started to laugh. I only had two choices: a 4,000 foot drop or a bullet. Yet, I don’t remember making a choice. I waited for the impact of the bullet when providence intervened as a loud whine from a dirt bike engine, echoed along the canyon walls, startling the strangler.
He jerked his hand and that gun back inside, slammed the gearshift into reverse, the back wheels spinning, kicking up dirt and stones, as he frantically tried to back away from the edge but was being held in place by the front end that was impaled upon the pile of boulders. I could see the panic that was starting to appear on his face. It was obvious that the fear of discovery or capture was racing through his mind.
It must have been that fear that made him forget about me, the only witness, as he shifted his transmission out of reverse and into drive slamming the front end against the rocks and then shifting back into reverse, repeating the procedure again and again, the fiberglass giving off a squealing noise that hurt my ears as it broke away from the front end.
With the front end gone, he quickly backed up, turned his wheels back toward the fire road then twisted in his seat, stuck his hand and that 9mm out the window at me and pulled the trigger!
Chapter 2
What do you want me to do! Make something up? I yelled at him.
I was sore, tired, the aches and pains from the cuts and abrasions I picked up on that cliff face were starting to make themselves at home all over my body, despite the shot I was given by the paramedics an hour before. The reaction of being so close to death was finally starting to sink in.
We were back up in the tower. For those who have never been in a fire lookout, this tower could be described as a 14 x 14 foot glass-enclosed cabin built on top of a 30-foot tower. The cabin or cab as we call it has faded white metal walls below the windows, about three feet high on all sides except for the one door. The roof was made of corrugated steel sheets with two round mushroom shaped air vents protruding near the center.
The room itself contained built-in cabinets along the west wall under a window seat that took up most of the space along with a sink with an old-fashioned hand pump that didn’t work. The north wall held a cabinet in the center with an area map on the top covered with glass. The south wall was hidden from view by a bed and small bookcase with various work tools standing next to it held in place by a wire fastener, and along the east wall was a chair, an open face cabinet and the door.
In the center of the small space was a four-foot-tall narrow cabinet that held the Osborne Range Finder, a device used to determine range and direction. The tower was originally constructed back in the early 50’s and had to be rebuilt when the Morton Fire race up the mountain slopes forcing the Forest Service to rescue the lookout just minutes before the fire reached the tower itself.
On the outside of the cab was a metal catwalk that went around the whole structure with metal grated flooring and sides. If one was not used to it, walking out on the catwalk and seeing the ground 30 feet below was a bit unnerving and would likely give someone a case of vertigo.
The “we†consisted of two forest rangers, three San Bernardino County sheriffs and Detective Jose Avero. Knocking on fifty, Joe Avero was a large heavyset man with barely a third of his head covered with a mop of gray white hair. His face was lined and had numerous acne scars from a battle he lost in his youth. I stared at that mop for the longest time while the paramedics were working on me, wondering if it was real or what animal had to die to pacify his ego. He was in charge of the investigation, and you could say he had a packed audience in that small room.
“Look, Mr. Ferguson, you’re the only person who has ever seen the strangler and lived to talk about it.†He jammed his hand into his suit coat pocket and took out another antacid tablet. He had been chewing them ever since I met him hours earlier.
“Great! At least you believe me,†I said sarcastically.
I got to my feet, went over to the ice chest, pick out a cold Diet Pepsi, motioned to the others to help themselves. I turned my back and stood looking out the window.
My eyes immediately went to the area where I saw that flash of yellow. It was still there but not in the same place; the area looked different. I automatically picked up the binoculars to take a look. There were a number of figures moving around; four of them carried a stretcher between them. The object on the stretcher was covered up, but that item of yellow was still visible hanging below the edge of the blanket that covered the body.
That color brought the memories flooding back. The wild chase down the mountain, the multiple brushes with death. Then a shot, the sensation of falling… of sharp pain, and the blackness from the concussion, dangling on the cliff’s edge saved only because my foot was wedged tight in a crevasse. However, Detective Avero filled in most of the blanks for me after I had blacked out. He explained that I must have gained consciousness, crawled across the fire road to my vehicle and called for assistance.
Once a forest ranger arrived on the scene, he administered first aid, and as I recovered I was able to roughly describe what transpired. The ranger called for back-up, but had the sense to limit his communications, so in essence a blackout was placed on the event itself until Detective Avero was notified and arrived to take charge of the crime scene and, now it seems, taking charge of me.
My conscious was already chastising me for my actions. Dammit, I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to get involved. I came here, took this job to forget.
“It was the So Cal strangler wasn’t it?†I asked even though I knew the answer.
“Yes! It appears so,†a voice of certainty spoke from what seemed to be a thousand miles away.
Taking a deep breath, I turned back to face him and said, “I don’t know what more I can tell you. I told you what I saw, how I reacted and why. I described those dead eyes and staring at the 9mm, felt the impact when he fired and felt the bullet hit my head! You had to fill in the rest of the details for me.â€
“You were lucky, that wasn’t a bullet, only a piece of rock that the bullet knocked off … a ricochet… when he shot at you,†said Detective Avero. You will have a bruised forehead for awhile but that’s all.
“Now what, just need me to write out a statement or something?†I asked.
“Well, first you’re going to die!â€
I spun around on that remark and everyone in the cab was looking at Detective Avero.
He looked around and saw the look on our faces, smiled and said,
“Your life won’t be worth two pesos, if the strangler finds out that you’re still alive, so we have already released to the press that the strangler has claimed another victim and also killed an apparent witness. Your covered body was taken away earlier. The rest of you must realize that one word, one slip of the tongue, could very well cause his real death and our only chance we have for catching the strangler.â€
He pointed to a faded dark blue duffle bag and continued to explain. “There are some regular clothes from your place inside. Put them on. You can’t stay up here forever. This tower is open to the public and he can come back at any time to finish the job, if he finds out that you’re still alive.â€
“Tonight, he added. You will be placed in a safe location with an undercover officer for protection. Then tomorrow, I would like for you to come down to a station, your protection will know which one, look over some mug shots, work with a police artist so we can get a picture of the guy you saw and then we will be placing you in a safe house until we catch this guy.â€
“No.†I started to shake my head, but a burst of pain yelled for me to stop! I held my hand against my head and sat down on seat along the windows. I waited until the pain eased and then I slowly looked up at the detective.
“Listen, I have no problem helping out but I cannot disappear, I have this job to do which pays my bills; and its fire season, so it’s critical that I’m here.â€
He stood there looking at me they all were, as if I was some strange specimen or something the silence in the Cab scream at me…my conscious was trying to warn me when Detective Avero, the expression on his face reminded me of an old drill sergeant I had years ago, finally replied.
“Perhaps that hit on your head affected your thinking. You cannot be dead and still work your job. Perhaps another tower; we have to see how things go in the next few days, but for now you have no choice if you want to live. Everything will be based only on the condition that you accept police protection starting now.â€
“Fine, I didn’t have the energy to argue.†I’m through being a hero. All I want to do now is go somewhere safe and sleep.â€
We all turned at the sound of a vehicle pulling up to the tower. I couldn’t see who or what it was, I was busy trying to change into the clothes without moving my head. It’s harder than it sounds, you gotta believe me.
I was just pulling up the trousers when one of the officers let out a small whistle and I heard footsteps on the metal grating as someone reached the top of the stairs and stepped onto the catwalk that went around the tower.
I turned back, looking at the detective. He caught the apprehensive expression that appeared on my face.
“It’s okay; here comes your ride and police protection. We figured a woman about your age would help both of you blend into environment better as a couple.â€
“Great! But I didn’t sound all that excited with what I was hearing. Where or what is this place I’m going to,†I asked as I tightened up my belt.
A soft very female voice answered: “Paradise–simply paradise.â€
I looked up and quickly started to feel better about going into hiding.
A woman was standing just inside the doorway. Smiling, looking sexy yet demure in a blue jean jacket, a matching slim skirt and a red satin Chinese peasant blouse. She definitely wasn’t hard on the eyes, even though she wasn’t disturbingly attractive, she was pretty. Her long, straight dark hair fell around her face. She was slim, but not model skinny; her figure appeared to be rather healthy to a man’s point of view and her shoulders were bigger than most women who stood around six feet tall. She looked younger than her 49 years, well 49 if she was about my age. Her eyebrows were long and bit darker than her hair. Her eyes were wide apart, irises reflecting a soft pale green. The lips above a determined chin easily parted in a bright, even-toothed smile.
“Mr. Ferguson,†Detective Avero said, “Detective Diane Carlson, your shadow until the strangler is caught.â€
Detective Carlson looked at me for a long moment, nodded her head in greeting and then turn as if I wasn’t there and looking at Detective Avero asked, “Is he ready to go�
“Yes! I think so.†Detective Avero said turning his attention back on me pausing as if changing his mind on what he was going to say and then with a somber expression gave me my marching orders.
“Mr. Ferguson, It is important that you follow Detective Carlson’s instructions at all times to the letter without question. She is very good and very experienced.â€
“Do you understand� He asked, observing my reaction.
“Yes and then looking at my new protector I added, “I’m ready when you are.â€
**********
by Jack Dietz April 23rd, 2011 at 11:50 amHi there, Jack —
First, I like a lot of what you have here, but I genuinely believe you have far far too much. You’re weighing down the story with the story.
Meaning, you’ve got a lot of backstory you’re trying to cram down our throats right here on this first page, and we don’t know the person viewing through the binoculars. For example, I have no clue if that is a man or a woman. Could be either. It’s probably a man, but there’s nothing distinctly specifically masculine in the way he’s viewing what he’s seeing. I get nothing that isn’t “generic ranger” sort of perspective, nothing that’s making this guy stand out for me.
By the end of chapter one, I still don’t know him. Not his name, nothing about him, or for certain that this is a man. That’s way too long, imho, to be confused about whose POV I’m in.
Secondly, you’ve got some great action and tension here, but you’re burying it in detail that someone would not be thinking to themselves… and when you start telling us that much detail, that’s exposition and it can be a story killer. I think you need to trust the reader more–we’ll catch up to all of the backstory as you weave it through the book. We don’t need it all right now, right this minute, in order to grasp the danger and the tension.
Here’s an example:
[Okay, caveat — I didn’t read your second chapter — time crunched here with family stuff — so I’m just planting one type of job that he (I’m assuming it’s a he and the “pissing in a cup” would be a way to show that without telling it)… that this guy could have done before. If he’s retired from one job but took another, and is still got *attitude* about assholes, we know something about him — something personal. It’s small, and we’ll learn more later as the story goes, but whatever it is that your guy is, you need to start *showing* us those details early on. Not *telling* us “narrating” but showing via examples, concrete scenes as seen through his eyes.
Lastly, especially in your action scenes, try to avoid too much narration that clearly shows the guy survived–it kills your tension. Obviously, he does since he’s telling us the story, but *in the moment* of the scene, pare it down. For example, “how I survived…. I’ll never know…” etc., kills your tension. Likewise, the “I observed” and “I recalled in my mind” — these are mechanics, the business of moving around, and readers assume these things… no need to point them out and bog down your action.
You’ve got quite a lot of good stuff here, Jack. I’m being tough on you because (a) I know you can take it and (b) you’re sharp and talented. I hope you will completely discard everything that doesn’t resonate with you, though, and use whatever comes in handy.
Best of luck with your work in progress!
by toni mcgee causey April 24th, 2011 at 6:46 pmHappy Easter, Toni:
First, thank you very very much for your feedback. You provided me and I hope other writers will some great additional insight and that is priceless.
You are correct that the person is a man which is pointed out in chapter two. But I understand what your telling me and will work on my WIP.
Thanks
by Jack Dietz April 24th, 2011 at 7:47 pmRegards, Jack
Add me to the list of people referred by the lovely Shark, and also to the list of people who will be back soon! :]
I’ve been working and reworking this intro of my fantasy book, and I hope you can tell me if I’ve established my poor baby’s character well in these paragraphs. (I promise he gets less whiny as the book goes on!)
-
The Spring Equinox and Wood’s Day were approaching. The Shrine was bustling with activity. Maids dashed here and there, their short green dresses flapping in their wake. I watched them from my room, seated on the tall, canopied bed that had often been both my shield and my prison. The curtains were drawn back just enough so that I could stare out, watching, listening—existing, but not being.
Even as I stared at their flitting bodies, no one stared back, so absorbed as they were in their own lives, their own worlds. I was like air, always there, but never noticed. And I liked to think I liked it that way.
Wood’s Day. The Shrine would soon be full of people praying for favor from the Goddess Herself, praying for their crops and children to be blessed or for their lives to be happy. Not that praying got you anything anymore. Well, not for me anyway.
I was a Holy, one who was supposed to speak with the Gods themselves, share their thoughts and pass them on to the people. But the Gods were deaf to my pleas, and had been my entire life. I stood up, pushing the canopy aside and closing the door to my chamber. I locked it behind me and found my reflection in the mirror. A soft, feminine face, framed by long, violet hair braided and folded over onto itself in front of my ears. A slender, androgynous body hidden under layers of thick, green fabric. A green eye on the right, a silver one on the left. That cursed silver eye, the cause of my isolation.
True, it was not the only reason, but without that eye marking me as a Holy, I would likely be a normal man, perhaps living with my parents still, or even courting a young woman. Perhaps I would be skilled in a trade by now, learning the skills of my ancestors. Instead I was trapped behind stone walls, sought after for advice I had no right to give, locked into a life that wasn’t mine. This was the life that belonged to a true Holy, one who knew what he was talking about when people asked him questions on the nature of life and love and death.
I pulled the velvet curtain over the mirror’s face, catching the hurt and anger twisting my features reflected in its surface. I closed my eyes, smoothed my mask. Even if I wasn’t a true Holy, it was only a problem if other people knew. I would become an object of pity. I would be weak. And weakness was not an option for someone whose only strength was the illusion of strength.
by Hilary April 25th, 2011 at 10:30 pm