Warning: the following essay contains examples drawn from slash stories, some of which imply male/male romance. If such things bother you, go read someone else's rant.

Part 1: The Rant

Point of view is the lens, the focus through which the story is transmitted. Point of view can make a good story great or make a great story merely good.

When point of view is done well, it makes the story sing. It can put the reader right there in the character's head, feeling everything the character feels, seeing everything the character sees. It engages the reader and makes her want to read more. It enables the writer to portray the heart and soul of the story.

When properly applied, point of view can turn lead to gold, make grown men cry, and cure stubborn cases of chronic halitosis.

Okay, maybe not that last thing. But everything else point of view can accomplish if you make it work for you, not against you. This essay/thought piece/rant is about how to do that.

There are three common points of view: first person, limited third person, and omniscient third person. In first person, one character speaks as "I," and refers to other characters as "he" or "she" or, more rarely, "you." In limited third person, all characters are referred to as "he" or "she," but one character's perspective still dominates, so that only that character's thoughts are reported, and a given scene is told showing only what that character sees, hears, and feels. In omniscient third person, the narrator has a godlike status, able to report on the scene as if from above, able to describe what any character, or in fact, no character, experiences.

The first person has some advantages and disadvantages, none of which I will dwell on here. Suffice it to say that a first person narrative is the most obvious, in the sense that the boundaries are clear, and it is easy to stay in perspective. While doing a first person well may not be as simple as it looks, the objective (making the narrative sound like the character) is fairly straightforward.

Third person perspectives get more complicated. The problem is that the boundary between the limited third and the omniscient is not as obvious, and a writer may be tempted to succumb to what I call the "head-hopping third" -- a hybrid perspective which attempts to appropriate the best parts of the limited and omniscient points of view, and can end up making the reader seasick.

Allow me to elaborate.

In the close, limited third, the narrative is strictly linked to one character at a time. The viewpoint may change between sections (which are set off by section markers like asterisks or pound symbols or horizontal lines), but it never changes within a given section. Every sentence, every word, refers to that single character's experience. The reader sees what he sees, hears what he hears, feels what he feels -- and nothing else. If another character happens to feel something or think something (privately), it is not reported, except through what means the viewpoint character can observe. (He might see her frown, but he can't know what she's thinking -- he can only guess.)

In a true omniscient point of view, the narrative is never close to any character. The narrative voice belongs to a separate (unnamed) person, and it is that voice which filters all observation. Think Jane Austen, commenting on her characters with subtle mockery. An omniscient voice is like gossip. It expresses attitude and opinion, but it never quite gets inside the heads of its subjects. Oh, it can comment on the characters' thoughts and feelings, but it can never feel with the characters, because there is always the layer of the narrative voice between the reader and the characters.

The hybrid point of view tries to meld these two perspectives by doing away with the omniscient narrative voice and replacing it with a close third person perspective that constantly changes, "hopping" from head to head, showing us the inner thoughts and feelings of multiple characters at once (or in quick succession). The problem with this technique is that it means the poor reader never knows whose perspective she's in. One paragraph portrays Character A's thoughts; the next jumps to Character B. But what about the intervening sentence, the description? Whose point of view does it belong to? In the head-hopping third, the reader never knows. She's too confused trying to follow the bouncing perspective that she's panting for breath -- and if she's unlucky, reaching for her airsick bag. And there's a second problem. Even if she's taken her Dramamine and is handling the head-hopping just fine, she can never truly capture the sense of being inside a character's head, because she never knows when she's going to be dragged out of it. So instead of bringing us closer to both characters, the head-hopping third makes it more difficult to identify with any of them.

I know it's tempting to use the head-hopping third. It's tempting because many times when you have an interaction between two people, you really, really want to portray what they're both thinking and feeling. Well, this can be done in the close third. Honest. There are two tricks which, when used well, can actually make the reader identify with both characters, either at once or in sequence.

The first is simply to switch perspectives when you need to. In the middle of a hot-and-heavy scene, and need to show that Character B is feeling something deep and private? Pick the crucial moment, type a line of asterisks, and show what's happening from the second point of view. You can even backtrack and portray the same scene twice if it's powerful enough, and if the second character's inner feelings are unexpected enough.

The second technique is harder, but when done well is a thing of beauty: set up the scene such that the reader can deduce what the second character is thinking or feeling without needing a direct portrayal. You can use any number of means -- describe the character's expectations or feelings in a previous section from his point of view. Or have the character do or say something that the reader will understand. This "something" can include gestures, facial expressions, words, or actions -- and it can work even if the viewpoint character does not understand what's going on. (For example, in Due South fic, if Fraser starts talking to thin air, we have a good idea that he's talking to his father's ghost, even if the viewpoint character does not.) Sure, it takes planning and cleverness, but when this technique works, it will hit your reader like a ton of bricks.

I know what you're thinking. You're still not convinced. You think I'm full of it. And of course, you're entitled to think that. I have just one request for you: try writing one story using the close, limited third. See if you like it. See if you can feel the power that comes with close, uninterrupted identification with a single character. See if you can find the joy that comes from living inside one head at a time, really settling down and making yourself at home in there.

Trust me. It's fun.

Examples

Okay, so you're with me this far, but you're still not exactly sure what I'm talking about. Close third? Omniscient? What the heck's the difference? Well, a picture's worth a thousand words, so here's the closest thing to a snapshot in prose format.

The following is a passage from my story, "Double Vision / Single Truth." I'm using it purely to illustrate the different perspectives; no claim about the quality of writing should be inferred.

In the original, the scene takes place in third person limited point of view, with Fraser as the viewpoint character:

"Fraser?"

He looked up. They were parked in front of the Consulate, and he hadn't even felt the car stop. "Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't realize . . ." He reached for the door handle.

"No, wait, hang on a sec." Ray's expression had gone strangely wild. "Look, I -- I gotta ask you something, and you can't ask me why I want to know, or talk about it again, or anything."

It was bad, then. Fraser braced himself for the worst. "All right."

Ray shot him a quick, surprised glance, like he'd been expecting an argument, but he didn't comment. Instead he reached into his pocket for his wallet. "I, uh, I need you to look at this picture," he said, handing over a wallet-sized snapshot. "I found it in Ray Vecchio's desk."

Here is the same section, rewritten to be from Ray's point of view:

They pulled up in front of the Consulate, and Ray looked over, but Fraser seemed to be lost in thought. "Fraser?"

Fraser's head came up with a jerk. "Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't realize . . ." He reached for the door handle.

"No, wait, hang on a sec." Ray couldn't let him escape this time. He had to know about the picture, and Fraser was the only one who could tell him. "Look, I -- I gotta ask you something, and you can't ask me why I want to know, or talk about it again, or anything."

Fraser stiffened in his seat, but didn't argue. "All right."

Ray almost backed out, then, but the need to know won. He reached into his pocket for his wallet. "I, uh, I need you to look at this picture," he said, handing over a wallet-sized snapshot. "I found it in Ray Vecchio's desk."

Here's an attempt at a true omniscient point of view (difficult, because the story is designed for the more intimate close third):

They pulled up in front of the Consulate, both men lost in thought. Ray was the first to snap out of the stupor. "Fraser?"

Fraser came back to alertness like a man who realizes he's not drowning, after all. "Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't realize . . ." He reached for the door handle.

"No, wait, hang on a sec." Ray's essential impatience won the day. "Look, I -- I gotta ask you something, and you can't ask me why I want to know, or talk about it again, or anything."

Fraser stiffened. "All right."

Ray reached into his pocket for his wallet. "I, uh, I need you to look at this picture," he said, handing over a wallet-sized snapshot. "I found it in Ray Vecchio's desk."

And finally, a mixed limited narrative masquerading as omniscient (the "head-hopping third"):

They pulled up in front of the Consulate, and Ray looked over, but Fraser seemed to be lost in thought. "Fraser?"

Fraser looked up. He hadn't even felt the car stop. "Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't realize . . ." He reached for the door handle.

"No, wait, hang on a sec." Ray couldn't let him escape this time. He had to know about the picture, and Fraser was the only one who could tell him. "Look, I -- I gotta ask you something, and you can't ask me why I want to know, or talk about it again, or anything."

It was bad, then. Fraser braced himself for the worst. "All right."

Ray almost backed out, but the need to know won. He reached into his pocket for his wallet. "I, uh, I need you to look at this picture," he said, handing over a wallet-sized snapshot. "I found it in Ray Vecchio's desk."

(Notice how it's hard to tell, at first, whose perspective the line "it was bad, then" is coming from. Annoying, isn't it?)

 

Part 2: The Practical Stuff

So how do I write a close third, anyway?

The close, limited third is deceptively simple. "Limited" means writing every sentence from the viewpoint character's perspective. Anything that that character couldn't see, feel, smell, hear, or think is out. "Close" means portraying those thoughts and sensations from the inside out -- when the character has a thought or feeling, show it as if you were thinking or feeling it right with him.

Got it? Cool.

The deceptive part comes in because we're used to seeing things from outside the character's perspective. So there are verbal patterns that are easy to fall into that distance the reader from the character's perspective. There are too many ways this can happen to list them all, but I'll try to cover some of the more common difficulties.

The following explanations contain passages from several of my stories. Again, no claim is made as to the specific quality of the writing. I'd use someone else's stories, but that would mean butchering their prose to make my point, and I don't feel right doing that to anyone but myself.

Show, don't tell. This is the old creative writing 101 rule, but it works when used judiciously. To get closer to your viewpoint character's head, don't merely describe what he is thinking or feeling, show it from the inside. Portray the specifics of those thoughts.

Compare:

Fraser was acting like last night hadn't meant a thing to him. He was thinking about the case, which Ray was having a damn hard time doing. It was unfair. Completely inhuman. It made Ray want to kick him in the head.

to

Fraser was acting like last night hadn't meant a thing to him. Ray burned with anger at the apparent insensitivity. And Ray was feeling distracted, which only made it worse, because Fraser was not.

See how much more evocative the first is? We don't merely observe how Ray is feeling; we're thinking and feeling along with him.

Note that there are times when you want to summarize. If you're trying to describe a long passage of time succinctly, ignore this rule. But if you're trying to portray an intense scene, a scene where details matter, follow it closely.

He thought, she thought. Since every sentence in a close third is already from the character's perspective, you don't need phrases like "she thought" or "he remembered." Just show the thought. For example, compare:

Ray sat bolt awake in bed, drenched in sweat. His alarm clock said nine twenty-three, and it was light out, which meant he'd had less than three hours of sleep. Damn.

to

Ray sat bolt awake in bed, drenched in sweat. His alarm clock said nine twenty-three, and it was light out, which meant he'd had less than three hours of sleep. Damn, he thought.

It's a subtle difference, but if the preceding paragraph is already in close perspective, the "he thought" feels superfluous.

On the face of it. A character can't see his own face. He can feel it, and he can alter his facial expression deliberately, but he can't see it unless he's in front of a mirror. So avoid any external descriptions of the viewpoint character's facial expressions. Compare:

Fraser's face went hot.

to

Fraser's face went red.

The first is internal -- Fraser's point of view. The second is external -- another character's point of view. Use the description that's appropriate to your current perspective.

A piece of the action. Action scenes are particularly difficult to write in close perspective. There's so much going on that it's tempting to try to describe absolutely everything. Resist. Try instead writing only what the character feels directly. Pace the words to the action. If it happens quickly, describe it quickly -- show only as much as the viewpoint character could perceive in the time that it takes to happen. And above all, avoid distancing phrases like "he had no way of knowing that . . ." If he has no way of knowing, the sentence has no right to be in his perspective. (Save that line for an omniscient narrative.)

The following snippet takes place in a confrontation between Ray and a young boy holding an assault weapon. Another cop, attempting to help, raises his gun to aim at the kid. Compare these two descriptions of what happens next:

"Jerrit, no!" Ray shouted, but it was too late. The kid swung around, his finger tightening on the trigger. Bullets sprayed and shop windows shattered. There was another report, from Jerrit's direction, and the kid dropped to the concrete.

to

"Jerrit, no!" Ray shouted. Jerrit was circling around, raising his heavy, black gun, aiming straight at the kid. He had a look of intense concentration, almost of fear. The boy flinched at Ray's shout and then swung around, his finger tightening on the trigger of his assault weapon. Bullets sprayed out, screaming past Ray's ear, making shop windows shatter and pocking the concrete of the sidewalk. Passers-by shrieked and dove for cover. Then Jerrit's hand convulsed, and another shot rang out from his direction. Red blossomed on the kid's chest and he dropped to the concrete.

Sure, the second is more detailed, but it's slow. The first gives us the essential details, and everything passes in the blink of an eye, just as it does for our viewpoint character, Ray.

The name game. Ordinarily when we think about someone, we think of their essence -- physical, emotional, etc. We don't necessarily call them by name in our minds. In order to translate this thought process into words, a writer has to call characters by name. But what name? The trick is to make the name-calling transparent, so that the reader doesn't notice the word, but instead thinks of the person it refers to. If a writer continually switches around between two or three (or more) different names, it only calls attention to them. This is exactly the opposite of what you want. Instead, pick the name the viewpoint character would use the most often, and stick to it. (Some writers appear to believe that repeating a single name is boring. But used correctly, the name becomes like the word "the" -- transparent and functional, not drawing enough attention to be boring. The reader sees the person, not the language, and therefore isn't distracted.) Compare:

At least Ray was talking to him. Fraser led the way outside, almost grateful for the contusion on his forehead that had made Ray so solicitous. If nothing else, it was distracting Ray from their conversation last night.

to

At least Ray was talking to him. The Mountie led the way outside, almost grateful for the contusion on his forehead that had made Kowalski so solicitous. If nothing else, it was distracting the slimmer man from their conversation last night.

See how the names in the second one jump out at you? And notice that the third term in the example ("the slimmer man") is the worst offender. It implies that Fraser thinks of Ray as some sort of generic skinny body, not as essence-of-Rayness.

You shouldn't think of this as a hard-and-fast rule, but rather as a guideline. There may be an occasional time when you want to focus the reader on the name. Suppose Ray starts feeling closer to Fraser and wants to call him "Ben." If you've always used "Fraser" in Ray's point of view before, the name switch will be much more powerful. Or use the names to make more subtle points - - for example, you could have Fraser think of himself as "Ben," but Ray (in Ray's point of view) think of him as "Fraser." Or vice versa. See how it says different things about the two characters?

Working your pronouns. When you see the word "he," how do you know who it refers to? It's not simply the most recently mentioned male character. Instead, a pronoun refers to the character who's the focus of the current sentence. While this is not always the viewpoint character, it is more likely to be the viewpoint character than anyone else. You can use this little fact to strengthen your viewpoint. If you're talking about two male characters in a single sentence, see if you can get it to work so that the viewpoint character is the one who's referred to by the pronoun. Sometimes a simple rewrite like this can make a noticeable difference.

Compare:

Ray let out another breath and relaxed against Fraser's shoulder. Fraser really did understand, or close enough. And Fraser was still his friend. With the tension gone, he drifted in the warmth of it, feeling a delicious lassitude creep through his body.

to

Ray let out another breath and relaxed against Fraser's shoulder. He really did understand, or close enough. And he was still Ray's friend. With the tension gone, Ray drifted in the warmth of it, feeling a delicious lassitude creep through his body.

It's subtle, but the first one is just slightly more clearly inside Ray's head.

 

There are many other techniques for working your point of view, but I'm afraid I'm tapped out for the moment. I dearly hope you've found this rant helpful, possibly enlightening, and at the very least not too annoying.

And whether you agree with me or think I'm full of it -- good wishes and good writing!

Recommended reading: Characters and Viewpoint, by Orson Scott Card. (Yeah, it's a Writer's Digest book, but it's clear and detailed.)

If you have questions, or disagree (or, heck, even agree) with me, and want to talk, please email me at crysothemis@yahoo.com.