The Last Draft

by Sandra Scofield

  At its most confining, the close-third-person POV means that you are hamstrung by the one perspective, so you can’t tell what is happening if that character isn’t observing what you want to reveal. If your choice of POV strangles your ability to tell the story, you need to revisit your decision. The main thing I tell my students is that if you want to stick to your protagonist’s point of view, it doesn’t mean your text should sound like the protagonist would speak. If you want to use the protagonist’s voice, use first person.

  In a novel with multiple main characters, the switch is made in a kind of rotation, and you are more likely to use this whirling POV if a single one has you up a tree. Usually it’s an alternation of close third views about events and people closely aligned, but increasingly, innovative writers are varying multiple aspects of story, sometimes contrasting perspectives across generations or populations.

  I’ve also noticed lately that writers are starting to be quite bold in moving around the point of view in their novels. Within the same chapter, often within the same scene, more than one character thinks about what is going on. Novels I’ve recently read that do this, I would say successfully: Emma Straub, The Vacationers; Nancy Clark, The Hills at Home; Meg Mitchell Moore, The Arrivals. I’m sure there’ll be lots more. I think it’s all part of a growing awareness that a story is an object that is being observed by a narrator who knows what people are thinking and feeling. It’s a matter of deciding where you want your narrator to stand and what you want her to reveal.

  You can choose to be mostly in the consciousness of the main character, in a third-person POV, but I prefer to think of this as the voice of the novel (its narration) observing the character thinking, just as it observes the actions. You can still stick with that character (not go inside other characters’ thinking; not tell things happening if the character isn’t present), but the rigidity of “being inside the head” relaxes. It is possible to give the reader information that the character would know but isn’t necessarily thinking about at the moment. It is possible to remark on the character’s behavior or feelings. If you are integrating a lot of backstory into the narration, you just about have to do this, unless you are going to say, over and over, “she remembered.” (“Remembering” matters if a character is ruminating, regretting, analyzing, etc. It isn’t effective if it’s just an excuse to present information.)

  I urge apprentice writers to do some practice writing using an objective dramatic POV. Tell the story using dialogue and description, with no interiority. Tell what you are seeing and hearing. It has worked for Cormac McCarthy, Elmore Leonard, and Ernest Hemingway, among others. This approach forces you to let action be strong and clear enough for the reader to interpret, without a character’s thoughts, and it can break sloppy habits of the character inserting remarks about everything. You don’t have to pledge lifelong allegiance to it.

  If, however, you want to maintain the closeness of the character’s perspective, you have to consider whether third person or first person is best. Both have the same constraint—you can tell only what the character knows—but in first person the reader accepts more commentary as natural, whereas describing what a character is thinking all the time can get distracting, even annoying. In the case of first person, you must ask what reason a narrator would have to be telling the story. Are we, the readers, meant to feel that we are present in the action or that we are hearing about it (consequences and all)?

  An author often chooses first person to tell a tale about something that happened long ago about which perspective has been gained—or can be gained by the telling. I find this the most natural use of first person, perhaps because I associate it with an ancient sense of storytelling rather than a modern “here I am and it’s going on now” sensibility. In Joseph Conrad’s Lord Jim, for example, the character Marlow struggles to tell the story of a man named Jim.

  In a story that casts its view back, there may be a tone of regret or shame or the pleasure of finally recognizing meaning about long-ago occurrences. Wendell Berry’s novel Hannah Coulter is told in the voice of a woman looking back on a lifetime in her Kentucky farming community, in a cadence that is both common and poetic—characteristic of Berry’s storytelling.

  Marilynne Robinson makes interesting use of first person in Gilead, when elderly John Ames writes a letter to his seven-year-old son, revealing the long history of his family, his friendships, and his own journey of faith. She also creates tension in unusual ways—with ideas as much as feelings; this is a man wrestling with his sense of guilt, and with his faith. Because of her conceit of the letter, it is natural for the character, John Ames, to fill pages with commentary: his regrets, his joys, his fears.

  Both close first and close third should be considered in terms of tense, as well; some writers like the present tense for its immediacy. It says this is happening, rather than this is what happened. I think it’s hard to control this strategy, and it is confining, almost claustrophobic, if used inexpertly. It also creates tension with the notion that a story told is a story whose meaning has been considered. But if it feels natural to you, you can use it and assess whether it proved useful.

  Most apprentice writers would expect that a first-person narrator would remark on history and events, character and feelings, but they might not consider that commentary used to be usual in third-person POV stories, too. We don’t see many omniscient narrators anymore (those who know everything, see everything, and therefore can tell everything), but if you give yourself a little more distance from that close third person, you may find it possible to say things that wouldn’t fit otherwise.

  If you are up for a study of POV that allows the narrative to remark on characters’ behavior subtly but with great effect, I can’t think of a better model than Alice Munro. Go through any of her stories and mark out the places where she says what a character is like, how the character sees the world, what the character’s behavior tells about her. Munro manages to be inside and outside of characters at the same time.

  Note that I have referred to the “voice” of the story or the “voice” of narration. The “narrator” is the something, not quite a someone telling the story. As if stories come from heaven, or history, or fate. What you want to strive for is a kind of falling into that voice, that isn’t quite you (you are the author) and isn’t quite the character. It is the story telling itself. It is magic.

  EXAMPLES

  The possibilities are dizzying, and this may be your first time out as a novelist. Remember that a story doesn’t have to be fancy to be effective. It’s more important to be clear, engaging, and comfortable with narration. When novelists use innovative strategies to tell their stories, I believe it is because that is how they hear the story; the complexities are part of their story.

  Let’s look at a couple of simple examples that demonstrate, I believe, that a straightforward third person is flexible and more spacious than you may think. You won’t stop and think: How clever this novelist is! Instead, you’ll follow the story with enjoyment. I just read Donna Leon’s latest novel of Venice, The Waters of Eternal Youth. Her novels have an accessible structure you could study as a model. She narrates from the point of view of Commissario Guido Brunetti, an intellectual, compassionate, curious, and competent police inspector, a man with a warm family life and a love of his city, despite its many social and physical flaws. Her writing is accomplished but it isn’t complicated or fancy. You can see what she is doing. Here’s how I describe her POV:

  Leon tells a story, filling in history and background, bringing in new information and events, while following the movements of the inspector as he goes about his work and his life. Intermittently, the protagonist remarks on what is happening, sometimes processing it as an investigator, but he also often has philosophical reactions, expressing himself in a way that makes him the insightful and empathetic character so many readers enjoy. At other times Leon observes what Brunetti thinks. I’ll begin with a
n example of that, as Brunetti discusses a murder victim with a barman who knew him:

  “Did he work?” Brunetti asked, aware that his professional responsibility was to check other possible motives for Cavanis’ murder and not only his long-ago act of courage.

  Later, on that same page, Leon describes a moment’s interaction between Brunetti and his partner Vianello. Note that she is describing the interaction, of which Brunetti is a part, but without being “in his head”:

  Vianello and Brunetti exchanged a brief glance. Neither spoke, each waiting for the other to do it.

  An apprentice writer, struggling to maintain a close-third-person perspective, might have ended up with something like this instead:

  Brunetti exchanged a brief glance with Vianello. Vianello didn’t speak, and neither did Brunetti, as he was waiting for Vianello to speak first.

  It isn’t necessary to be so tight.

  There are, however, interior comments, such as:

  Brunetti told himself, but did not say aloud, that Manuela might not be the only one who was brain damaged.

  I am especially fond of the inspector’s musings—he is a reader of classics, while his formidable wife, Paola, is a professor of American literature. Here is an example:

  Brunetti found himself thinking of Dante’s belief that heresy was a form of intellectual stubbornness, the refusal to abandon a mistaken idea. In Dante’s case, this path led to eternal damnation; in his own case, Brunetti reflected, intellectual stubbornness might well be leading him deep into the Dark Wood of Error.

  I especially want to make the point that a close POV doesn’t keep the narration from giving history and commentary. It requires little or no tags of “she thought,” “he knew,” etc. Here is a passage from my novel Beyond Deserving. The occasion is the fiftieth wedding anniversary party for the parents of twin sons whose wives are POV characters. This excerpt is from Ursula’s perspective. Her daughter, Juliette, dances to the music of two violins.

  Juliette begins to dance. At first she takes only a small space. She moves, almost like the musicians, in a flutter. Then her arms move out from her like a flower unfolding. Her head rises and her face, sweet and pale, is sad and yearning. She turns gently, once, and again, venturing out away from the music, into the center of the hall. Her arms wind up and pull her heavenward, beyond the building, away from their quarrels . . .

  For fifty years the Fishers have been saying wrong things, or nothing at all, or pretending to talk while they speak riddles and small deceits. Here, though, is a Fisher who with a few deft moves has rescued them from a day’s spite . . .

  All of this is observed by Ursula, but it is told by the narrator, in the diction of narration, and not in Ursula’s voice. We aren’t interrupted with “she thought” and a tangle of syntax. Ursula is present, observing, but the narrator tells.

  If you are a lover of popular women’s fiction (Elizabeth Berg, Joanna Trollope, Sara Gruen, Kristin Hannah, etc.) and you want to write it, you will want to study how POV is used to establish intimacy and tension. Find passages and use them as models; ask, What is the structure of this passage? followed by your own writing in the same general style. Note, too, that these successful writers don’t ply with a tired old oar. They write fresh, imaginative, intelligent stories.

  One writer who has made a successful career expertly employing the intimacy of close POV is Jodi Picoult, whose novels explore issues in the culture, and always make them personal and affecting. In The Storyteller, she tells of the unlikely friendship of a young woman and an old man, a survivor of the Second World War who turns out to have worked at Auschwitz. Her writing is full of the narrator’s observations and opinions, all nested in ample description, action, and dialogue. Some chapters are busy with the daily stuff of present-day life. Other chapters are rich narration about the past. We always know where we are and what it is like there. We always know how the narrator feels, but in a context—her own history, the old man’s history, stories of war, family, courage, atrocity. When she switches perspective to that of a narrator relaying the experiences of war, she completely changes the tone and rhythm of the prose, with very little dialogue. The contrast between the voices is controlled and effective. If you read one of her books, try to figure out why she approaches different parts of the story in the perspectives she uses. Assume she made choices based on the subject matter and the effect she wanted to have on the reader.

  I’m aware that I have made several references to women’s fiction, and this is because this “genre” is characterized by emotional interiority and usually uses a close POV. We see next to none of that in popular novels preferred by male readers, where the plot is paramount and sentiment is spare. However, I think best-selling author Michael Connelly’s novels about the troubled detective Harry Bosch deftly balance plot with character-centered story. He always has a burden on his conscience. Philip Kerr, too, creates a protagonist whose life is a constant engagement with threat, but whose intelligence and sensitivity are drawn deftly with interior reflection. In this he is much like another novelist of World War II–era Europe, Alan Furst. Both are impressive historical fiction writers.

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  SO WHAT ARE the rules for point of view? It comes down to this: Find a way to tell your story that feels natural to you and that allows you to find the balance of event and reflection that keeps the story moving while also deepening the engagement of the reader with the fate of the characters. If you vary the perspective (switch POV), do so deliberately. You may find yourself slipping into a change. That’s fine. Write a while, and then stop to read and think about the switch. Is there a pattern to the variety? What are you accomplishing by changing perspective? Try what feels right. Follow your impulse, give it a fair try, and think about the overall effect in revision. It’s important to “teach” the reader what POV you are using right away, rather than springing a change on her.

  Read your work aloud often; you will hear if it is awkward. If you don’t stumble in reading what you wrote, you probably didn’t stumble in writing it. The main question to ask as you review the text: Is there any place a reader might be confused?

  Most of all, read and study how other writers do it. I think you will be amazed at the variety of approaches, and the freedom open to you.

  Have you early on established your point of view—even if it means that it shifts—so that the reader isn’t confused? And if you are using a shifting POV, is that established early on?

  Does your point of view help you convey your vision of the story world?

  Are you comfortable with the POV? (You can’t sustain a voice that feels strained.)

  Do you like the sound of the voice? (Read it aloud!)

  AN UNCONVENTIONAL STRUCTURE

  I’m going to talk briefly about point of view in a novel of mine, More Than Allies. I choose it because although it is a short novel with a simple plot, the POV design was challenging. I knew I was going to alternate the perspective of two young mothers in a small Oregon town who, because of some trouble their sons get into, become allies. I wanted to present their lives, at first separately, and then when they are together near the end of the book. I wanted to give them voice mostly by showing what their lives consist of. Both are poor but hardworking. Both are motherless, and they worry about their own parenting skills. Both are separated from their husbands, men who have matured and want to put their families back together. And both have deep interior lives—the histories and feelings people don’t guess when they see them. A Mexican maid. A substitute teacher, once a foster child. A couple of moms.

  At the same time, I didn’t want to interrupt my main strategy, which emphasized scenes, by interrupting action with backstory and musing. I felt all boxed in by my first draft (which was already a revision of a “finished” manuscript in which both women had appeared as minor characters). And then I thought, I’ll just do what feels right and see if it works. I’ll
ignore all the advice I’ve read about sticking to my POV guns. I soon realized that what I wanted to do in POV was intertwined with what I had to structurally.

  So here are some observations of the book’s structure.

  There is a kind of prologue and also a kind of epilogue, but in fact they are the same event—the car journey the women and their sons make from Oregon to Texas to reunite with their husbands/fathers. The first passage is when they are leaving Oregon; the second passage is when they are arriving in Texas. This is in June 1992. The passages are told by Maggie and are concerned with how she feels about Dulcie. They probably will never see one another again, but their friendship is enshrined in Maggie’s tribute to it. So there is first-person commentary.

  Maggie and Dulcie alternate third-person POV—not in a rigid structure. This is the ongoing “present” of the story. The emphasis is on scenes.

  There are short texts, like interleafs. They present short scenes from the past, such as a time when Maggie was with Mo before they were married. Then a time when she was fourteen and she revisited the town where she had once lived, and where her mother later died.

  Dulcie is seen by Maggie as wise. She tells Maggie about her dreams, and there are passages in which Maggie thinks about what Dulcie has said. There is also a passage about Dulcie and her dreams from her own POV. These passages are italicized and each would be one of the “interleafs.”

  There is a flashback to Maggie’s mother’s death, another interleaf.

  There are letters from the absent husbands. (Italicized interleaf.)

  I think my small innovations fit the story perfectly. I don’t present these examples as models so much as to make my case that if you let go of your fear of POV, you may find ways to let it serve your story better. Also, you can see that how you present character perspective is tied with how you structure the novel. There is a world of invention and strategy in the ways writers utilize point of view, but by far the most usual way is straightforward and uncomplicated.