Voices: the tool for presenting a story

Here is Skye Taylor’s homework assignment for her faithful followers: “What’s your favorite POV to write and/or read and why? What advantages might Omniscient, 3rd person or 1st person offer? What might be the disadvantages?”

First of all, people who read but don’t write fiction may not know that POV is “point of view.” You can learn all about it here.

And here is another take.

Omniscient

“Omniscient” is a polite way of saying “head hopping.” This is my (very negative) assessment of why I avoid it, and bounce on it when I edit or critique someone else’s writing. Simply put, if you are in more than one consciousness, you cannot be in any, unless your characters are telepathic. Even then, I’d clearly distinguish between “my thought” and “your thought I am aware of.” There is the constant risk of a reader wondering who thought/said/felt that, and that’s it: you have destroyed the reality you’ve so painfully created.

First person

First person voice is when the narrator in your story tells it, well, in first person. The entire story in Hit and Run is through the consciousness of one of my favourite teachers, eighty-four-year-old Sylvia. Actually, the book is her journal.

You can read the opening chapter here, so I’ll give you another sample: the start of chapter 2:

I didn’t know how long I’d been talking. The psychologist fellow almost seemed to be absent, like I was talking to myself, yet he was a warm, encouraging presence. His dark eyes calmly regarded me, and his quietness, the occasional little nod, made me feel free to speak. Somehow, reliving my story while telling it made me feel I’d shed a weight. I stopped, embarrassed because I’d forgotten his name.

“Sylvia…may I call you Sylvia? Thank you for putting me in the picture. That’s a remarkable story.”

“Tell me, Doctor…”

“Vlad.”

“Tell me, Vlad, have I gone schizophrenic, or am I hallucinating?”

He grinned. “My very strong guess is that you’re saner than most people, although extreme stress can do funny things to us. It’s possible that you’re hallucinating, but tell you what. This is open to scientific examination.”

“How do you mean?”

“When the police find the boy, either he’ll look like your fourth drawing or he won’t.”

“Would you like another cup of tea?”

“No, thank you. But I’d like you to tell it to me all over again.”

“What?”

“How do you feel now, compared to how you felt when I walked in?

“I feel less distressed.”

“That’s due to my magic, of course.” We laughed. “And the magic depends on you allowing all the nasty emotions and memories to be processed. They hurt, so we run away from them, so they stay hurting. Face up to them, accept them, and they stop being re-livings and become merely memories.”

“But do you have the time?”

“I’ve set my afternoon aside for you. And it’s OK, I’ll get paid for it.”

“But it’s a Sunday!”

“So? Tell me what happened, again.”

He was the expert. I gave him a repeat performance. Only this time, it wasn’t anywhere as intense. He was right. And a few new details emerged.

At the end, he asked, “Is it lighter or heavier or the same?”

“Lighter.”

“Light enough for now?”

“I think I can survive.”

“All right. Now, please go to the toilet, brush your teeth and come back.”

“Why?”

“So I can do more magic.”

I complied. When I settled back in my chair, he asked me to close my eyes. I heard his voice drone on.

I awoke to darkness, and an empty house. I felt wonderfully rested, and nothing hurt. I was hungry, for the first time since the tragedy. Significantly, I could think of the event without any flashbacks, fear, or anger.

Vlad is as Sylvia perceives him. She is the narrator, and as an exercise, you can look for the way I ensure you stay in her reality.

Second person

Skye didn’t include second person voice, because it is rarely used in fiction. But this essay is nonfiction, and it’s me, talking with you. So, it’s second person, see?

Third person

This is STILL the inside view of one person’s consciousness, but not using that person as the narrator.

Here is an illustration from Sleeper, Awake:

Kiril Lander was almost at the peak of Mount Chicago, North America’s highest mountain. This high, the black rock wore a thick, slick coating of translucent ice. He had the specially shaped toes of his climbing shoes thrust into tiny slots in the ice. His gloved left hand was wedged in another at chest height, and he inserted the right into the still warm slot a little above. He steered the laser gun via the implant and activated it.

The gun took at least five clicklets to respond, then an eternity, maybe as long as half a click, to cut the next slot. At the same time, Kiril became aware of the straps digging into his shoulders. I’m low on power, he thought with a sudden burst of fear, and his breathing speeded up, a desperate lapping for air through the mask. “Artif!” he called without words.

“Yes, you are low on power,” she instantly answered, “but I can’t possibly recharge here. You’d be swept off the rock face.”

“Do I have enough to make it?”

“Not at the current rate, my dear. I estimate five more slots, with luck.”

By then, his left hand was in the new slot. Instead of his previous careful, one-movement-at-a-time progress, he now did a chin-up, hanging for a long instant on the tips of his fingers, and got both his feet anchored. Still panting with fear, he blasted a slot as high as he dared, reached up and did a one-handed chin-up. His right foot engaged its slot, but the left scrabbled around blindly for a heart-stoppingly long time. Face shield against the ice-covered black stone, he looked up. The top was still intimidatingly far above.

He made a slot for his left hand, at his current head height. The job took forever, and the pack was now a real weight trying to drag him off into space.

Kiril took the deepest breath he could. It turned into three rapid gasps, then he pushed hard with both hands and feet, and swarmed up in one movement, feet engaging the previous handholds. His gloves were pressed against smooth ice, their treated surface providing a little anchoring. Every atom of his being hugged the slippery, unforgiving surface. Slowly, reluctantly, the laser gun cut a slot. He slid his right hand up and thankfully inserted his fingers, hanging on while the second slot melted. “Artif, I may have to drop my gear,” he said without sound, panting.

“Then you’re dead anyway. Go on, Kiril, one more try.” Her voice was calm, warm, confident. His hands grasped slots so high that his arms were almost straight. He gathered himself and again made a single convulsive yet smooth movement and, incredibly, his feet jumped into the slots that a clicklet ago were way above his head. And his eyes were at the level of the very peak.

Every muscle straining, he hugged the slippery, almost vertical face, fighting the weight of the equipment on his back. The laser gun was working — more or less — at making just one more slot, on the rounded top of the continent.

It ran out of power when the slit was about half depth. Kiril was breathing so fast, it must have been three breaths to a clicklet, and yet he felt as if he was drowning. And he was now carrying the full weight of the pack. The laser gun dropped to the black surface, slid off to the side, and disappeared below.

His eyes were seeing a blur. His blind right hand found the inadequate slot and his fingers hooked in.

“Pull!” Artif shouted within his mind.

And then he was sprawled face down across black stone.

Some of this may not make sense to you, such as who is Artif and how can Kiril have a conversation with her, but all you need to do is to read this award-winning book, right?

Fourth person

There ain’t no such thing. Tricking you.

More info

A bunch of wise ladies
May well think I have rabies
With the stuff I write
When trying to cast light.

No doubt, their advice
Is worth reading twice.
So, please follow each link,
To see what the experts think.

Connie Vines
Skye Taylor
Helena Fairfax
Victoria Chatham
Diane Bator