by Judy Bridges
Griffin sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning over so that his long blonde dreadlocks fell around his face. He scratched the animal behind the ears. There was no collar on the cat, no tags, nothing. “You belong to anybody? You got any friends?” The cat cawed at him. “What am I going to call you, huh, buddy?” He picked it up and stroked its fur. “How about . . .” he looked in the cat’s single green eye. “Lemuel.” The name came to him suddenly. Was that some archangel’s name, or some demonic prince he’d read about somewhere? Anyway, it fit.
A One-Scene Story
In the early 1980s, short story writer and poet Raymond Carver was a Writer-in-Residence at the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee. To tell the truth, I didn’t know he was such a big deal when I signed up to study with him. I thought he was just another writer guy. That probably worked in my favor because with no awe-factor going on, I could focus on writing.
The following year, I studied with another author who assigned all sorts of high-school stuff that annoyed me. One assignment was to write a scene in the style of someone famous, so I wrote a teeny-bopper’s parody of a Raymond Carver short story. Carver saw it in a campus literary magazine and was kind enough to compliment the writer.
The entire story happens in one scene. Life enters—you see some of the so-called “Carvers” past and future—but all the action is contained in one bubble (see Figure 13).
Figure 13. Bubble Scene for the Carvers
I don’t remember how it started. We were sitting at the kitchen table. The oven was on LOW. It was getting dark. He kept wiggling the ice in his glass, staring at it. He goes, “You never did like it, did you?”
I go, “What? What didn’t I like?”
“My writing.” He goes, “You never did like my writing.”
I pour myself another drink. I need a lot to get through these things. I go, “Dammit, Ray, why do we have to go through this every time you finish a story? Why can’t you just be happy about selling the stuff and leave me out of it?”
“Because you’re my wife. That’s why. You’re my wife and you don’t like my work.” He leans back in his chair—almost tips it over—sprawls his long legs under the table.
“I like it. I like it.” I go. “Listen, you’re a great writer. You get right inside people. Right inside their empty parts. And you write in plain English everyone can understand. That’s real good, Ray. Not every writer can do that.”
He keeps wiggling his glass. “Well, then, what don’t you like about it?”
I want to change the subject but I don’t know how. I go, “What don’t I like about what?”
He starts screaming. “About my writing, goddammit. What don’t you like about my writing?”
“Jesus, Ray. Please, please. Let’s not go through this again.” He keeps egging me on. I go, “All right, goddammit. I hate your endings.”
“So you hate my endings, huh?” He leans forward, squints at me. “Why do you hate my endings?”
“You know why. Because you never finish things, that’s why. You just quit when you want to quit.”
“My endings are realistic. You just can’t take realism, that’s all.”
“I take realism just fine. I take it every day living with you.”
He goes, “What do you mean by that? What was that crack about?”
I push my glass into the center of the table and get up. “You. It’s about you. You never finish anything.”
He grabs me by the arm. “Wait a minute. What do you mean I never finish anything?”
I just look at him.
He puts his hand on my breast and squeezes it a little. He goes, “I finish some things, don’t I?”
I just walk away.
“Go Gazebo” by Judy Bridges
The Milwaukee Road Review,
Issue 4, 1983
CHAPTER FIVE
POINT OF VIEW (POV)
Seeing Eye to Eye
The first horror film I remember seeing in the theatre was Halloween, and from the first scene when the kid puts on the mask and it is his POV, I was hooked.
—David Arquette, actor, director, screenwriter
In the last chapter, you brainstormed several scenes and picked one that called to you, the one you want to write first. Before you begin writing, take a short detour to decide which point of view is best for you and your story.
When I talk about point of view, I don’t mean it in the philosophical sense. This point of view (sometimes called POV) is not opinion, not what you or your character think ought to be happening in the story or in the world. Your story or article might present a philosophical point of view, but that’s not what an editor refers to when she scribbles POV in the margin. This POV is a convention, part of the craft, a set of rules that make it easier for you to do the writing and easier for your reader to understand, and appreciate, what you’ve written.
You have options. You can write in first person, second person, third person limited, or third person omniscient. The important thing is to know the differences, and to make a deliberate choice. When you choose a point of view, you look at your scene through a particular pair of eyes. You see it more clearly and therefore write more clearly.
It’s All about the Narrator
The first thing you need to know about point of view is that it is based on the physical location of the narrator—it is the point from which the narrator sees what’s happening. If the narrator is one of the characters, he sees the action through that character’s eyes. If the narrator is looking over the shoulder of one of the characters, he sees the action from that location. If the narrator is in the sky, he sees the action from on high. The narrator can say only what he can see, hear, and know from the chosen place, that is, from his point of view.
Notice that we’re talking about the narrator here, not the author. The author is the person who comes up with the ideas and pushes the pen. The author creates the characters and situations, or, in the case of informational writing, researches the material and decides how to present it. The author selects a narrator she thinks will best connect with readers. The “narrator” is the person readers “hear” telling the story—the sailor, grandmother, teacher, or cop who acts as a reporter, spinning the yarn in a way that will appeal.
Sometimes the author identifies the narrator, as Herman Melville did in the first line of Moby Dick when the sailor/narrator says, “Call me Ishmael.” A children’s picture book might be narrated by an imaginary four-year-old. A novel set in Japan might be narrated by an imaginary geisha.
The narrator sees the action and tells the story from his or her vantage point.
First, Second, and Third
When you are ready to select a point of view, you have options:
First Person
Second Person
Third Person Limited
Third Person Omniscient
First Person
A first person narrator uses “I” when telling the story. He’s at ground level. He sees, hears, feels, tastes, and smells everything in the scene as he walks through the room or ascends the stairway. He can see how other characters react, but he can’t be inside their heads. He does not know what they are thinking or what they did the night before.
If the first person narrator is a child, she sees everything from three feet off the ground. She sees the bottom of people’s chins. She sees belt buckles more clearly than bald spots. If the person standing near her is nervous, she is more likely to notice toe tapping than a twitchy eyebrow.
The geisha would feel her feet inside her shoes, see the curve of the man’s shoulder, and feel the silk. She would share the scene from her point of view—the smooth skin, the rustling silk.
Advantage
First person narration is powerful. It brings us deeply into the character. It is the most immediate, most intense point of view, especially when combined with present tense, as in, “I can hear heavy breathing, but I’m afraid to turn around.”
Disadvantage
Because the first person narrator cannot see behind the barn or be in anyone else’s mind, this POV can be limiting to use in longer stories.
Examples
First Person, Singular: The narrator “shows” us the world as she sees it.
Dank air rose up the steps from the darkness below. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I ran my fingers over the rough cement block wall and found the light switch. Bare bulbs on long cords lit up rows and rows of the nuns’ trunks, though there weren’t as many as there had been. An exodus occurred in the last years, and I might soon be a part of it. The choice the ruling council had given me was therapy or leaving, and in any case I would no longer be the Mother Superior.
—From “Almost Leaving” by Carol Wobig
First Person, Singular: The narrator can share what she could have reasonably learned from other sources.
While I was sitting at my desk that afternoon, feeling good about how quickly I could do the math assignment, my mother tried to kill herself. She wandered out onto the road before the pills took effect, walked a few yards to the east, and collapsed in the tall grass. A neighbor on the way to town saw her and called an ambulance. Later that day, I pictured her lying there, perhaps parts of her body exposed, and was shamed to the core.
—From “The Haircut” by Carol Wobig
First Person, Plural: The narrator speaks as “we” rather than “I.”
Late afternoon sunlight made long shadows prostrate themselves before us. We didn’t notice. Warm breezes stirred our hair. We tossed our pigtails back impatiently. The chimes of the ice cream truck sounded on the next block. We didn’t care. We had Lisa’s new ball, Susan’s new glove, and Tina’s new bat, and possession of the diamond in Fielding Park.
—Example written by Annie Chase
First Person, Present Tense: Adds intensity.
I know what comes next. My taxi will wind through the scrubby brown hills of Los Cabos, each crest bringing me closer to the Sea of Cortez. We’ll pass under an old stone archway, and just as it looks as though we could only go up, we’ll turn sharply downward, straight for the coast where my hotel sits at its beachy feet. I know the arrangement of the sculptures in the rock garden behind it; I know the white wooden cross that sits on the peak of the hill to the north.
—From “The Man Who Would Have Known Me” by Laurel Landis
Second Person
Second person point of view is a little out of step with first and third since it has less to do with the position of the narrator and more to do with a form of address. The narrator refers to one of the characters in the story, or to the reader, as “you.” “You were only six when you jumped off the cliff.” Or, “You should have seen the way this klutz behaved.”
Advantage
Second person narration is useful for promotional and instructional writing, such as in this book where it seems natural to address the reader as “you.”
Disadvantage
Readers tend to rebel when they think they would not behave like the “you” in the story.
Examples
The narrator refers to a character in the story as “you.”
Before you turned mean, it was easy. Even after you realized it was happening, you made it easy for us.
—From “Jesus Did It First” by Annie Chase
Addressing the reader as “you” is often used in advertising.
It’s the perfect getaway for just the two of you. Melt into one of our sumptuous suites, each with a king-sized bed, custom mattress and Egyptian cotton linens.
—A magazine advertisement for a hotel
Third Person Limited
Third person limited point of view is almost as immediate and intense as first person. In this commonly used form, the narrator “rides with” one character in the story, seeing places and people from that person’s point of view as if looking over his shoulder.
Advantage
The narration feels comfortable and well anchored to readers.
Disadvantage
None I can think of.
Example
The narrator “sees” from Ronco’s perspective.
Outside, Ronco sat on the deteriorating wooden steps that hugged the back of the bakery building. He pulled the miniature bride from his pocket and ran his fingers along its plastic swells and dips. An oversized dumpster hulked next to the building like some kind of animal absorbing the lingering warmth in the wall’s bricks. The dumpster’s lid was thrown back and the smell of the day’s uncollected garbage assaulted him: soured milk, over-ripe produce, and other things he didn’t want to imagine. It had been almost an hour since Jensen and the guys had stumbled down the alley, shrinking to the size of the small figure he held in his hand and disappearing into the crowds of customers moving from one Brady Street bar to another. He had been waiting under the light that filtered down from the transom above the back door this long. He could wait a little longer.
—From “The Guy in the White Socks” by Sara Rattan
Third Person Omniscient (a.k.a. Unlimited)
The third person omniscient, or unlimited, narrator is up in the sky and godlike. She can see into every nook and cranny and inside every brain all over the world, all at once. She can even see what’s going on behind the barn.
Advantage
It is convenient to have such freedom and to be so wise.
Disadvantage
Tempts the author to bounce from place to place and brain to brain, causing the reader to feel unhinged. Can also make the reader feel distant from the characters and action.
Examples
When deftly written, omniscient narration is both panoramic and internal.
Directly overhead the sun blazes hot and bright against the vivid blue sky. Colorfully clad women work their hoes between rows of lush green tobacco plants. Grace Kangai pauses to catch her breath, squinting hard against the fierce noonday light. She works despite her weakening eyes. She doesn’t need to see; years of experience have trained her hands to turn soil without harming the delicate roots of the plants.
“Maiwe!” Distressed, Gladys calls from several rows away. “Mbuya, Grandmother, why are you straining yourself in this hot sun? It will damage your eyes more! The rest of us can cultivate your rows when we finish ours.”
Grace Kangai goes back to work. Despite what the others say, she refuses to believe her eyesight is failing. She calls back: “Who picks every pebble out of the mealie-meal to make the smoothest sadza?”
The women reply: “You, Mbuya! No one cracks a tooth eating porridge in your house.”
“Who teaches the children to see weeds among young and tender tobacco shoots?”
“You, Mbuya! When you help them, the young ones never mistake crop for weeds.”
Still hopeful she can convince Grace to rest, Gladys steps forward. “Young Boss is pleased with their work. But Mbuya, it is not a bad thing that wise old eyes grow dim. It is a thing to be expected.”
Who, Grace wonders, stepping at last into the generous shade of an acacia tree, fingers easing the ache in her lower back, sees this land as it was before? Before the government measured and parceled and sold away the earth, giving Old Boss right and title to these thousands of hectares? Before he built Riverview Farm and produced sons to whom he gave the land? Before he called to those scattered off their own land, the land of their spirit elders, to return to work again, but for him?
You, Mbuya.
—From “What Shall We Do?” by Jeannée Sacken
Omniscient narration can be confusing when the author moves from one perspective to another too quickly.
David hated looking in the mirror. His teeth were stained, broken, and missing. Shelley knew he was self-conscious about his mouth. She thought he was the handsomest man in the world, because she knew what was in his heart. He knew she loved him but it made him angry to be so poor he couldn’t get his teeth fixed. When he kissed her, he always aimed for her cheek. It made her ache for him the way he avoi
ded applying for better jobs, the way he mumbled when he talked. He always laughed with his mouth closed.
—Example written by Annie Chase