Shut Up & Write!

by Judy Bridges

  Tips for Handling Point of View

  Unless omniscient narration comes so naturally to you that you never err in its use, choose either first person or third person limited. Both have just enough restrictions to hold you tightly to the page; your prose stays taut and you don’t go flying around and losing the reader.

  If your chosen point of view isn’t working, go back to the beginning and try again from another point of view. Many stories have been saved, or taken to a new level of interest, by switching from third person to first, or first to third. Sometimes the only way to know for sure is to try it.

  You can use more than one point of view in a piece of writing if you handle it carefully. Make the switch from one point of view to another at a natural break in the story. A natural break is a point at which the reader expects a change, such as the beginning of a new chapter or after a four-line break—or “white space”—in the text. Be sure to identify the new narrator immediately.

  Example

  The author makes a clear shift in the point of view at an anticipated break.

  With difficulty, Celac made the top of the gate, but as he swung his body over, he lost his one-handed grip and fell hard on his injured side. Dizzy from the pain, he forced himself to stand, to breathe. To go on.

  [Author inserts white space and immediately identifies the new point of view.]

  Stephen paused at the place where the man had fallen. There was blood on the concrete, more than he expected. Deciding it was time to take full measure of his opponent, as well as strengthen the bond between them, he tasted.

  —From Nocturne by Elaine Bergstrom

  The Difference between Point of View, Voice, and Tone

  “Voice” and “tone” are often mentioned in conjunction with “point of view,” but they are not the same.

  “Point of view” refers to the location of the narrator.

  “Voice” is the personality of the narrator.

  “Tone” is the mood of the piece.

  Point of View = The Location of the Narrator

  Point of view is the physical placement of the narrator—his eyeball view of the characters’ world, the place from which he interprets the action and shares it with the reader.

  Example

  The narrator is well anchored in one location.

  I couldn’t believe what I was watching. My mother talking to a perfect stranger about her love life with my dad, waving her perfumed wrist in front of his pinchy nostrils. Too grossed out for words, I made a big show of leaving the room but stayed close enough to the doorway to hear what came next.

  —From “Jewel Tea” by Kim Suhr

  Voice = The Personality of the Narrator

  As the author, you instill your narrator with a personality that’s appropriate to the piece—friendly, easy-going, down-home, aloof, imperious, intellectual, instructive, thoughtful, reflective. Each narrator has his own personality, his own voice. Cowboy. Beauty queen. Reporter. Intellectual. Little kid. Adventurer.

  Example

  The narrator takes on a personality that suits the story.

  Meet Charles Goodfoote, Esq., PhD (Hon.), DD, JD, MD, Etc.

  Tracker of Man and Beasts, 1886

  For those of you who don’t frequent the press rooms of our large cities, and may not have read of my exploits in the better sort of publications that are hawked on every street corner, I’ll give a brief introduction to myself. I go by the common name of Charles Goodfoote. My original handle has been lost among the confusion of my early years, as I was raised by a band of Red Indians. My mother, poor woman, was a Blackfoot herbalist, married briefly to my father, an Irish muleskinner who died bleeding trade whiskey shortly after the rejoicing over my arrival slowed. I lived with my mother’s people until the Army “rescued” me and shipped me off East to the Indian Barracks to unlearn my “Indianness,” usually by the application of a cane across my nether parts.

  My appearance in a glass would show hair like a raven’s wing, a square jaw and a distinguished nose inherited from my maternal grandfather, the renowned Chief Stands-In-Thunder of the Peigan people. An erect carriage and above average height are part of the Indian package. A whimsical fate left me with one eye dark like my mother’s and the other as blue as the sky, a condition respected among the Blackfoots, but a cause for consternation among the city folk I’ve consorted with over the years. From my father’s side came a bushy handlebar mustache and a riotous temper, accompanying a keen wit and reflective view of life. In short, I’m a true son of the American West, with the heart of an Irish poet and the soul of a Red Indian.

  —From The Art and Science of Tracking Man and Beast by Tom Hanratty

  Tone = The Mood of the Piece

  Your story may be dark, light, sweet, romantic, witty, humorous, pensive, tense, dramatic, or sad. You and your narrator set the tone with choices of language, setting, action, and the sensual details you use. Every subtlety adds to tone, even the color of the water in the bathtub, even the sound of breathing.

  Example

  The mood is so thick you want to help Theo pull away.

  It was dark in there, the blinds down and drapes shut. Theo stood for a moment listening to his mother’s slow breaths, then walked over and stood by the bed. She was lying on her front with her face turned to the side, mouth open and arms by her sides, hands open. Who slept like this in the middle of the afternoon? He reached out and touched her shoulder. Her skin was warm, and for a second he wanted to climb in next to her like he used to, and lose himself in the waves of her breathing. But he didn’t. He was too old for that now. Instead he went back to his room and took apart his Lego Mission Commander, arranging the pieces in piles on his bed before beginning to rebuild.

  —From “The Ghost Mother” by Felicity Librie

  Putting It All Together

  When you write the first draft of a scene, you are too busy trying to visualize and get the words down to bother thinking about voice and tone.

  He had to bend a little to see what she’d seen. Under the lowest branches of the pine trees, he could see a lush green rectangle of meadow beyond. Had he not known better, he’d have thought it was a great expanse of moss. He thought he heard her camera click.

  When you rewrite, all of the elements—point of view, voice, and tone—start coming into focus.

  He had to bend a little to see what she’d seen. In the distance, beneath the lower branches of the pine trees, the meadow formed a lush rectangle, as green and luminous as moss. He closed his eyes and saw the bear there, imagined Gwen’s camera click.

  —From “Olagam” by Laurel Landis

  Study this one for a while. Notice that as the author tightens the point of view, we see the scene more clearly. She also identifies two other characters, the bear and Gwen, making the voice more intimate. Adding “luminous” to the moss and having the protagonist close his eyes make the tone of the scene a little mystical. The rewrite is actually four fewer words, but a big change.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SHOW AND TELL

  The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something and tell what it saw in a plain way. Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think, but thousands can think for one who can see. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy and religion, all in one.

  —John Ruskin, critic, essayist

  Don’t say it was “delightful”; make us say “delightful” when we’ve read the description. You see, all those words (horrifying, wonderful, hideous, exquisite) are only like saying to your readers “Please will you do my job for me.”

  —C. S. Lewis, novelist

  You’ve heard it before: “Show, don’t tell.” Sounds simple enough, but how do you know when you’re “telling,” and how do you write so it “shows”?

  And what’s the big deal about showing, anyway?

  The big deal is that people remember the things you show. When you take a “tell” sentence like this, “His momma was mad at him,” and turn it into a s
how-stopper like this: “Momma’s eyes opened and changed from drunken and dreamy to angry, the eyebrows arching up and then down like terrible black wings,” you know your reader will remember Momma.

  Of course, you can’t “show” all the time. If you wrote every line with that kind of energy, you would completely exhaust your readers. You need to “show” and “tell”—“show” what you want to show and “tell” what you want to tell. The trick is to know one from the other and be able to write each at will.

  When you “tell,” you transmit information.

  When you “show,” you knock your readers’ socks off.

  A Side-by-Side Look at “Show” and “Tell”

  “Show” Writing “Tell” Writing

  Uses sensory detail

  Engages readers in the action

  Gives a sense of immediacy

  Makes readers feel

  Uses facts, figures, information

  Summarizes the action

  Covers long stretches of time

  Helps readers understand

  The Big Deal about “Showing” The Big Deal about “Telling”

  Readers feel as if they were there when it happened Readers feel as if they understand what happened.

  Examples of “Shows” Examples of “Tells”

  Julio is a constant, comforting presence in my office. He leans back against my chest and watches what I type on the screen. He purrs at me and I don’t want to move. My cat likes to sit on my lap when I’m on the computer.

  “Ooh, it’s the birthday boy! Auntie Lena wants to give him a bi-ig kiss!” She clutched him, her fat fingers digging into his ribs, and he couldn’t help it, his bladder let go as Lena’s red lipstick-slick lips kissed him.

  Aunt Lena always made Eddie uneasy because she had a habit of grabbing him and talking baby talk to him.

  Lenny smoked one of his last three cigarettes and squinted as The Jerry Springer Show flickered in black and white, where a fat woman with no teeth had just torn off her shirt and was exposing her floppy breasts to the audience. Mercifully, the cameras had pixilated the image. On the faded wallpaper, a cockroach cleaned its antennae.

  Lenny lived in a rooming house. There were cockroaches that lived there too. He seldom left his room, preferring to watch his black-and-white TV. Today, he was watching Jerry Springer. A woman showed her breasts to the audience, but Lenny couldn’t see anything because the TV people had blurred the image.

  Lenny and Auntie Lena no doubt have you feeling a little uneasy by now. Such is the power of good “show” writing. You can hear the cat purr and feel the fat fingers digging in your ribs.

  “Show” writing is sensory, active, immediate, and deep. It makes you feel as if you are right there in the room with the characters. “Tell” writing gives you the same information but is not nearly as vivid.

  Use Your Senses

  Your senses are your most powerful writing tools. It is through them that you perceive the world and translate your perceptions to your readers. You can talk about kittens all day and not make a dent, but if you can get your reader to see the white-tipped ears, hear the purr, feel the nubby paws, and smell the cat food, you have writing that’s alive.

  Los Angeles Times columnist Al Martinez wrote about a favorite teacher, Calla Monlux, who “saw something worthwhile in this sixth grader” (he says he was halfway to hell by then) and encouraged him to write.

  “You have a very special gift,” she said, “and it can take you to a very nice future. But it needs nurturing.” She sat me down after school and told me to close my eyes. Then she read me parts of a William Wordsworth poem: “I wandered lonely as a cloud/That floats on high o’er vales and hills,/When all at once I saw a crowd,/A host of golden daffodils;/beside the lake, beneath the tree, fluttering and dancing in the breeze.”

  When she asked if I could see them, I said no. “Visualize,” she insisted. “The sun is warm. The breeze touches you.” She read the poem for me again and again, each time describing, each time demanding, each time transforming words into imagery.

  The daffodils emerged in a corner of my mind all buttery and golden, and the breeze touched my face with the warmth of a baby’s kiss. My eyes still closed, I described what I saw and felt, and Miss Monlux, in a tone blending pride and knowledge, said, “You’ve learned the most important lesson you’ll ever learn about writing. You’ve learned to visualize. Now put on paper what you see in your heart.”

  —From “A Vision of Daffodils” by Al Martinez, Modern Maturity magazine

  An Exercise in Showing

  Look at the list below. Pick a place that’s familiar to you. Focus your attention on it. Use your senses to recall details and to bring the setting to life in your imagination. Write about it quickly and simply, as if you were writing a note to a childhood friend. Then read your writing to see what works.

  Pick one of the places on this list:

  Your bedroom

  Back seat of a car

  A schoolroom

  A ballpark

  The zoo

  Garbage dump

  A barn

  A park

  A library

  A kitchen

  A church

  Close your eyes and pretend you are in that place. Really concentrate and use your imagination.

  Who is there?

  What are they doing?

  How do things look, sound, feel, taste, and smell?

  Pick up your pen and write quickly. Write without stopping or lifting your pen from the paper. Make no corrections in this first draft. Stop when you have filled a page or two.

  Read what you have written. If you feel as if you are actually in that place again, you have written to “show.”

  Example

  In this piece of flash fiction, the author uses sensual detail to show the setting. The reader sees the gray patterns on the wall and feels the pale white sheets.

  I watch him put his clothes on. After he leaves, I feel numb. Another stranger takes off before midnight.

  I feel miniscule. Shades of gray, patterns on the wallpaper.

  Pale white sheets bury me in bed.

  I watch the lights of passing cars float by on the walls.

  The next day, I lie on the living room rug as they carry all the furniture off. It seems random, rather unpredictable. Did I live here?

  The last thing they remove is the first thing I hung. It’s my empty birdcage.

  I walk around the blank shell like a visitor.

  —“Shades of Gray” by Robert Vaughan, www.Amphibi.us

  Now, Take It Another Step

  Settle into your writing space—your studio, a coffee shop, a spot on a park bench. Have your notebook open and your pen at hand, but not in your hand. Take a deep breath and imagine:

  “Two guys get in an argument at a carnival.”

  That’s it. That’s all you need. Close your eyes and visualize the scene. Really use your imagination. What do you see, hear, feel, taste, smell?

  Now, open your eyes, pick up your pen, and write quickly. Fill a page or two.

  When finished, ask yourself:

  How does “show” work in this piece?

  What specific actions tell you about the characters?

  What sensory data is included?

  How does it affect you as a reader?

  Do you care about the characters?

  Will you remember them?

  If you are lucky enough to do the carnival exercise with a group and share your results, you will notice that no two people write the same story, and each person has a unique way of making you feel as if you are inside the scene. One person shares a story of tattooed bikers threatening with hairy fists. Another has a dad trying to reason with the jerk who grabbed the corn dog right out of his daughter’s greasy hands. In both cases, you feel the heat and smell the mustard.

  Example

  Here is the carnival exercise Sara Rattan wrote in a Shut Up & Write class.

  The Carny had to d
uck his head when each time he leaned into to give the safety bar a yank. Dust.He was stil And with each yank, the three tattoos on his arm on his upper arms started, like runners making a false start move before the starting gun fires. Still there seemed to beHe leaned back against the fence encircling the Tilt O Wirl’s bright red saucers every time Then, he ground the lever that brought a newsaucbright red saucer forward, one at a time, This effort made the tattoos ripple lurching and rolling crazily in smaller & smaller half moons until it came to a complete stop. It was a hot day and the lines were long, so Marvin Gordon had plenty of time to watch Evelyn watch the Carny as they moved crept up in line closer. The closer they got to the tilt o Whirl, the softer the faded red tickets grew in the dampness of Gordon’ shand clenched hand. Why had he worn a polyster shirt. Feeling He could feel dark wet circles spreading under his arms. Damn synthetics conducted sweat like water conducted electricity. Why had he worn this shirt. He shrugged his shoul shirts. Why had he worn it? He pulled at his collar, but the damp material clung stubbornly at his _______________ line. He looked at Evelyn to see whether she’d noticed, but she was gazing at the Carny like some insipid cow waiting for a trough to be filled. “What -- ” she said, startled by the weight of his look watching her. She pushed her hand right into his trouser pocket & found his fingers. That cooled him off, but just for a minute b/c they were at the front of the line & the Carny’s voice oozed at them, made him flinch, like someone, too late, trying to avoid the spray of a puddle that a car’s run through. “Hey, freshness. You ever bin on a Tilt-O-Whirl before? Watch your step.” He had Evelyn’s hand in his, pullin her up the hammered metal steps, she let go of Gordon’s fingers. Her hand came right out of his pocket just like that. And just like that he felt thestains under hiswetdamp circles under his arms go completely wet. His face & forehead, too. He felt hot, sun-burned, all prickly & uncomfortable. And just like that he feltthehis other hand, the hand with the soggy tickets come right out of his pocket and come and land on the Carny’s upper arm. The tickets flew loose in the air ,