If you choose to use the viewpoint of a secondary character, make those scenes short and to the point. (Lily's entire scene—not all of it is quoted here— is less than three hundred words, just under a page long.) If the secondary character is important enough to have a POV at all, then she should appear with some regularity—perhaps in a half-dozen short scenes during the story.
But keep in mind that going into the head of a secondary character can pull the readers' attention from the main story. It can be a danger sign, indicating that your main story is dragging and you're trying to fill pages while waiting for the action to heat up again. Or your main characters may have bogged down, and the secondary ones have become more interesting. If the heroine's friend's thoughts are more interesting than the heroine's, perhaps the story is really hers—and she should be the main character instead.
HANDLING POINT OF VIEW
Choose a viewpoint character at the start of each scene. In the first paragraph or two of the scene, in addition to establishing where and when the action is taking place, be sure to tell the readers who the main character is in this part of the story—whose thoughts they will be getting.
That can be done in a variety of different ways:
• Through a thought. "Until that morning, Hannah had started to think it didn't matter what hour of the day or night she walked Mrs. Patterson's dog."
• Through a sensation. "Within two hours of arriving at work, Hannah was beginning to feel as if she'd been buried alive in the law library."
• Through an emotion. "Hannah was steaming, too agitated to sit still."
• Through an action. "Cooper tugged at his bow tie and impatiently straightened the pristine white cuffs of his formal shirt."
• Through a comment about another character. "Wherever Cooper had gone that morning, it wasn't far enough for Hannah's taste."
The Dreaded Wandering Point of View
Whether you intend to use just one POV or several, it's easy to let more than one character's thoughts creep into your scene. You have to know as you write what each character is thinking at that moment (even when you're not using her POV), because what the characters are thinking will affect what they say and do. Because you know what they're thinking, it's very natural to slip up and include those thoughts. Sometimes you aren't even aware that you've wandered from the head of the viewpoint character into that of another.
Drifting from one POV to another can happen so subtly that the lapse sneaks by even the most alert of authors. You don't need to write "Jane thought" in order to include Jane's thoughts. If you write "Jane met Gina as she strolled down the sidewalk. It was good to see Gina taking better care of herself these days," then you've included Jane's thoughts on the subject of Gina's grooming.
This classic example includes three points of view in a single sentence: "Greg looked genuinely horrified as his mind jumped to the same conclusion Cara was reaching." (Can you find all three? The first is indicated by "Greg looked horrified"; since we can see his facial expression, we're observing him from another character's POV The second POV is Greg's, because we're eavesdropping on his thoughts: "his mind jumped." The third POV is Cara's, whose thoughts we hear next: "the same conclusion Cara was reaching." Triple play.)
The confusion that comes from a wandering POV is the reason behind the standard admonition to limit each scene to one viewpoint character. In order to change points of view, all you have to do is leave a blank line—a simple white space, or a few asterisks or crosshatches to make your intentions clear, as in the example on page 149 of third-person selective/multiple—and start a new scene. Then stick to the new POV character's thoughts and feelings for the duration of that scene.
By choosing one POV character at the beginning of each scene, you can reap the benefits of dual POV—access to all the actions, thoughts, and feelings of two characters—without confusing the readers or sacrificing the deep involvement with one character that keeps them reading.
CHOOSING THE RIGHT TENSE
While some literary fiction is written in the present tense ("She shouts at him"; "He drives the car off the bridge"), the majority of fiction is written in the past tense ("She shouted at him"; "He drove the car off the bridge"). Once you have selected present or past tense for the narrative, stick to it for the duration of the story; you don't want to switch back and forth.
Most romance novels are written in past tense and in third person, though present tense is occasionally used in first-person stories like chick-lit. Writing
stories in past tense has become the convention because it makes sense. By the time something can be reported on by a narrator, it has happened, and so it is in the past—even if only by moments.
But not every line of a story should be framed in past tense. The current story (the narrative or the action) should be written in past tense, but the dialogue—the exact words spoken by the characters—should be phrased just the way a character would speak it—in most cases, in present tense, unless the character is discussing past or future actions.
And if a character is reflecting on something that happened to her yesterday or last week—before the current story—those events should be referred to in past perfect tense. Past perfect tense is great for making the action clear while showing that it's not going on right now. The readers don't have to struggle to figure out what's happening now vs. what happened in the past. So if the heroine is washing dishes and thinking about an event she witnessed last week, the passage might go something like this:
Mechanically, she slid another plate into the soapy water, but she didn't really see it. She was watching the picture in her mind, of another body of water. She was sure her memory wasn't playing tricks on her. "I can still see it happening," she murmured. George had simply pointed the car at the railing of the bridge and driven off it.
The events going on right now—the dishwashing, the remembering—are in past tense. The memory she's picturing—the car going off the bridge as she watched—are in past perfect tense. The sentence she actually says is in present tense—the exact words, as she would speak them.
If you opt to use present tense for the main narrative of the story, then events occurring before the time of the current story should be related in past tense:
I slide another plate into the soapy water, but I'm not really looking at it. I'm watching the picture in my mind, of another body of water. I'm sure my memory isn't playing tricks on me. "I can still see it happening," I hear myself say. George simply pointed the car at the railing of the bridge and drove off it.
In this example from her single-title chick-lit novel The Nine Month Plan, Wendy Markham uses present tense for the main narrative, switching to past tense when talking about events that occurred earlier-.
Nina Chickalini is no stranger to the tiny, windowless room just off the rectory of Most Precious Mother church on Ditmars Boulevard in Queens.
It was here that she made her first-—and last—confession to Father Hugh. Make that, the late Father Hugh. But that part—the late part—wasn't her fault, no matter what Joey Materi said then ... and continues to say.
This is a rare example of third-person present tense—a combination seldom used in romance novels. If the story had been structured in past tense, it would have started out: "Nina Chickalini was no stranger. ... It had been here that she had made her first ... confession. ..."
Failing to identify the viewpoint character, wandering from head to head, being unclear about whose thoughts the readers are getting—all of these things jolt your readers. Though they may not be able to define the shortcoming in your writing, they will automatically feel it, and this may destroy the magic of the story.
1. Look at the romance novels you've been reading. Which characters' points of view (thoughts, feelings) are included? How frequently does the POV change?
2. How many characters' points of view are included in each scene?
3. Are the thoughts and feelings of secondary characters shared with th
e readers?
4. Does the author ever let you know what a non-POV character is thinking or feeling? How do you get this information?
Sometimes the best choice for viewpoint character is apparent. At other times, the choice is less obvious, and asking some questions helps to clarify whose thoughts are most important for the readers at any particular moment in the story:
• Whose story is this? With whom do you want the readers to sympathize?
• What information is most important to the readers in this scene, and who possesses that information?
• Will the impact of that information on the readers be greater if they get it directly from the character who holds it, or if they're taken off guard when the non-POV character shares her knowledge?
• Which character has the most at stake in this scene?
• Whose thoughts and reactions are most important?
• How can you best preserve any surprise or mystery that occurs in the scene?
Usually, the character who shows up most often in the answers to these questions is the best choice for a viewpoint character—but not always. Sometimes that character knows too much, and the shock value of a revelation is greatest when that information is presented from the other character's POV.
While plot is the bones of fiction—the structure on which the story hangs—dialogue is the story's flesh and blood. Good dialogue makes the story sparkle, move, come to life for the readers. Poorly written dialogue is like a pit full of quicksand, dragging the story down. And the differences between good and bad dialogue can be frighteningly small.
Dialogue can be important even before the readers start to absorb the story. It's one of the things readers of romance novels say they look at when they're selecting a book. Conversation catches the readers' attention, breaks up the dense pages of text, and makes the story look easy and fun to read.
Romance novels are a very personal kind of story, focusing on the development of an intimate relationship between a man and a woman. Dialogue between the hero and heroine is a particularly important tool for drawing in the readers and making them feel involved with the characters. When readers listen to what the characters say to each other—when the characters banter, when they argue, when they're whispering sweet nothings—the readers become wrapped up in the characters' world. In a sense, dialogue helps readers to become the heroine and fall in love with the hero, because they're right there in the midst of those most private conversations. When each individual reader feels like the only witness to what the characters are saying, how can she not feel involved in their lives?
An equally important part of the story is introspection—when the character shares his thoughts with the readers. Though introspection can be overdone (we'll talk more about how to handle a character's thoughts later in the chapter), eavesdropping on a person's thoughts is one of the best ways to get to know him—so this internal dialogue is every bit as important as what the character actually says.
DIALOGUE: BETTER THAN REAL SPEECH
Though real speech can be a good basic model for dialogue, the goal you're striving for is well above the mere reproduction of real speech.
Real speakers often break into each others' sentences, use slang and imperfect grammar, don't complete sentences or thoughts, and change subjects abruptly. They repeat themselves and use fillers such as umm, you know, uh, and the like. Or, they start off a sentence without a clue of how they're going to finish it, then wander all over the place. They use dialects, baby talk, accents, and nonstandard pronunciations. They often respond to another person's statements with insubstantial and repetitive comments like "I see, yes, right."
Good dialogue, on the other hand, is clear, crisp, logical, substantial, fast moving, and not repetitive. For the most part, it uses standard English spellings that our brains are trained to recognize on the page. Nonstandard or phonetic spellings that attempt to reproduce accents or dialects require the readers to figure them out, and even that momentary delay drags them out of the story.
Every line of dialogue should advance the plot or develop the character— ideally, it should do both. In its many functions, dialogue can:
• Add immediacy to the story. Through dialogue, the readers can feel as though they are actually present, watching the action. There's a big difference between summarizing that "Sarah told John how hurt she felt" and sharing the actual dialogue in which Sarah blasts John with the details of how she feels and why.
• Help to characterize. What a character says can indicate his mood, disposition, or mentality more convincingly than any amount of description. Let's say you have a character who says, "It's a tough break that your mother is dying of brain cancer. I hope it doesn't drag on long, because it's a real nuisance for me not to be able to make plans."
In just a few words, he's shown the readers that he's an arrogant, heartless, and self-centered jerk. Furthermore, because you've allowed the readers to make that judgment (rather than simply telling them the guy's a jerk), you've drawn them further into the story.
• Add humor. Even in the darkest stories, in which slapstick or jokes would be inappropriate, a character can show graveyard humor in the way he talks, breaking the tension for a moment and leaving the readers refreshed and ready to be frightened all over again.
• Explain action that the readers don't actually see happening. For instance, dialogue might mention events that are not important enough to show in their entirety but that the readers need to understand.
• Describe a person, place, or thing. One character telling another about what he's observed is the most natural way there is to share this information.
• Provide smooth transitions. Having characters come and go in a particular setting, with each combination of characters talking about different matters, is an effective way to glide from one segment of a scene into the next.
• Intensify conflict. Telling the readers about the characters' disagreements is less effective than letting the characters talk to each other—explaining the logic and reasons behind the particular standpoint each has assumed. As they listen to others' suggestions, perhaps they modify their opinions, clarify what they're thinking, come to a new understanding of their own feelings, or become even angrier.
In her medical romance The Doctor's Rescue Mission, Marion Lennox pits her heroine, the only resident doctor on a tsunami-ravaged island, against the hero, who's come to tell her the island will be deserted rather than rebuilt:
"Why would I ever want to be somewhere other than here?" she told him, her anger suddenly threatening almost to overwhelm her. "... I like having dated the island's only two eligible men—and deciding they weren't eligible after all. ... I like being on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week and fifty-two weeks of the year. ... I like it that I'll be stuck here forever. ..." Her voice broke.
"So if the island is declared unfit for habitation," Grady said cautiously into the stillness, "you won't be too upset?"...
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"The infrastructure's been smashed. ... It'd be much cheaper for the government to pay for resettlement on the mainland. ... You don't want to be here."
"I didn't say that."
"I think you just did."
"Well, I didn't! ... I said I missed things. I do. ... But if I truly wanted to leave, you wouldn't see me for dust. ... It's not going to happen. We won't all leave."
In this brief conversation, the heroine goes from complaining about the isolation of her island home to defending it and swearing she won't leave, because of the announcement the hero made.
• Share backstory. Making a character talk about the significant events in his past is more effective than simply telling the readers what his life has been like. Not only is the dialogue more interesting than straightforward telling, there's an additional layer of emotion and suspense when the character himself shares events as he sees them. For instance, when you, as the author, tell the readers something, the readers a
ssume you're sharing everything of significance, so they can take the report at face value. But when the character himself tells the readers
something through dialogue, they are left to judge for themselves whether he's telling them everything, and whether he's actually being straightforward and truthful or if he might be deluding himself.
• Foreshadow action, hinting at events that are yet to come. Because the readers usually think of dialogue as the cotton candy that rewards them for standing in line at the carnival, they tend to take it less seriously than narrative—which makes dialogue an ideal place to slip in those necessary hints that make future story developments believable, without running up a red flag that shouts, "Here! This is a clue! Look carefully!"
THE BATTLE OF THE SEXES
Men and women talk differently. Men tend to talk about things, women about feelings. Men tend to speak in shorter bursts and shorter sentences. A woman asks more questions and is apt to pursue a subject even if it's clear her friend would rather not talk about it, while a man is more likely to let it drop.
While not every man and woman follow these conversational patterns, most do. Since the readers are used to these patterns in real life, they will be uncomfortable if characters stray from the norm. They may not know why, but they will know that the dialogue doesn't seem real.
Though making your characters sound real is important in all kinds of fiction, it's particularly important in romance. If the dame in a hard-edged mystery talks like a guy, it's easier for the readers to overlook—she's a less crucial piece of the action-oriented plot, and maybe she is just a hard-edged sort of person.
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