Point of View Problems (Blog 1 of Several)

by

Charlotte Firbank-King

If you ever wonder if you're using point of view (POV) correctly, put yourself in the character's head and ask yourself if you can see what you implied the character can see. For example, you can't see colour creep into your cheeks, but you can feel the heat of a blush. You can't see yourself paling, but you can feel blood drain from your face. In short, always go into your character's head. One can use mirrors, windows, or any reflective surface to see the character’s image and explain it.

Example A:

Nathan’s wife coughed and he hastily wiped a spot of blood from her lips, trying to hide the evidence. But she saw it and, for the first time, fear flickered in her eyes. Unable to bear seeing her pain and now fear, he dragged himself from her deathbed and leaned on her dresser, then lifted his head and stared at his image in an ornate mirror. Dark shadows underscored his sunken eyes, and deep lines drew his wide mouth down. He tried to smooth his tousled black hair. He was strong, but was he strong enough to bear losing her? In reality, what use was his immense size and strength in the face of death? 


There you have it all—how he feels, where he is, and how he looks. However, don’t overuse this ploy. Have another character tell you what the reader wants to know, like in this second example.


Example B:

She coughed and tried to wipe her mouth. Nathan leaned over and gently wiped her lips. She caught sight of a crimson stain of blood on the handkerchief that he tried so hard to hide. For the first time, fear rippled through her. So this was the end. She touched his haggard cheeks, hating that dark shadows underscored his sunken eyes, and deep lines drew his wide mouth down—a mouth always so ready to smile. She tried to smooth his tousled black hair. “Be brave, my darling husband.” But in reality, what use was his immense size and strength in the face of death?


With the second way, one has fewer words and you can add a bit more about his character, like the fact that he smiles readily. He would not necessarily see himself like that.

Then there is the other POV problem—head hopping. I know the feeling of wanting to see and feel everything from each characters head, but it makes a reader’s head spin until they are so confused they have no idea who is feeling and saying what.

Stay in one character’s head for at least a page, preferably a chapter or at least until there is a radical day or scene change.

If you really need to go into another character’s head mid-scene, then you need “permission.” Have the character touch some part of their body, preferably the head, like brushing back their hair or rubbing the back of their neck. Then the reader is drawn to that action and their attention is on that character. But this is not ideal. One can always convey how the other character feels with body language.

If you are truly confounded, you can always contact a helpful editor at IFW at IFWeditors@gmail.com for assistance.

Grammar 101: Grammar Jargon

by

Jessica Nelson

The world of editing and writing is fraught with fancy-schmancy jargon and technical terms. We learned many of these years ago in our English classes. We know what they are and how they are used—we just forget what they are called. So, today I am giving you a crash course in grammar jargon with help from the IFW editors and The Little, Brown Essential Handbook by Jane E. Aaron.

First, we will start with classic grammar terms no one actually remembers despite using them almost every day.

 

Gerunds: the –ing form of a verb used as a noun; usually proceeded by a possessive noun/pronoun. Ex. My husband is annoyed by my nightly snoring.

Present participle: the –ing form of a verb (and used as a verb). Ex. Since the weather is nice, Susie is working in the garden today.

Past participle: the –ed form of a verb. Ex. Rhonda graded so many undergraduate composition papers that she lost her faith in humanity’s ability to write correctly.

Ellipsis: a series of three periods, each separated by a space; looks like “. . .”; used to denote an omission of words, phrases, or entire sentences in nonfiction, and, in fiction, denotes the trailing off of a thought or a long pause. If the ellipsis occurs at the end of a sentence, the sentence-ending period is also included, creating a series of four periods separated by spaces (“. . . .”). Ex. Leila looked at the giant red F on the top of her paper. “But . . . I thought I did well . . .”

Comma splice: when two main clauses are joined (or spliced) only by a comma, rather than a comma and conjunction. Ex. We loved the movie, the actors were okay. Should be: We loved the movie, but the actors were okay.

Homophone: words that sound exactly alike but have different meanings. Ex. principal/principle. The former is the head of administration at a school. The latter is “a comprehensive and fundamental law, doctrine, or assumption” (Definitions curtesy of Merriam-Webster online).

Homonym: a word that has multiple, different meanings. Ex. “fair.” We had an excellent time at the fair. vs. It’s not fair that my brother always gets what he wants.

Indefinite pronoun: a word that replaces a noun but does not refer to a specific person or thing; may be plural (e.g. both, few, many), plural or singular (e.g. all, any, none, some), or only singular (e.g. anyone, everyone, someone).

Misplaced modifier: A modifier modifies the noun closest to it. A modifier is considered misplaced if it modifies a different noun in a sentence. Ex. Ginger ate potatoes, mushrooms, and rice for dinner, lying on the sofa. “Lying on the sofa” is misplaced. As written, it modifies “dinner,” but it should modify Ginger. To correct, we’d write: Lying on the sofa, Ginger ate potatoes, mushrooms, and rice for dinner.

Dangling modifier: doesn’t sensibly modify anything in its sentence; may imply a subject, but does not explicitly name one, making the actual subject unclear. Ex. Walking down the street, the renovations to the neighborhood became apparent. This should say: As we walked down the street, the renovations to the neighborhood became apparent.

Synecdoche: figurative language that uses a part to represent the whole. Ex. using “the crown” to represent the monarchy or “a dollar” to represent money.

 

Now, we’re going to explain some terms you may have never heard before. That said, I’m sure you’ll be surprised to find you know what they are.

 

Bildungsroman: a coming-of-age story. Ex. pretty much any YA or teen novel.

Pastiche: a patchwork story; pieces taken from other authors’ works; generally refers to a paper with plagiarized parts. Ex. This blog (sort of), which uses term definitions from The Little, Brown Handbook, Merriam-Webster, and the lovely ladies at Inspiration for Writers, Inc., is a pastiche.

Head-hopping: a type of point of view breach; when the viewpoint character changes within a scene without first having a transition and invitation to foster that change; in the words of Sandy Tritt, “All head-hops are point-of-view breaches, but not all point-of-view breaches are head-hops. (If you would like more information about this, we are happy to send our tip sheet on “Point of View,” which also includes ways to avoid head-hopping.) Ex. Mike sat on the bench and wondered where his future would lead. To the army? To college? To that hot barista’s apartment? Jack stared at Mike’s melting ice cream cone, and wondered how hard Mike would punch him for stealing it.

 

Any of this ringing a bell? I hope so! Hopefully, next time you sit down with a writing buddy or one of our editors, and he/she starts jargon dropping, you’ll be able to keep up.

Was this helpful? Are there other grammar/literature/writing terms you know you know but don’t know what they’re called? Or any you want us to explain?  Let us know in the comments, and maybe we’ll do another blog like this one.

Don't Traumatize Your Reader

by

Sandy Tritt

Did you ever think about what happens to an unsuspecting reader when a scene changes? He’s been comfortable, hanging around and experiencing your story, aware of where he is, when he is, and through whose eyes he’s seeing/hearing/feeling things, when all of a sudden one scene ends and another begins. Your poor reader is snatched out of his comfort zone, zoomed through time and space, and is plunged into a new scene. God—er, um, YOU, only know where he is now. He may crash into the same physical space he’s just vacated—or he may end up across the globe or even in a new galaxy. Five seconds may have passed—or ten days or a dozen centuries. Even more jolting, he could now be seeing and hearing and smelling through a different body.

It’s an extremely unsettling experience. That is, unless you, the Creator of this world the reader is visiting, are experienced enough and thoughtful enough to guide him through the trauma. Oh, my! Did you even know you had this humongous responsibility? Well, you do now.

Within the first few sentences of a new scene, your reader needs to know several things, including:

1. Whose eyes he’s now seeing things through (if you employ a single viewpoint character throughout the manuscript, this is not necessary)
2. Who is present
3. What our characters look like (this is something that we usually sprinkle throughout a story, receiving bits and pieces of information as we go and is more or less important depending upon genre).
4. Where he is in general—such as the city, state, country. If this general location has not been visited previously, we may need more information, such as if it’s rural, big city, etc.
5. Location, specific: if inside, where he is, such as in a living room or inside a diner. If outside, if he’s in a vehicle, hiking, etc.
6. Time period: the decade he’s in. (If this does not change throughout the manuscript, you do not need to re-establish this).
7. Time of year: spring, summer, fall, winter—or actual month
8. General time of day: morning, afternoon, evening, night
9. Weather, if it affects the story in any way (and it usually does)

Additionally, the reader may need to know the date or the day of week, as well as any historically relevant happenings on that day. For example, if this scene occurs on September 11, 2001, and no mention is made of the collapse of the twin towers, your reader is going to question your integrity. I call providing this information grounding your reader, as it allows your reader to simply relax and become a part of the story instead of floating around in space, desperately trying to figure out where and when he is and through whose eyes he’s seeing.

If it were not for the First Commandment of Writing—Thou Must Show, Not Tell, we’d just open each scene with a recitation of all the necessary facts. But, instead, we must be artistic about it. We must not just give all the information, but we must sprinkle it around and create amazing prose with conflict and suspense while doing so.  The goal is to create a picture the readers can imagine in their minds. They must be able to envision where the action is happening, who is present, and what is going on. This balancing act of feeding information to your reader while maintaining interest is not easy.

Here’s an example from one of my novels, The Mistress of Gambel Hill:

Ray maneuvered between a cocktail waitress balancing a tray of drinks and a couple entwined in each other’s arms.

“Think we can fit them all in?” Gary waited on the stage with a handful of neatly-stacked requests.

Ray grabbed his brother’s arm and used it as a boost to step up onto the stage. “Yeah. And I gotta add another one before I forget.” He took a pen from his pocket and scribbled the blonde’s request on one of the notes. “Let’s get going.” He went to his stool in the center front and tuned his guitar. A line of cocktails sent by happy customers waited on the table next to him. He looked into the crowd. The stage lights glared back at him. “Glad y’all stuck around,” his deep voice boomed into the microphone. “We’re gonna get to all your requests before—”

He hadn’t checked that his brothers had taken their places. He glanced over his shoulder to his left. Danny, his youngest brother, wasn’t behind the drum set. Instead, Joey’s long arms waited over the drums, his waist-length hair draped over his slender shoulders, a smile teasing his hair-covered lips.

            Ray scratched his goatee and looked behind him. Gary sat at Joey’s keyboard, his bass guitar leaning against his chair. Danny wasn’t on stage.

What do we learn from the opening paragraphs of this scene?

1. Ray is our viewpoint character. We’re going to be seeing, hearing, smelling, feeling, and thinking through him.
2. We are in a crowded bar.
3. Ray and Gary are on a stage. They are brothers. They have a band.
4. Ray sits on a stool center stage, plays guitar, and is the speaker for the group. He also drinks. A lot.
5. Ray’s brothers Danny and Joey are also in the band.
6. Joey is tall and slender with long hair and facial hair. He normally plays keyboard, but right now, he’s playing the drums.
7. Ray has a goatee.
8. Gary normally plays bass guitar, but he’s playing keyboard.
9. We have a problem—in addition to all those drinks waiting to be swallowed. Danny is missing. Because his brothers have switched instruments and are smiling, we’re pretty sure everyone but Ray is in on what is about to happen. But something is about to happen.

We need to talk about item number one above. How does the reader know so quickly that Ray is our viewpoint character? This is important. He knows Ray is the viewpoint character because Ray is the first character mentioned by name. Your reader will subconsciously assume the first character mentioned will be the viewpoint character. So you must do your part and honor this agreement by mentioning your viewpoint character’s name before anyone else’s.

If a scene takes place in the same location or shortly after the previous scene, it isn’t necessary to give this information, as the reader will assume it. However, you must always let the reader know who is present in the scene. Few things are more unsettling than having a character suddenly pop into a conversation without knowing the character was even present.

One thing I do to help me remember everything I need to remember is to type all the information—the date, day of the week, location, weather, historical facts, and anything else pertinent—right into my manuscript, at the beginning of the scene. I keep it there until I’m ready to submit. And, then, of course, I save a copy with all that important information in it. That way, if I need to change the sequence of the scenes or make other changes, I’ll know to also change the pertinent facts within a scene.

Another way to do this is to create a scene overview document.  We have such a worksheet in our Tips and Techniques Workbook. How you track it yourself is far less important than that you get it right in your manuscript.

Writing is not easy. There is so much information that must reach the reader, but it must be done without an “info dump.” Study good fiction and the works of accomplished writers. Pay attention to the first few paragraphs of each scene. Notice how the writer feeds information to the reader without seeming as if that’s the goal. In fact, as an exercise, write down the information that is gleaned from a scene, as we did in our example above. It could be an eye opener for when you’re wondering how you can possibly provide so much information and still be entertaining.

If you need help with this—or with any of the elements of fiction or nonfiction—please just shoot us off an email at IFWeditors@gmail.com. We’re here, and we’re always happy to help.