I’m turning into a craft-obsessed monster. Everywhere I look, I see
POV, narrator, mood, tone and voice. I blame this hideous transformation
on my writing workshop.
Each week, our teacher gives us a new set of craft techniques to apply
to our writing. I’ve been using this opportunity to overhaul my many
failed short stories, looking for a new way into the narrative.
POV or point of view is one of those life-and-death decisions a
writer must make. Changing that perspective can give a
dead-in-the-water story a new lease on life. But how to choose?
Shall I tell my story of an adulterous love affair from the
perspective of the straying wife, the cuckolded husband, the lover or an
all-knowing bystander? Whatever choice I make will, inevitably,
influence the reader’s sympathies. To feel pity for poor old Charles
Bovary, exasperation with the flighty Emma or disdain for her many lovers.
POV options
There’s a famous writer who writes his novel from the perspective of
each character until he finds the right POV. Of course, I can’t remember
who the author was but I like to think it’s Daniel Woodrell. The voices in Winter’s Bone are so distinct, individual and authentic, they must come from some deep place.
Or maybe the man just knows his stuff. John Gardner tells us:
The choice of point of view
will largely determine all other choices with regard to style: vulgar,
colloquial, or formal diction, the length and characteristic speed of
sentences, and so on.
So here are the options:
1. First person POV
tells the story from inside the head of one of the characters. This
point of view creates intimacy and immediacy. Take, for example, these
random lines from A Girl Is a Half-formed Thing by Eimear McBride:
I open my eyes. Do you know how to fuck? What? His red face.
There is also a second person point of view that my writing workshop
calls the “I in disguise”. I don’t understand that perspective.
2. third person “close” or “limited”
is a POV that also comes from inside the head of a character though
not in her voice. “She opens her eyes.” There is now a distance between
narrator and character, however slight. We continue to see the world
through her eyes.
3. third person omniscient
is narration from God’s point of view. The narrator has access to the
thoughts, desires and secrets of all the characters. It’s the wide
screen version of the action, suitable for epics, casts of thousands,
and war. Tolstoy used it.
4. none of the above
You can, of course, break the rules. Shift POV from one character to another in a style that’s called free indirect. But don’t do it by accident (like I have) or you’ll be accused of head-hopping.
You can also stick with one form of third person POV and modulate the
psychic distance between narrator and character. Like the camera
panning out for the establishing shot or diving in for the close-up.
The point is to do whatever you like, as long as you have a reason
for it. Like Akutagawa Ryunosuke and his short story masterpiece “In a
Grove”. The story consists of testimony given to an unseen, unnamed
investigator. Each witness tells of a crime that takes place at a lonely
mountain pass in a grove.
We hear from the woodcutter who found the body, a Buddhist priest
passing by, even the murdered man himself “as Told Through a Medium”.
None of these eyewitness accounts line up. “In a Grove” is my gold
standard on how (and why) to shift POV.
but it’s true!
Jenny Zhang is the author of Sour Heart.
Her short stories depict young Chinese girls growing up in abject
poverty inside New York’s Chinatown. Many readers assume Zhang is
writing memoir. This, of course, deeply offends her family. Because if
this is all true, they don’t like the way Zhang has painted them.
Zhang also manages to offend her fellow MFA students at the Iowa
Writers’ Workshop. They say these stories can’t be true. Zhang doesn’t
look poor or downtrodden enough to match her fiction.
Zhang will neither admit nor deny the autobiographical nature of her fiction.
I don’t think the question
of autobiography will be resolved in my work so long as women and people
of color are seen as memoirists no matter what kind of writing they may
be doing and white men are seen [as] innovative experimentalists no
matter how explicitly they’ve mined their personal lives.
autofiction
The first thing my mother asked about my debut novel
was whether there was anything I wanted to tell her. This is both funny
and deeply sad as my main character Song Anyi is a rape victim. I tell
Anyi’s story in the first person, alternating with the third person
perspectives of those around her. It’s my way of forcing the reader into
the deep dive of trauma and then up every now and again for a breath of
air.
All fiction, of course, is to some extent autobiographical and many authors will freely admit to that fact. But the label of autofiction
sits uneasily on works written by people of color. There are racial
politics at play here. The role of the author as racial representative.
The biases within the US publishing industry. Questions of authenticity.
This debate makes me feel uncomfortable, placed as I am as both object
and subject.
So while I recognize Zhang’s autofiction complaint, I also wonder
whether she might be exaggerating. Possibly a bit thin-skinned or
beating the drum of discrimination too loudly.
sexual subversion
Then I read an essay by Jamie Quatro. She is the author of some seriously good short fiction. Like her first collection, I Want to Show You More. In that collection, most of the protagonists are female. Some of the stories center on an erotic though unconsummated affair.
An all-men’s book club invites Quatro to speak. She reads from her
collection and then opens the floor to questions. One of the men takes
the challenge.
I’ll just say it, because we’re all wondering the same thing: What in the hell does your husband think about your work?
Quatro doesn’t write this off as a mere sign of our times (the book
came out in 2013). It’s not a male-only phenomenon either. Quatro gets
the question from female readers and, perhaps more alarmingly, female
writers, too.
Her conclusion is that her readers conflate her with her characters.
It doesn’t matter whether she tells her story in first, second or third
person. Because Quatro paints a picture the reader recognizes as real,
her readers believe that all of it must be true.
But the truly insidious question behind the question – what did your
husband think – is this. Did you, Jamie Quatro, commit the subversive
sexual acts you describe so well?
Here’s her answer:
Men, women: let’s assume
the female writer needn’t have lived out the narrative to write it.
Let’s assume that she can have an imagination that is subversive and
sexually transgressive. And let’s assume the artist’s husband feels pretty fucking badass to be married to her.
Note: POV was first published by Karen Kao on her blog Shanghai Noir.
Fascinating, Karen, and an excellent analysis of the sort of irritating questions/complaints/observations/wise-ass comments that often come from people desperate for something to say or people who should know better. All the narrative perspectives you identify are valid and have clear imperatives which suit (or don't suit) the writer's intentions. I find objections to (well-handled) 'omniscient' narrations particularly annoying. If the writer chooses that route, it's because he/she IS omniscient. The only place the characters exist and the events which their interactions trigger unfold are in his/her imagination. As long as he/she doesn't make it disorientating for the reader by making unprepared shifts in the narrative voice, it's an entirely legitimate (and indeed, logical) technique. But the fact that these 'arguments' endure in writing groups and elsewhere suggests that there's still an actual problem here. Either that, or I know far less about writing than I suppose.
"The would-be writer..." That is how he saw himself - in the third person, the odd man out, an intruder - in the hall mirror as he entered this strange work, glancing to and fro without much attention to where he was going. He mulled over the blogger - Ms. Kao's - instructive words from many points of view. He wondered whether he should turn back and choose another entrance - a door marked "me" or "you," "she," or "he," "it, perhaps "they," past or present. Lost in thought, he tripped on a worn spot in the long, Persian peony-patterned runner leading into the novel's main hall. Catching his balance on a coat rack, he let out an embarassed, "oops!" Busted. The other characters waiting in the parlor - the fuzzy, not-hims - must have heard. Committed now, he proceeded, but with deliberatness gained from the illusion of having chosen his path, a foolish assumption, he knew, but something, anyway - as palpable as that polished brass coat rack. It would have to do.
Aargh the POV question. It never goes away. New writers are always strongly advised to stick to one POV in their main character's head, either First or Third Person. It does stop you jumping around and losing pace, so it's good advice on the whole - but leaves you with the problem that no event can happen without your MC being there. I've seen really good, experienced writers cheat on this one when crucial plot points happen 'offstage', either by having their MC 'imagine' them happening, or by the MC remembering things they can't possibly remember e.g. being born (which is quite sweet). In both cases the writers got away with it because their stories were so good but it feels pretty high risk to me!
And your mother taking your fiction for real - YES THEY DO THAT. I have the same problem. It's both touching and, um, undermining because the implication is that we can't possibly have made up something that comes across so realistically. On the other hand you always worry about your children and I suppose I might well have the same fears if my children take up writing fiction...
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But the fact that these 'arguments' endure in writing groups and elsewhere suggests that there's still an actual problem here. Either that, or I know far less about writing than I suppose.
And your mother taking your fiction for real - YES THEY DO THAT. I have the same problem. It's both touching and, um, undermining because the implication is that we can't possibly have made up something that comes across so realistically. On the other hand you always worry about your children and I suppose I might well have the same fears if my children take up writing fiction...
Great post, much to chew over!