Ask me anything.... about writing, that is. It's all I know.
uestion:
I have read over and over again that there should only be one POV per scene. However, when I write some scenes (especially love scenes), I quite naturally write from both perspectives. In addition, I see it done all the time in romance novels. Is this one of those rules that can only be broken by experienced authors? Mary
Answer:
I'm a point-of-view purist, myself-- I write virtually every scene from a single pov. But I don't deny the potential that multiple (or dual, which is what you're doing) viewpoint has for showing character interaction. What I'd suggest we focus on (as always) is the PURPOSE for this particular writing element.
Viewpoint is the reader's vehicle for the experience of the story. So if I am in the heroine's viewpoint, the reader should ideally experience this event as the heroine experiences it. If the heroine sees the house among the poplars and knows the villain lurks within, the reader should experience dread along with her. If she's keeping a secret, the reader should sense that-- even if the reader doesn't know what that secret is. The reader should get some sense of who this person is from the way she thinks, feels, and perceives the world. That is, viewpoint is a way to characterize AND to convey information.
There's nothing preventing you from giving the reader TWO experiences of an event, as long as you do it in a way that doesn't muddle those two experiences. That is, the reader shouldn't come away confused about who knows that the villain went to Princeton (the villain knows that) and who doesn't (the heroine), or who is excited and who is scared by the coming of night, and who is a sharp rational visual perceiver and who is more intuitive and impressionistic.
The best way to keep the experiences separate is to do long passages in one viewpoint before switching to the other. (Long passage might mean a page or a scene, depending.) If you shift back and forth between the two, paragraph to paragraph, you're going to lose the reader-- or rather, the reader is going to stop trying to join in on the character experience and read more from the outside. That's probably not the effect you want. (I can imagine doing it in a very specialized scene-- such as juxtaposing their responses to the same occurring event to show how radically different they are... but I wouldn't do that very much, and I'd ONLY do it if their different experiences served some purpose.)
Remember, just because you're not in someone's viewpoint doesn't mean that you can't show what they're thinking and feeling-- but you have to SHOW it. For example, if I'm with you and I'm telling you something I think is good news-- that your best friend is getting married-- I can look at your face and hear your response and know that for some reason, you're not as thrilled by this as I thought you'd be. You might say all the right things, but I'll sense that you're envious or worried or exasperated by this happy news. How would I convey that if I were writing the scene from my viewpoint? I'd write, "Guess what! Julie and Mike are finally going to tie the knot! Isn't that great?" Then I'd show your face changing, involuntarily, just a twitch of expresssion and emotion and maybe a whispered "oh, no!" before you catch yourself and say, "Oh, yes. Great. Wonderful news," in a curiously flat voice. I don't need to tell the reader what you're thinking at that moment to convey your displeasure... and then the reader is intrigued (as am I, the other character). Why isn't she happy at this news? What's she worried about? And why doesn't she trust me enough to tell me? Why does she feel she have to pretend? Those are puzzles the reader will want to read on to solve.
So here is my advice: Decide what kind of experience you want the reader to have, who is the best vehicle for each part of this event. What's the best way to convey that experience? Let's take a love scene (and we'll keep it G-ratedBut -- here's my tough rule-- I wouldn't shift unless I could explain to myself why I needed to change the reader's experience-- and then I'd be sure and make the change worth the jolt of "divorce" that happens whenever a reader is yanked out of one person and thrust into another.). I'd ask: Who is this a surprise to? Who is most likely to have the more emotional experience of this event? Whose perspective will be more fun or more dramatic?
For example, I was just conceiving of a scene where the woman tells her womanizing but sexy and sweet fiance (think Doug Ross/George Clooney on ER) that she loves him too much to marry him, that she can't bear the pain of wondering if he will be faithful when she knows he's just not the faithful sort, that she doesn't even blame him anymore because he's probably incapable of the level of commitment she wants, that he is what her soul needs, but the rest of her needs someone steadier and more reliable. Lots of love and regret and anguish and self-knowledge on her part.
So I was going to cast it in her viewpoint-- after all, she is the DRIVER of the scene in that it is her action that determines what happens. But then I realized that everything she thinks and feels are apparent in her words and actions. She's being totally honest about her pain and her love and the difficulty of letting him go. I decided instead to go with him, because he's the one surprised, because he's the one whose thoughts and feelings are going to be most illuminating-- will he be angry? Ashamed? Devastated? Relieved? I don't know-- and neither does she.The reader is drawn through the scene on his experience of shame and anger and eventual great love. If instead we were in her viewpoint, we might not get the complexity of his emotional journey towards renouncing the person he loves most.Suddenly the scene wasn't just the playing out of her resolute plan. It was a bomb exploding in his heart. He is angry and ashamed and devastated and relieved. He wants to argue with her and handcuff himself to her and apologize to her and call up another woman for immediate solace. He wants to shut her up but knows he must hear her out. He wants to blame her, but must blame himself. He wants to promise her the moon and monogamy, but knows it's unfair to her. He wants to kiss her so that she'll stop thinking about his shortcomings and remember why she loves him so much. And he thinks maybe he can do that-- maybe if he's just his charming self, if he makes love to her "just one more time", he can win her back. Then, in great anguish, he realizes that if he loves her, he has to let her go, because he will inevitably hurt her too much, and he can't bear that anymore. And so he asks not for "one last night" but "one last hug", and then lets her walk away. (I sort of pictured this in St Mark's Square in Venice, but it was completely empty except for them, and you know that's unlikely. :)
Now if I were in the habit of writing multiple viewpoint (and it's against my religion, though I am tolerant of non-believers
), I'd probably start in her viewpoint to show her sorrow and trepidation as she begins the speech she had to prepare because she was so scared she'd blow it otherwise. Then, just as she's telling him that she can't take it anymore, I'd switch to his, and ride that out of the scene-- never switch back to her. It's his life that's really being changed here, and his attitude towards himself. I wouldn't want to dilute it by going back to hers, because I think her emotion as she walks away is best conveyed through his eyes-- she turns, sets her small shoulders, takes a deep breath, and walks out of his life and into her own. He can tell us all that, and also how he feels about it. When you think of viewpoint as the reader's vehicle for experience, it's easier to evaluate when a shift will help illuminate and when it will just confuse or annoy. I'd be more likely to shift when I thought that the one character's viewpoint is no longer conveying enough information and emotion to the reader, either because the character is no longer perceiving well (through that veil of tears!) or because her emotions are understandable and expected and thus don't have to be portrayed so closely.
I don't know if that answers your question! But I guess the important thing is always to consider how this will affect the reader's experience, and change only when the change will make it better. :)
Good luck!
Alicia
A question recently came up in my online critique group. It concerned starting out a character with a meek, subservient personality (translation: "wimp") who grows throughout the book to become a stronger, more secure person as result of the story events that shaped this change. Will readers start out disliking this character because of his/her weakness? Will said character lose credibility and therefore not be taken seriously in his/her role within the plot? I answered with my belief that the premise for this kind of character growth must be linked specifically with the story goal in order for it to work, and that it depended on the genre and the character's level of importance in the story. Hard-boiled PI and action-adventure stories, for example, would not benefit from having a weak protagonist that readers depend on for compelling them through an action-based story. But another type of book, something slower paced and more character-driven, could pull off such a transition of weakness growing toward personal strength. What's your take on this? KarenAnswer:
I agree that certain types of books need an unwimpy protagonist. But I've read and enjoyed books that have showed the protagonist growing in power and courage through the story events. In fact, that's a great story journey, from weakness to strength. It shows the importance of the plot, as it has turned this wimp into a force to be reckoned with (even if, now he's vanquished the bad guys, he's just going to go home and eat his broccoli and watch the Discovery Channel).
There is indeed the danger, however, of losing the reader with a nerdy protagonist. So let's see how we can guard against that.
Let's diagnose what the reader turnoffs might be.
1) Right away, I think "wimp" could mean "passive". The protagonist, whatever else she is, has to be active. She doesn't have to LIKE it, but she has to make choices and take actions, or the book is going to slog along. That means giving her a good reason to be active-- something she cares about is threatened, or something she wants is just outside her reach. You can make the "something" wimpy, if you like-- someone's trying to steal her thimble collection! Or she really wants to win the Most Improved Golfer award! But as long as it matters to her, as long as it's shown as important to who she is, threatening it in some way will be enough to move her to action.
Whatever this quality is, it should be important to the plot. That thimble she bought at the garage sale, unbeknownst to her, is a classic Ming piece, and the evil antiques dealer wants it real bad. Or the elderly neighbor is so grateful she leaves him her stock in the family corporation, and he blunders into a morass of corporate corruption and family dysfunction.
produce admirable qualities. For example, not being cool means, probably, that he doesn't really care all that much what other people think-- he goes his own way not just in fashion and hobbies, but in his life. That translates into a slightly weird form of the admirable quality of independence. See if you can show its weird aspects first, then, as the plot develops, show the admirable aspects come out-- he defies convention and authority and wins in the end.Also look to give this character some compensating strengths. Wimps often have to develop a razor-sharp sense of humor to serve as a weapon and a shield. (Think Woody Allen.) Wimps might also be extremely good at arcane skills that come into play during the plot. (All those years playing with a chemistry set make her a good person to have nearby when you're trying to figure out what the villain's secret formula is going to do to the city's drinking water.) Wimps often know how to settle disputes without violence-- because they're not real good in a fight. They also tend to be loyal friends and persistent workers.
Most of the wimpy characters I can think of are male-- I don't know why. I did think of Sandra Bullock as a nerdy computer programmer in The Net, but, well, she still looked like Sandra Bullock. But for wimpy protagonists, how about Steve Urkel? He's just about the biggest nerd in the world, and yet his essential sweetness makes him loveable. And Mr. Bean is a silly, eccentric loser-- but he generally wins in the end because of his wiliness and persistence.
There are plenty of examples of "cowards" in the ranks of protagonists. (Coward and wimp aren't really the same thing, though.) Indiana Jones is scared of snakes. Sheridan Drake in Laura Kinsale's
Seize the Fire thinks he's scum because he's afraid of facing his own past. Part of these fellows' journey is towards self-acceptance, which allows them to behave with more courage. Physical cowardice in a hero can be a source of great comedy, as the poor guy tries to win the day without getting hurt.I guess the best advice I can give is to treat the Clark Kent with the same respect that you'd give the Superman. Find the core qualities of value within Clark, give him a powerful goal, and think: How has this character managed life so far as a wimp? What strength did he draw on? What enthusiasm motivated him? Personally, I think that if he survived high school, nothing we can throw at him is going to faze him too much. :) Alicia _____________________________________
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