Debi Alper
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You know what you need to do, and that’s a giant step forwards. Use that sense of the visual and find the words to describe what you see.
I can indeed help you, Alison.
Noah said, trying not to sound desperate. That’s the narrator *telling* us what Noah’s thinking, so it’s distant from Noah because the narrator is inserting themself between us and the character.
‘Ugh, I sound so desperate.’ That was the thought he had at the time. If you were writing in first person and present tense, this is what you would have, without the quotation marks.
Ugh, did he have to sound so desperate? That’s the thought he had at the time, but converted into third person and past tense. It’s also known as free indirect style, or a close/deep POV. It’s the voice of the character but in third person.
We’ll be building on this in week 4 but you’re already on the right road.
I’m so pleased you pushed yourself to post, Julie, not least because this is such a pleasure to read. Please don’t worry about commenting on other people’s threads. Everything will stay here after the course ends, so you can come back at any point in the future to fill in any gaps in your understanding of voice.
Right, so this is the third scene, according to your week 1 exercise. We’ve had the prologue, followed by the scene in the car park with Rachel in 2018, and now this, the storm being the link. It’s such strong atmospheric writing. I don’t think we’ve spoken before about the voices but I presume that Rachel’s thread is in third person (all her POV, or are there others?) and Win’s is in first person. So, I presume all the historical thread is in her voice. Have I got that right?
With both the first person voices in the exercise, I’m not sure if I can see a trace of a regional accent. What’s the location? In a week 1 reply, you said: Win … starts quite sure and confident. I’m not sure if that’s the impression I get of her here. I also know that she has mysterious powers, but there are no signs of them yet either. I appreciate that these are very short extracts but we’ll need to have hints of the paranormal element of your WIP very soon, so the story’s identity doesn’t abruptly become something the reader hadn’t seen coming.
It’s so interesting to see characters through their own eyes and contrast that with the impression other characters have of them. Win says: Mother had a way of scaring people. In fact, her mother is covering up her fears and is hyper-vigilant but we wouldn’t know that if we only had Win’s narration to go on. On the other hand, your third person version is glorious, so I wonder about your reasons for using first person. Happy to talk about that if you like but one thing is abundantly clear, and we saw it last week too: you have a natural talent for creating distinctive voices. I have no doubt you can turn your hand to whatever voice(s) work best for the story you want to tell. Win’s main conflict revolves around sending the injured Rommy off into the storm with the letter. Her mother’s conflicts are much more existential and there’s something about her voice that carries more of a flavour of the paranormal. It has more urgency too. Hmmm. Lots to think about.
I’ll look at the versions now and pin down the elements of the voices, starting with the mother.
First person, Win’s mother’s voice
The Captains’ Port bottle slipped in my hand at the first clap of thunder. It focused me like a slap on the face. (I love the close interaction between the storm and her responses to it. Instant tension.)
Maisie had it under control. She was a good efficient girl. The curtains were already closed, and she was helping the officers into their beds. I needed to be in the hall… (She’s brisk, alert and, like Maisie, efficient.)
My daughter stuck out like a lamp in the dark, (nice analogy) staring right into Sergeant Moore’s face (eyes?) with that look. Get away with the memories! This is now, and needs to be sorted. (This is where I thought I might detect a trace of a regional accent in her voice. There’s some wonderful instability here, all the better for being so subtle. Win is in a frozen moment, and it’s not in the here and now. The mother’s voice is urgent – she needs to look after the men in her care – but she has underlying anxieties about Win. Very intriguing.)
‘Win Rystone!’
A flash of white caught my eye. No, the lightning hadn’t found its way in to steal my daughter. (Oh wow! That’s a stunner of a sentence! This brisk and practical woman doesn’t seem the sort to be melodramatic, so this statement must be based on something real.) It was Elizabeth. (As the narrator, she needs to show Elizabeth to us if she mentions her. Why does she appear as a flash of white?) She was far too weak to be doing this, but needs must. Now, I had to get my daughter away from the window. (Without her telling us, we now know that Win has now been drawn to the window. There’s definitely a darkly ethereal quality to her.)
‘See to Quartermaster North.’
The thunder struck again. Though I’d heard it a thousand times, it was so close it turned my strength into Win’s lavender jelly. (A wonderful metaphor to illustrate how shaken she is. In theory, this is just a storm but it’s rattling her a lot more than she lets on.) I couldn’t let it get to me. God in All Heaven. Get a grip. (Excellent conflict.) I pointed. She saw me. See to him now! (Her actions and dialogue are professional and competent. If we didn’t know what was going on inside, we’d have no idea that she’s covering up so much seething anxiety and tension.)
Third person, Win’s POV
The storm came so quickly there was no time to prepare. Win tried to hide the flashes from the convalescents, closing the curtains, holding a hand. Offering reassurance. (This is great. In a few simple words, you’ve transported us to a ward full of injured and traumatised convalescents. We also see Win as kind, reliable and compassionate.) But it was there as she worked. The guilt. (I wanted to spend more time with her reacting to the storm. Her mother seems more in tune with it than she is.)
She’d sent Rommy out with her letter. He’d go the short way, on the top of Rystone Gill to catch the postmaster at Minehill, she was sure. It was dangerous, but he’d been so keen to take the envelope from her… (The *how she says it* part of voice is fine, but I wonder about *what she says*. I wanted to see more of the ward and the injured men, the staff rushing to comfort them. Many of them would be suffering from shell shock, as PTSD was known then. The storm would be hugely triggering. Also, she has a deep connection with the elements, doesn’t she?)
‘Win Rystone!’
Her mother’s sharp voice made Lizzy, preparing a bed for the new arrivals, flinch. (Would Win notice?) Win’s mother had a way of frightening people. Win focussed on her stern face. She knew she’d been lapse. (I think you mean *lax* but I don’t know in what way. She’d been closing curtains and holding hands.)
‘See to Quartermaster North.’ Her mother nodded at the young man shaking on his bed. He’d pulled his sheets over his head, trying to get away. (Now we’re seeing more of the scene.)
The wind smashed (fab active verb) against the side of the house. Another flash lit the patch of water growing with the drips through Harold North’s mattress. (Not sure how the mattress would be visible. Isn’t he lying on the bed? Isn’t there a sheet?)
She knew that look in her mother’s eyes. A determination that no more Rystones would be walking off into storms. (Intriguing hint that there’s more to their story than meets the eye.)
Her mother pointed at Harold. See to him now!
First person, Win’s voice (as in WIP)
This time there was no warning. The storm was here. No time to pull the curtains. Hide the convalescents from the furious flashes. We were doing what we could. Tuck them in, squeeze a hand. Check their eyes. You see me, or something else? (Wonderful urgency in her voice.)
I was lapse. (Lax. Lapse is a noun, not a verb. In what way? It’s not what we were shown in the previous paragraph.) Lots of reasons. Mainly thinking of my poor friend Rommy. Sending him out with my letter. How selfish and stupid was I? Not just for his leg not working that good. (Double negative.) He’d go the short way, on the top of Rystone Gill to catch the postmaster at Minehill. That hill was last place to go in this kind of tempest. He’d been so keen to do it for me. It burnt my soul now. (Is it too soon for us to hear about Rommy? Should we spend more time in the ward first?)
‘Win Rystone!’ Mother’s voice stabbed the bed-filled hall. Lizzie, turning a mattress for the expected arrivals, jumped. Mother had a way of scaring people. She had my attention. ‘See to Quartermaster North.’ She nodded at the heaving pile of cotton sheets on the bed against the far wall. (This isn’t as clear as it was in the previous version.)
A fist of wind (ooh, lovely!) smashed against the side of the manor. The sky cracked open in a flash. It was close. Mother glared. She kept me close (repetition of ‘close’) in these storms. The Rystones had a habit of walking off into them. (Love that.) Her finger stabbed the air between her and Harold North. (I got caught up with imagining exactly where her finger was pointing.) See to him now!
No question at all: I would definitely read on. There’s so much that’s portentous in all three versions and some stunning writing. I wonder if you could pull in some of the things that made her mother’s voice so rich and unsettling. Let’s see if I can suggest a way to do that.
There was no warning. The storm was here. No time to pull the curtains. To hide the furious flashes from the convalescents. We were doing what we could. Tuck them in, squeeze a hand. Check their eyes. You see me, or something else? Are you here, in this ward, together with these other men who have been broken by war? Or are you back in the mud and blood of the trenches? Stay here. With me. You’re safe.
‘Win Rystone!’ Mother’s voice stabbed the bed-filled hall.
Lizzie, turning a mattress for the arrivals we were expecting, jumped. Mother had a way of scaring people. She didn’t like it when I stared deep into these men’s eyes. Thought I should have been busy, hustling and bustling like the other girls.
‘See to Quartermaster North,’ Mother said. She nodded at the young man shaking on his bed. Whimpering with terror, Harold North was pulling his sheets over his head, scrabbling to get away.
A fist of wind smashed against the side of the manor. The sky cracked open in a flash. The storm was overhead. Mother glared at me. She always kept me close in these storms. The Rystones had a habit of walking off into them.
I’ve tried to hint at her unnatural powers. Personally, I would focus on her inside the ward, holding the moment for a little longer. Her worry about Rommy can come soon. The setting, the storm, the echoes of war, the subtle hints that there’s more to tell … that’s more than enough to be going on with. Hope that makes sense and is useful. Take care!
Hi Kate. This is gorgeous: sensual and passionate, delicate and tender. Annie is falling in love with music and her feelings for the piano and for Harry are overlapping. She’s young and inexperienced and would probably be struggling to make sense of the bubbling cauldron of emotion. You said in a comment: … she sees Harry and music as bound together so this is an enormous moment for her. This comes over really well in both first and third person and you’ve achieved what you set out to do. Because it’s such a formative experience for her, I’d be tempted to hold it for longer. Learning that she can make music is wonderfully empowering for her. It’s a small moment which carries a lot of weight. It’s also so poignant that the same genes that gave him his talent for making music are part of her make-up, though neither of them know it at this point.
A shout-out to the people who have given you such good feedback, pinning down what we learn about your characters through their voices, so you can check and make sure readers are getting the impressions you were aiming for. I don’t know if you’re all aware of it, but the standard of critiquing has improved as we’ve moved through this week, and we can see it here as you were the eleventh person to post, Kate.
For my deconstruction of the voices, I’ll start with Harry. I think your WIP is in Annie’s first person voice (is that right?), so I’ll end with that.
Harry
She made an odd, mousy little squeak. (Good *show* of her excitement, mitigated by her awareness of the way they’re crossing boundaries.)
“What?” It came out more rudely than I intended. (He’s self-aware and well-intentioned.)
“I’m sorry, I…”
“Is something wrong?” She was frightened. (What does he see that draws him to that conclusion?) What was I doing, bringing her in here as if she was one of Daphne’s schoolfriends? It was too much for her. (Gentle sensitivity and empathy that’s perhaps surprising for someone from his class and upbringing.) But she was staring at the piano and at once I understood: she wasn’t thinking of me, or this room, or her stupid bucket outside in the hall. It was the piano. (He has emotional intelligence, though he fails to pick up on the way her fascination with the music overlaps with her attraction to him. As he’s gay, it makes sense that it wouldn’t even occur to him that she has any sexual attraction to him. If he were the narrator, we might miss it unless we can sense what he can’t.)
I picked up her hand and pressed her finger to the keys, one by one, picking out the tune I’d been practicing, her hand perfectly still in mine. (Such a tender moment.) When I finished, she was still staring at the piano.
“Are you alright?” Her face was white. “Sit down. You look as if you might faint.” Dear God, don’t let her faint. (That’s his voice as the character and it’s interesting to note that the tense has shifted. Strictly speaking, we’re now in present tense, hearing his voice as the character *at the time*, rather than his past tense narration. When this is done smoothly, as you have done here, most readers won’t even notice the change in tense.) I moved over on the piano stool and felt the lightness of her at my side. It occurred to me that I had never seen her sit. (If you wanted to capitalise still more on the closeness to him as the character, as opposed to his voice as the narrator, this could be something like: *How strange. I had never seen her sit before.*)
She put out a finger, touched it to a key then jumped at the sound. The simplicity of it made me laugh. (His laughter is not cruel. He enjoys her obvious delight.)
“That is what happens,” I said, and immediately felt guilty. (For what? He’s very hard on himself.) “Look. Try another one.” (He could so easily dismiss her. Instead, he encourages her to carry on. Steven is right – this story is going to require a lot of tissues to get through it.)
Third Person, Annie’s POV
Annie made a little involuntary sound. (We’re not really in her POV, so we don’t know what lies behind the sound.) Harry stopped.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, I…”
“Is something wrong?”
How could she tell him? (That’s her POV but, without the wider context, we don’t know what she’s withholding.) He looked at her and his eyes widened. Instead of starting to play, he took her hand in his, touched it to the keys. Her finger made a sound. Her hand remained perfectly still as he guided it across the keys, pressing and lifting, up and down the length of the piano as note by note a tune emerged, conjured from his hands into hers. (This is beautiful, with an ebb and flow and a rhythm that feels appropriately musical. The voice is that of the narrator.)
When he stopped and let go, she was shaking. She could not reclaim her hand. It was no longer hers. (The POV is very shallow and the evidence is in the voice, which remains that of the narrator.)
“God, are you alright?” he asked. But she could think only of the piano. (I feel like there are a lot of layers beneath that filtering statement.)
“Sit down,” he said. “You look as if you might faint.” He moved along the piano stool, making space. Annie sat on the stool beside him, the great expanse of the piano, stretching to either side. White keys, black keys. Without thinking, she put her finger onto a key. The sound made her jump. (I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but there’s a lovely movement around the psychic distance spectrum in this paragraph.)
Harry laughed. “That is what happens,” he said, not unkindly. (Whose perception is that? I think it’s the narrator’s as I’m not sure Annie would pick up on this in his tone.) “Look, try another one.”
Annie
I must have made some little involuntary sound, (she was so absorbed, she was unaware?) because his hands paused and he turned to look at me.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, I –”
“Is something wrong?”
How could I tell him? (Will the reader know the sub-text?) But I didn’t have to. His eyes widened. Instead of starting to play, he took my hand in his, touched it to the keys. My finger made a sound. He lifted my hand and guided it across the keys, pressing and lifting, up and down the length of the piano as note by note a tune emerged, conjured from his hands into mine. When he stopped and let go, I was shaking. I didn’t know how to reclaim my hand. It was no longer mine. (There’s a breathlessness to her voice, and a pleasing musicality. That particularly applies to the sentence when they’re literally making music together, and changes when the moment has passed, the sentences becoming shorter.)
Harry was watching me. “God, are you alright?” But I could only stare at my hands and at the piano. “Sit down,” he said. “You look as if you might faint.” He moved along to make space for me and I sat on the stool, the great expanse of the piano stretching to either side. White keys, black keys. Without thinking, I put my finger onto a key. When the note sounded, I jumped. Harry laughed. “That is what happens,” he said, not unkindly. (It seems she *has* picked up on his tone, after all.) “Look, try another one.”
The main thing that strikes me is whether her first person voice is right for her character. It’s very educated, with a wide vocabulary. That made me scroll back through your thread and I see I raised this same question last week: She’s both the narrator and the character and it occurs to me that she seems very literate for her age and class. You continued the conversation last week about the need to decide where and when she’s standing when narrating but I’d like to take a step back and question whether it’s right for this WIP to be in first person. I know that there are scenes in Harry’s POV, and Hiro and Yasuko also have scenes of their own. Are you using third person for the three of them and first person for Annie only? Is it worth considering using third person throughout? You have a wonderful voice for an external narrator, and that would silence my concerns about her voice being appropriate for who she is as a character. For that reason, I’m going to have a go at strengthening her POV voice in your third person version. I do hope you’ll forgive me!
She’d ruined it. Her stupid little mousy squeak had broken the moment. What a fool she was. She might never have a chance like this again. “I’m sorry, I ̶ ”
He frowned, appraising her with his head on one side. “Is something wrong?”
Annie shuffled her feet, her gaze fixed on the keys of the piano. How could she answer that? How could she find the words to explain to him how much it meant to be here? Here, in this music room. So close to the glorious piano. So close to … him.
His eyes widened as he looked at her. Instead of starting to play, he took her hand in his, touched it to the keys. Yes! Yes, he understood! Her finger made a sound. Her hand remained perfectly still as he guided it across the keys, pressing and lifting, up and down the length of the piano as note by note a tune emerged, conjured from his hands into hers.
When he stopped and let go, she was shaking. She could not reclaim her hand. It was no longer hers.
“God, are you alright?” he asked. But she could think only of the piano.
“Sit down,” he said. “You look as if you might faint.” He moved along the piano stool, making space.
Annie sat on the stool beside him, aware of his closeness, the great expanse of the piano stretching to either side of them. White keys, black keys. Without thinking, she put her finger onto a key. The sound made her jump.
Harry chuckled. “That is what happens,” he said. Was he laughing at her? But the laugh seem to be unkind. He pointed at the piano’s keys. “Look, try another one.”
You may well feel I’ve overdone it there, Kate – and that’s fine. I’m not for one minute suggesting the story should be written in third person but I wanted to demonstrate how you can get as close to a character’s interiority in third person as you can in first. Hope it’s got you thinking.
This is so entertaining, Steven. In a world that can be very dark, it’s a delight to read this delicious and gentle humour for some light relief. There was a huge demand for escapist stories when Covid hit and it hasn’t gone away, as we can see from the continuing popularity of cosy crime and rom coms. It strikes me that this story fits into the tradition of the so-called <span class=”BxUVEf ILfuVd” lang=”en”><span class=”hgKElc”>Theatre of the Absurd, which combines elements of tragicomedy and farce to reflect the absurdity of life. You’re updating the original genre to apply to our post-Brexit times. We can laugh at these characters without ever being cruel. They’re </span></span>surprising (in a good way) and we’re not supposed to take them too seriously. You’ve gone for pastiche, playing with the cliché of a domineering Polish hausfrau and a henpecked husband and taking ownership of it, so we can laugh without feeling guilty.
You’ve created two very different first person voices, though I wonder if Serafina’s ‘Polish-ness’ would come through more, perhaps just in odd words, here and there. Maybe one of the dolls she sacrificed was based on her babcia. Maybe, instead of yuck, she would use the Polish equivalent, the meaning clear from the context. Google tells me the word would be fuj. Your first person Lester is consistent with his POV voice in third person. You’re in your comfort zone, and it shows. We feel safe in your hands and can just relax and enjoy the ride. I’m going to start with Serafina’s voice.
Serafina’s 1st person voice
‘We scored sixty,’ he said. ‘Not our lowest. But, they romped home.’
I rested on the sofa. ‘Am I your curse?’ (That sounds plaintive. I would have liked to know what lies behind those spoken words. If she’s anxious, *rested* might not be the best verb to reflect her internal landscape. If anything, it might suggest she’d welcome the idea of being his curse.)
He sat close. ‘Cheri (he uses a French endearment – is that right for his character? By the way, you’ve used the masculine version – there should be an *e* on the end to make it feminine), you’re not a curse. It’s, well, factual, since we said, “I Do,” Wetwicker hasn’t won. (That’s a little unclear and I had to read it a couple of times.) But then we – ’
‘I’ll kill the curse,’ I promised. ‘Need a sacrifice. I sacrificed my dolls.’ (Her spoken words made me chuckle because they’re so surprising. In her own twisted way, she wants to help him.) That brought out his scared-thinking face. (Ha! He’s reacting in the way we would so, even though we’re seeing him through her eyes, it’s easy to relate to him.) I like seeing that face. (She enjoys her power. I can imagine her as a dominatrix.) And, I do like his manly, angry face. (She also likes it when he asserts his masculinity. I’m imagining them using role play in the bedroom.) But, only see that face when he trips. (Ha again! I think she might want to try out being more submissive but poor hapless Lester reserves his butchness for when he trips over. The friction here is a delight. You keep wrong-footing us.)
What will I sacrifice? Something of us. That policewoman called me ballsy. I’ll be ballsy, and burn one his cricket blazers? Yuck, nooo. That’ll bring out his sad, saggy face. (Such a good way to show him but in her voice.) I’m sick of his saggy face. (Now we know that sadness is his current default. Something needs to change.) When we get to Krakow, I’ll get him to that plastic surgeon. (Her solution is not to think about what would make him happy but literally to change his appearance into one that *looks* more happy.) Doctor, what’s her stupid name? The one who deletes emails. (More chuckling here. There’s a whole world of sub-text in those five words. We can imagine a whole story thread where she harasses and stalks this doctor. It doesn’t matter if we never learn the details. Those few simple words create the impression of a much broader world than the one we see in the story.)
So many things are going to change in Krakow. There’ll be Lester’s new face, and our new home. And this home won’t be spoiled by paintings of silly cricket grounds. This home, will be full of my compositions, my brilliantly accurate portraits. We’ll buy a home with an attic, which will be my studio. (She’s psychotic but adorable because the tone is so benign, if creepy.) I’ll make Lester like the home. (Yikes.) I’ll paint him, and hang him over our fireplace. (In her own twisted way, she does love him. He’s certainly an integral part of her life.) But, won’t paint him, until he gets his new face. (Laughing again.)
Lester’s 1st person voice
‘We scored sixty,’ I said. ‘Not our lowest. But, they romped home.’
Serafina slumped onto the sofa. ‘Am I your curse?’ (The verb *slumped* seems more in keeping with her plaintive words.)
I sat next to her. ‘Cheri, you’re not a curse. It’s, well, factual, since we said, “I Do,” Wetwicker hasn’t won. But then we – ’
‘I’ll kill the curse.’ Her eyes focused. ‘Need a sacrifice. I sacrificed my dolls.’
Again it occurs to me in almost every situation Serafina is serious. (Switch to present tense.) If she did laugh, (past tense) it’s (present tense) at her remarks, or remarks attributed to Dita, her imaginary friend. My first inkling of this side of her, came on our second date, and our second time at The Wetwicker Brasserie. We were halfway through soup, when she declared Tom and Jerry cartoons to be a flawed concept. She theorised that once there was a cat in a house, there could never be a mouse. I remember laughing more than I had in a while, and thought how lucky I was to be courting such an amusing lady. (*courting* and *lady* are old-fashioned, even for a man of Lester’s age) But, her eyes locked on mine, and her spoonful of tomato soup dribbled onto the table. (Love that detail.) Then bizarrely, as if giving evidence in court, she catalogued all the homes, and businesses, she claimed had removed mice by taking in a cat. When the main courses arrived, she finally stopped her account. I couldn’t help admiring her rigour, and found myself saying Tom and Jerry was unforgivable drivel. (They’re such a mis-matched couple but they seem to fill in each other’s gaps and I can see the attraction. He finds her funny and fascinating. She’s rewarded for her quirkiness by bringing him round to her world-view.)
3rd person Lester’s POV (as in WIP)
‘We scored sixty,’ said Lester. ‘Not our lowest. But, they romped home.’
Serafina slumped onto the sofa. ‘Am I your curse?’
Lester uncurled a flap of ripped leather on the sofa (a nice detail, which didn’t make it into the other versions), and sat next to her. ‘Cheri, you’re not a curse. It’s, well, factual, since we said, “I Do,” Wetwicker hasn’t won. But then we – ’
‘I’ll kill the curse.’ Her eyes focused. ‘Need a sacrifice. I sacrificed my dolls.’
Again it occurred to Lester in almost every situation his wife was serious. If she did laugh, it was at her remarks, or remarks attributed to Dita, her imaginary friend. His first inkling of this side of her, came during their second date; and their second night at the Wetwicker Basserie. They were enjoying their soup course when Serafina declared Tom and Jerry cartoons to be a flawed concept. She theorised that once there was a cat in a house, there could never be a mouse. Lester blessed his luck to be courting such an amusing lady, and, oiled by nervy over-drinking, tossed his napkin on the table and chortled more than he had in a while. (You’ve added more of his character-in-action in third person than you had in first. The nervy over-drinking creates a different impression to his version, where he seemed to relax into the moment and enjoy the simple pleasure of laughing.) But Serafina stopped slurping her tomato soup, and the starter dribbled from her spoon and blotted the tablecloth. She took until the arrival of the main courses, to recall the homes, and businesses, that eliminated their mice population by employing a cat. Lester sobered by then, and admiring her rigour, found himself saying Tom and Jerry was unforgivable drivel. (I felt this was less amusing than his first person version.)
A combination of the best parts of his voice in each version would be fabulous, Steven. But I can’t help thinking about the comic potential of including Serafina’s voice in the WIP somewhere. It seems such a shame to have created such a glorious character and then never introduce her to the reader in her own words. I’m surprised she’s allowing that, to be honest. Anyway, here’s my go at drawing on the parts of his first person voice that worked so well and integrating them into the WIP version.
‘We scored sixty,’ said Lester. ‘Not our lowest. But they romped home.’
Serafina slumped onto the sofa, pouting. ‘Am I your curse?’
Lester uncurled a flap of ripped leather on the sofa and sat next to her, taking her hand in his. ‘Cherie, of course you’re not a curse. But the fact is … I mean it’s true that …’ Lester sighed and tried again. ‘The truth is, my dear wife, that from the moment you and I said, “I do,” Wetwicker hasn’t won. But then we –’
‘I’ll kill the curse.’ Her eyes focused and she sat up straight, pulling her hand away. ‘Need a sacrifice. I sacrificed my dolls.’
What – or who – would she sacrifice? It never occurred to Lester that he shouldn’t take her offer seriously. His wife was always serious. The only times Serafina did ever laugh, it was at her own remarks, or remarks attributed to Dita, her imaginary friend. Lester’s introduction to this side of her had come during their second date at the Wetwicker Brasserie. They were enjoying their soup course when Serafina declared Tom and Jerry cartoons to be a flawed concept. Once there was a cat in a house, she’d declared, there could never be a mouse. Lester had laughed more than he had in a while and thought how lucky he was to be courting such an amusing lady. But her eyes locked on his, and her spoonful of tomato soup dribbled onto the table. Then, bizarrely, as if giving evidence in court, she catalogued all the homes and businesses she claimed had removed mice by taking in a cat. When the main courses arrived, she finally ran out of steam and stared at him, daring to disagree. Lester couldn’t help admiring her rigour and found himself saying Tom and Jerry was unforgivable drivel.
I’ve changed very little there, Steven. You might need to look at your punctuation as commas, full stops etc are all part of the rhythm of the prose, and that’s a part of voice. We’ll be drilling down into that sort of detail in week 5. Also, your tenses wobbled in his first person version, though they didn’t in the WIP. But otherwise, you have the right voice for Lester. I still say I’d love to see Serafina unleashed though.
Yeehah, Paula! This is a real white-knuckle ride, with a fast pace and oodles of tension. It certainly feels like we’re approaching the peak of your narrative arc, which you’ll remember from week 1 is when we have maximum jeopardy, the stakes are at their highest and everything could be won or lost.I hope you’ve fully recovered from your op. It certainly isn’t holding you back here.
You said in one of your replies: I wonder if everything in my book goes at too frantic a pace, yet I don’t really feel I know how to mix in pauses and slower thoughtful bits. That’s a valid question. The action all takes place over three days, so everything is very condensed. The characters would be reeling, struggling to process one drama while being constantly confronted by new ones. It would certainly be a challenge to maintain that high octane rush for an entire novel and the reader could easily get exhausted. Though that would be faithful representation of how Jacqueline would be feeling, it’s a lot to ask of the reader. A story needs peaks and troughs (back to week 1’s lessons again) but how can you build those in when the character is continually buffetted by new dangers? I’m not saying it can’t be done, but it won’t be easy if you’re committed to using present tense, where everything happens sequentially: now … now … now … giving the character(s) no chance to pause and reflect. Past tense would give you much more flexibility. We can talk more about that if you like. Jacqueline isn’t the only POV character, is she? If she isn’t, another way to vary the register might be to leave a chapter with her hanging on a cliff-edge and then turn to a different character’s POV in the next chapter.
Back to this scene, which is packed with drama on different levels. We have the external conflicts (Regina, the satellites, high stakes – the future of the world! – all echoed by the raging storm) and Jacqueline’s internal conflicts (the death of her grandfather, the messy relationship with Graye, everything she’s had to deal with since the story begun). She’d be wrung-out, emotionally drained and struggling to cope. You said: I hope I’m not making her too angry for the circumstances. No, absolutely not! Fear often manifests as anger … think about the parent who yells at their child who’s just run into the road. The ‘circumstances’ couldn’t be more fraught, could they? Don’t hold back.
Coming now to the voices. Though Graye and Jacqueline are obviously going to say different things, I’m not sure if they say them in ways that make their voices very distinct from each other. Let’s think for a moment about who they are. I’m guessing they’re similar ages, but she’s a white Zimbabwean woman and he’s a mixed race American man, no? That means very different life experiences. Because they’re both narrating in present tense, you’re tied into the action. Both have to act and react in the frozen moment and that makes it hard for them to say other things that are not part of the immediate here and now. This would also be much easier in past tense and it might be worth trying out some scenes in past tense, to see how that feels. You’ve said elsewhere that you tend to write short early drafts. That might also be tied into using present tense.
Even so, there are differences you could exploit. Kate mentions that they both brought up the other’s smell and Steven said that the bakery smell pulled him out of the scene. That’s because, in this moment of high jeopardy and drama, he wouldn’t be thinking back to smells from his childhood. And they both pick up on Graye’s smile, attaching a metaphor as an adjective. I’m hearing alarm bells over Graye describing his smile as a melon-slice, knowing he’s mixed race. You might remember the scandal of Boris Johnson describing Africans as having ‘watermelon smiles’. (A reminder in case you missed it.) It’s an unlikely analogy for a Black person to use about themselves, unless Graye has led a very sheltered life and has somehow never been exposed to racism. I linked to this site somewhere about tropes to watch out for – there’s a whole page devoted to using food stuffs to describe skin colour and features. This link about ‘writing the other’ might also be useful.
In your exercise, the WIP version in third person works really well. You’ve stuck to her POV and have injected her voice into the prose, so we’re sharing her cocktail of emotions as she flips from fear to joy to anger to self-preservation to the overarching need to save the world. Oof. Our hearts will be pounding along with hers. For my feedback, I’ll start with Graye. Bear in mind that the voice of a first person narrator has those two discrete functions: that of the narrator and that of the character-in-action. In present tense, the voice has to do both – simultaneously.
1st person Graye:
Ducking behind the bushes, I can see the light of a window high above in some kind of tower, with steps running down to a platform below. I must get up there. Creeping out, I sneak across the pool terrace. I’m on red alert. (There’s a rather same-y rhythm to his voice here. The first and third sentences begin with dangling modifiers – an …ing clause at the front. The second and fourth sentences are short and urgent.)
My heart nearly stops as I hear my name called out from above. I know that voice. It’s Jacqui. I can’t see her, but I know it’s her. She’s alive. Thank Christ! (The very short sentences work well here. They’re breathless and urgent.)
I can see her now, on a platform above me. She’s beckoning, and I run and jump, pulling myself up, and now she’s in my arms. She smells sweeter than outside Prentl’s Bakery when I was a kid. (Taking us out of the moment.) She’s shaking, and I hold her tight. (Three consecutive sentences beginning with ‘She…’) Nothing matters but to hold her.
But she goes stiff on me, and pulls back. I can feel my cheeks stretched back in a melon-slice smile. (Alarm bell.) But she’s not smiling. She looks mean. (That’s tell-y. What does ‘mean’ look like? How is it manifested? We know what she’s *not* doing – smiling – but how do her expression and body language convey her anger?)
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ She growls. ‘You’re s’posed to be dead.’
Jeez, (that does sound US) she’s more than angry. ‘Hey come on.’ I reach to hug her again, but she pulls away from me and gets up. (Was she sitting down? In this version, we don’t know they’re kneeling.)
‘Don’t you dare!’ she hisses.
There’s a gust of wind and a roll of thunder. (She uses the same wording.)
She takes a deep breath and seems to straighten herself out. (What does that look like? *seems to* is tentative.) ‘It’s Regina Chen,’ she says. ‘She’s going to destroy the satellites.’ (A good switch to the main jeopardy.)
‘What the hell? She helped us. It can’t be…’ I remember the Doc telling me she was the only one I could trust. I remember her warning me away from Lionel White. ‘Holy crap! She knows everything. Where is she?’ (I like the way he races through the implications.)
Jacqui nods up to lit window above us. (Great stuff. High drama and tension.)1st person Jacqueline:
The pool terrace below is cloaked in shadows. As I edge towards the tower, I hear a tiny sound and freeze. Did that bush move? Holding my breath, I stare into the darkness. Yes, there. A man’s silhouette crouched low, scrambles across the terrace. A figure so familiar that I know him immediately. (Her voice has a more pleasing rhythm than his. There’s a good balance between narration of what she sees and her reaction to it as the character-in-action.)
‘Graye!’ He’s alive. My heart does a little flip of joy.
He stops, face pale in the darkness, looking up, and I beckon furiously. He runs forward, jumping to grapple the walkway, lifting himself to land on his knees in front of me. (Nice ‘show’ of action.)
Elated, I drop to my knees too, feeling (you don’t need that filtering word) his arms encase me. I cling to him, pressing my face hard into his shoulder, smelling his familiar cucumber scent. All the terror and despair of the past two days roil in my chest, rising up my throat, and I want to howl it all out.
But not now. I stiffen, pulling back. I see his smug, Cheshire Cat smile in the darkness, and now I’m angry. He left me. Grandad’s dead. It’s all his fault. (This is really good. The longer sentences at the beginning are more contemplative. Then the whole emotional overload surges up and spills over, manifesting in blunt hammer blow sentences to reflect her fear morphing into rage.)
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I growl. ‘You’re s’posed to be dead.’
‘Hey come on.’ He reaches as if to hug me again.
‘Don’t you dare!’ I get to my feet, my heart thudding angrily in my ears. I won’t let him hurt me again.
A gust of wind and a roll of thunder (identical to his version) make me look up. There’s too much to think about. I take a big breath. ‘It’s Regina Chen. She’s going to destroy the satellites.’
‘What the hell?’ Graye looks puzzled. ‘She helped us. It can’t be…’ His brow furrows and then clears, eyes wide. ‘Holy crap! She knows everything. Where is she?’
I nod up to lit window above us. (You’ve kept this really tight, maintaining the tension. We know about her inner turmoil, see the atmosphere created by the storm, hear minimal terse dialogue, and see his external reaction as he works through the implications. There’s not a single superfluous word.)3rd person, Jacqueline’s POV:
The pool terrace below is cloaked in shadows. As Jacqueline edges towards the tower, she hears a tiny sound and freezes. Did that bush move? Holding her breath, she stares into the darkness. Yes, there. A man’s silhouette crouched low, scrambles across the terrace. It’s a figure so familiar that she knows him immediately. (Everything I said about her voice in first person applies here too. Using third person loses nothing.)
‘Graye!’ He’s alive. Her heart does a little flip of joy.
The figure stops, face pale in the darkness, looking up, and she beckons furiously. He runs forward, jumping to grapple the walkway, lifting himself to land on his knees in front of her.
Elated, she drops to her knees, feeling his arms encase her. She clings to him, pressing her face hard into his shoulder, smelling his familiar cucumber scent. All the terror and despair of the past two days roil in her chest, rising up her throat, and she wants to howl it all out. (As before, a good mix of pacy action and internal reaction.)
Not now. She stiffens, pulling back. She sees his smug, Cheshire Cat smile in the darkness, and now she’s furious. He left her. Grandad’s dead. It’s all his fault. (Same comment as before.)
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she growls. ‘You’re s’posed to be dead.’
‘Hey come on.’ He reaches as if to hug her again.
‘Don’t you dare!’ She gets to her feet, her heart thudding angrily in her ears. She won’t let him hurt her again.
A gust of wind and a roll of thunder makes her look up. There’s too much to think about. She takes a big breath. ‘It’s Regina Chen. She’s going to destroy the satellites.’
‘What the hell?’ Graye looks puzzled. ‘She helped us. It can’t be…’ His brow furrows and then clears, eyes wide. ‘Holy crap! She knows everything. Where is she?’
Jacqueline nods up to lit window above. (As before.)To be honest, this looks to me like it’s doing exactly what you want it to, Paula. I’m not sure if I can make much difference. You’ve stuck solidly to her POV and have ensured her voice is saturating the prose. Any tweaks I would make are cosmetic but I’ve drafted alternative versions for everyone else and I don’t want to short-change you, so here we go.
As Jacqueline edges towards the tower, she hears a tiny rustling sound from below and peers down over the edge of the walkway. What the hell was that? The pool terrace is cloaked in shadows. Did that bush move? Holding her breath, she squints into the darkness. Yes, there. A man’s silhouette, crouched low, scrambling across the terrace.
Wait. Who is that? Surely not. But yes! Yes, it is!
‘Graye!’ she hisses.
The figure stops, face pale in the darkness, looking up, and she beckons furiously. He runs forward, jumping to grapple the walkway, lifting himself to land on his knees in front of her.
Graye! It’s really him. He’s here. Alive. She doesn’t know how this is possible but here he is, right here, in the flesh. Elated, she drops to her knees and his arms wrap round her. She clings to him, pressing her face hard into his shoulder, smelling his familiar cucumber scent.
It lasts an instant, this surge of joy. And then all the terror and despair of the past two days roil in her chest, rising up her throat, and she wants to howl it all out. She pulls back, sees his smug Cheshire Cat smile in the darkness, and now she’s furious. He left her. Grandad’s dead. It’s all his fault.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she growls. ‘You’re s’posed to be dead.’
I’ll stop there as I’m over the word count. You’ve said you write short and I hope this shows how you can hold a moment for longer, even in present tense. This is such a dramatic scene and you want to squeeze the maximum tension from it. Sometimes in a novel, you can cover a decade in a single sentence. At other times, action that takes place in a matter of seconds can be drawn out over a page or more, making more of the suspense, rather than slowing it down. Hope this has helped to reassure you.
Hi Alison. I love this conflict between two friends who care for each other deeply. Nell is frustrated with Noah, which comes through clearly in both her spoken words and her inner monologue. He’s desperate for her to understand and is more angry with himself than with her. Your young readers will find it easy to relate to the scenario and to the character whose POV we’re in.
The passage you’ve chosen is predominantly dialogue. While it’s convincing as repartee, we’re hoping to examine the voice in the prose this week – and you haven’t given us much to work with. Might this be a sign that you’re placing an over-reliance on dialogue to carry the plot and show us the characters? We’re writing novels, not scripts, and we need to use words on the page to create a complete scene. You said this in a reply: I see all the beautiful description being used in your books, and it makes me feel that I need more. But do I? And if I do, how much? I’m sure Debi can help me with this. Yes, yes you do. Your readers need help to visualise a complete scene. Next week will hold the key, though this week should hopefully be a step in the right direction. You also said: I don’t want to lose children amongst stretches of prose. Why would you think there’s a danger of losing them by using prose? Pick up any middle grade book and I guarantee that there will be plenty of prose, used for all different kinds of purposes. As a result, I’m trying to keep them hooked through dialogue (including internal thinking) and action. Action will be prose, as well as ‘internal thinking’. It’s just that there’s very little of either in what you’ve posted.
For my feedback, I’ll start with Nell. One point about her voice. She uses mad as in angry. That has a US/Canadian meaning and I know your story is set in the UK. If she’s English, she’s unlikely to use that word unless she means insane. I think that lame might be the same issue. This is obviously something you’ll need to watch out for. I’ll only comment on the dialogue the first time as it’s the same in all the versions.
Nell’s first person voice:
By the time we reached the green, I was fed up with Noah’s feeble attempts to make conversation. Just leave me alone and let me get home. I hated feeling so mad with him. (Good conflict.)
Almost home, but then Noah said, “Let’s sit on the swings for a bit.”
“Can’t. Got too much homework.” (I like the clipped response, cutting out the pronoun and making this feel like authentic speech.) I knew (you don’t need that filtering) it was a lie, which made me even more mad. (More good conflict.)
“You said you didn’t have much. Please, Nell.”
“Okay, I guess.” Rats! (Why has she given in so easily? That one-word expostulation is doing a lot of heavy lifting.)
The swings were our happy place where we’d laugh and chat. But today, our swings wouldn’t sync together. (She needs to take us there and show them as characters-in-action.) Can’t say I was trying. (More good conflict and a grumpy tone in her voice which young readers will recognise and relate to.)
“Stop swinging for a minute, Nell. Why are you being so aloof with me?” (She’s not showing him.)
I kept swinging while he came to a stop. Why should I listen to him. He doesn’t listen to anyone else. (We get that she’s angry but only because she cares about him so much.)
“Offish? (That’s not what he said.) What does that even mean?” I said. One of his showoff words. (She really is trying to hate him.)
“It means you’re ignoring me.”
“Well, maybe that’s because you think you can do whatever you like in the name of the kindness quad?”
(I would slow this down. His demeanour changes before his next words. Show him.) “I really have become the lone warrior.”
“Lone what?”
“Lone warrior. That’s what Pretzel calls me.”
“Seriously? You make yourself sound like a superhero going around saving the world.” (She’s being honest but cruel and hurtful now. Perhaps that’s what he’s pushed her into, in which case she’d probably hate herself as much as him at this point. The unbroken dialogue needs to be broken up with … something. A complete scene consists of a lot more than a conversation between two people.)
I stopped swinging and got up to leave. I’d had enough.
“Nell, wait! I don’t want to be a lone warrior.”
He was breaking through the hardness barrier. (What does that feel like?)
“Come on, Noah, let the lone warrior thing go, it sounds so lame.”
I could never leave Noah to suffer alone. (Aw bless. They have such a close bond. Heartwarming stuff in a story that has its dark elements.)
Noah’s first person voice:
Why is she in such a hurry? (I’m wondering why that’s in present tense. And he knows anyway.) By the time we reached the green (exactly the same phrase as she used), I was tired of Nell’s one-word answers. I was just trying to make conversation. A sudden sense of urgency washed over me. (That’s very tell-y and it doesn’t sound like his voice. I think it’s yours.) I needed to fix things before she disappeared into her house.
“Let’s sit on the swings for a bit,” I said, cringing at the desperation in my voice. (That’s great insight into his interiority.)
“I can’t. Got too much homework.”
“But you said you didn’t have much. Please, Nell.”
(Show her.) “Fine, I guess.”
The swings had always been our spot where we’d laugh and chat for hours. (You need to take us there.) But today, however hard I tried, I couldn’t get my swing to move in rhythm with hers. (We need to see them as characters-in-action.)
I blurted out, “Stop swinging Nell! Why are you being so aloof?” I regretted the question. (That sounds like an adult’s voice.)
I knew exactly why.
“Aloof? What’s that even mean?” she asked.
“It means you’re ignoring me,” I said, fluctuating the volume of my voice (why is that relevant? what does it imply?) as she continued to swing back and forth.
“You’re ignoring everyone else, doing whatever you want in the name of the kindness quad.”
Though true, her words hurt.
I hung my head and muttered, “I’ve really become the lone warrior.”
“Lone what?” Nell stopped swinging.
“Lone warrior. That’s what Pretzel calls me.”
“Huh! You make yourself sound like some kind of superhero. You and Pretzel deserve each other.”
That stung.
As she got up, I panicked. (There’s so little prose, you really do need to make every word count.)
“I’m sorry! I don’t want to be a lone warrior.”
“Then let the lone warrior thing go, it sounds so lame.”
Noah’s POV (as in my WIP)
Noah had to keep quickening his pace to keep (repetition of *keep*) up with Nell. By the time they reached the green, he was tired of trying to get a decent conversation out of her.
He suddenly felt in a panic to make things right before she walked up her garden path and disappeared through the front door. (This is good but it could be a lot more voice-y.)
“Let’s sit on the swings for a bit,” Noah said, trying not to sound desperate.
“I can’t. Got too much homework.”
“But you said you didn’t have much. Please, Nell.”
“Fine, I guess.”
The swings had become a special place where they’d chat, and time would stand still. But today, Noah couldn’t seem to get his swing to sync with Nell’s. (I’m not sure whose voice we’re hearing. It doesn’t have any idiosyncratic features that suggest it’s Noah’s POV voice.)
“Stop swinging, Nell. Just stop!” Noah stilled his swing. “Why are you being so aloof?”
Stupid question. (If we know we’re in his POV, you don’t need to render his thoughts in italics as we’ll be aware that we’re inside his head.)
Of course, he knew why.
“Aloof? What’s that even mean?” she said.
“It means you’re ignoring me,” Noah said, his voice rising and falling (whose perception is this? I don’t think he’d moderate his own voice, so it must be Nell’s sensory perception) as Nell continued to swing up to the sky and back.
“You’re ignoring your friends, doing whatever you like in the name of the kindness quad.”
(Show this change in him.) “I’ve really become the lone warrior.”
“Lone what?” Nell stopped swinging.
“Lone warrior. That’s what Pretzel calls me.”
“Huh! You think you’re some kind of superhero. You and your imaginary friend, Pretzel, deserve each other.”
Ouch!
Nell got up to leave.
“Nell, wait! I’m sorry. I don’t want to be the lone warrior.”
“Then let the lone warrior thing go, it sounds so lame.”
Right. You know what I’m going to say. I’m going to come up with a version that is less reliant on the dialogue, introducing more of Noah’s POV voice into the prose. Please remember that the last thing I want is for you to just accept my version. When I do these rewrites, I’m simply showing you the kind of thing you can do to draw out a strong voice in the prose. It’s up to you to find Noah’s voice for yourself.
Nell was positively racing to get home and Noah struggled to keep up with her. By the time they reached the green, he was tired of trying to get a decent conversation out of her but he couldn’t give up. Any minute now, she’d walk up her garden path and disappear through the front door.
“Let’s sit on the swings for a bit,” he said. Ugh, did he have to sound so desperate?
Nell didn’t so much as glance at him. “Can’t. Got too much homework.”
“But you said you didn’t have much. Please, Nell.”
OK, he was begging now and hated himself for it. Desperation does that to you.
Somehow, it had done the trick though because Nell shrugged and changed direction. “Fine, I s’pose.”
They headed off to the green and each sat in their usual swing. This was their special place. It was where they’d come to chat, and time would stand still. Not today though. However hard he tried, Noah couldn’t get his swing to move in rhythm with hers.
“Stop swinging, Nell. Just stop!” Noah jabbed his trainers into the ground and stilled his swing. “Why are you being so aloof?”
Stupid question.
Of course, he knew why.
Nell made no attempt to stop swinging. “Aloof? What’s that even mean?” she said, her voice dripping with scorn.
Gah, now he’d annoyed her even more. She was always going on about him showing off because he had a wider vocabulary than she did. Like he even cared about that.
“It means you’re ignoring me,” he said.
“You’re ignoring your friends, doing whatever you like in the name of the kindness quad.”
Ouch. That hurt. She wasn’t wrong and that hurt even more. Noah hung his head. “I’ve really become the lone warrior.”
I’m already way over the word count, so I’ll stop there. What do you think, Alison? Any help? Whatever you do, don’t let those Doubt Demons back in. You’ve got this.
The course is drawing some stunning writing from you, Katie. I can see you’re not completely confident about how voice works yet and the evidence is that you’ve used point of view when referring to a first person voice but haven’t used the term for when it does matter, which is in third person. But these things are easy to learn and this week and next will be game-changers for you. You clearly have a natural talent for creating gorgeous prose and that will stand you in good stead, enabling you to turn your hand to whatever your story needs. Not everyone has this innate skill and it’s the hardest thing to teach and learn. I hope you can accept how special this is and allow yourself to feel good about it.
While there’s so much to love in each of your versions, I love, love, LOVE the narrator’s voice in third person, where the hotel is treated like a character in its own right. That would seem to suggest that third person will work really well for this WIP, despite your stated lack of confidence about using it. You’re good at it! Take ownership of that and don’t give yourself a hard time. So, now let’s talk about the thinking you’re doing about the best way to tell this story.
– Older Mary’s story told in 1st person present tense.
– Younger Mary’s story told in close 3rd person past tense.I wonder about mixing both first and third person, past and present tense. On another thread (sorry – I can never remember where I’ve said things) I’ve given some examples of novels which are written in a mix of tenses and voices, so it can certainly be done. But, given what a fabulous voice you’ve created for your third person narrator, I can’t help thinking it might make more sense to stick to third person throughout, only varying the tense. It seems more intuitive and would also create a cohesive narrative voice to tie the threads together.
Let’s think a bit more about this narrator and their voice, ie what they say and how they say it. Kate asked if you were aiming for omniscience in your third person version. You replied: If I was confident that I understood what an omniscient narrator is I’d probably say yes. I think I do. But the name implies there are other un-omniscient narrators and I can’t quite picture that for some reason. Traditionally, an omniscient narrator is one that is detached from the POV of any character. They know things no individual character knows, and see things they can’t see. The term ‘omniscient’ is misunderstood by many people because what an omniscient narrator can’t do (in most novels) is go inside characters’ heads. When this happens, newbie authors often end up with the dreaded head-hopping, which is where we jump from deep inside one head to deep inside a different one. I think you’re getting hung up on this word ‘omniscience’. It might be better to think in terms of external narrators, who have their own voice, and internal narrators (the POV voice of a character).
Kate has done a brilliant job of dissecting this. (High five to Kate.) And, as she points out, there are always exceptions. I haven’t read Damon Galgut’s The Promise but it was a Booker winner, and literary fiction often breaks the so-called ‘rules’ about POV switching and omniscience. Anyway, coming back to your WIP, Katie. Don’t make any decisions yet. You should be much better equipped to do that after next week.
In the exercise, there are very clear differences in the two first person voices. It’s so interesting to see the same scene through the eyes and thoughts of two characters who are stretched so far apart. In first person, we can’t know if we can trust the perceptions of the character narrator. They might interpret the other person’s benevolence as something not to be trusted or, conversely, trust someone who has malignant motives. That, of course, is the potential problem of writing a novel in first person. We can only see through the narrator’s eyes and perceptions and can’t be sure whether they’re reliable or not. I do love an unreliable narrator but it’s not easy to pull off their voice. Readers need to have the sense that we can’t always trust what they tell us. That way, we’ll know that any apparent contradictions are the author’s intention. In this respect, third person is more flexible. Potentially, there could be more than one POV character. That way, we would be aware of things that the other character wouldn’t pick up on. Or you could use the device of an external narrator, who might know things about a character that they don’t know – or acknowledge – in themselves. We’ll be exploring this fully next week, so please put it on the back burner for now.
I’m going to start with Serene’s voice. Please note my changes to the headings.
First person, Serene’s voice
I found her huddled on the veranda, knocking at the door. Poor thing. Must have been terrified. (A good blend of narration, showing Mary, and interiority, showing Serene’s empathy and compassion.)
‘Come in, come in,’ I said, hurrying us both inside.
‘The cold doesn’t sit right with me. Catches in my bones. For weeks now, I’ve had a terrible headache,’ (there’s an interesting progression in her spoken words, from *doesn’t sit right* to the more visceral mention of her bones and then the terrible headache – creates the impression of her being measured) I said, wasting no time to show her the ballroom. (She’s falling down in her job as the narrator here. She needs to take us into the ballroom and show it to us.) The wind made a racket in there, but it was the ballroom. (Nice chilly Gothic detail.) She’d come all this way, it would be cruel to keep the ballroom from her. (She’s the one who’s obsessed by the ballroom, mentioning it three times. That ties into her former career as a dancer, being drawn to a performance area, but it’s also a subtle hint of possible unreliability. Definite Miss Havisham vibes.) But Mary was distracted, her attention caught on the view instead. (Where is Mary? Where’s she standing? At the window, looking out? Serene, as the narrator, could tell us what Mary is looking at outside, which would help us to see the wider setting.) Flinching at taps on the glass, the creak of the frames. (Love this creepy atmosphere. It also shows Mary to be edgy and uncomfortable.)
‘Don’t mind the wind, child. We’re safe here.’ (That’s made me shudder! I feel far from reassured. This is subtly creepy.)
There was no one else, so I prepared the table. (Is she doing this now? If so, we should see her. Or had she already done it before Mary arrived? If so, you need to use the pluperfect/past historic tense to indicate this is something she had done further in the past.) The crackers I (had) laid out the night before, in neat fans, beside beetroot cubes, three types of olives. (This is very precise. Laying it all out so far in advance is another sign that this narrator is not completely trustworthy.) Tea, on the other hand, had to wait. (I’m now rather confused by the timeline and sequence of events. We were back last night, so when had the tea done this waiting?) But by the time we sat down, the pot was lukewarm. Specks of dust in the milk. (You have such a good eye for detail.) If only she’d called ahead. (Ah, so Mary has done something mildly transgressive? We don’t know about that.) It was impolite not to really. But nevermind, she was here now. (Her mind flitters like a butterfly, never quite settling anywhere. First, she was put out that her carefully laid plan had been disrupted. She likes to be in control. I sense she’s more upset about it than she’s letting on, which makes her even more interesting.)
‘So, it’s Ida you want to know about, isn’t it? Her centre?’
She nodded, kept her eyes down. I took her hand in my own.
‘It’s another world, Mary. A different way of life. You should go. There are people who have been there for years. Start out as guests and end up working there,’ I laughed, ‘give up all their possessions. Sign their life away.’ (Yikes! Run a mile, Mary!)First person, Mary’s voice
At the hotel, I found no signs of life. Nothing but rubbish skittering across the road, no cars except my own. Inside, sheets had been thrown over furniture. (How does she know? You’re showing bits of the scene but she’s not active in it.) I had my nose pressed to the glass (of a window?) when Serene found (you used *found* a couple of sentences ago – how did she *find* her? Again, you’re not showing action, this time for Serene) me, trying to peer around endless doorways. (She can see that through the window?)
‘Come in, come in.’ I followed like a good girl, (oooh, *like* a good girl, implying she isn’t and compliance doesn’t come naturally to her) though my limbs were slow to respond (her body tells us what her words don’t). Serene was light on her feet. A former ballerina of unknown age, she looked as though she was made of thousands of fine threads spun into a single rope. (That’s a gorgeous evocative image of an ethereal and graceful woman, past her prime. I’m thinking of the character in the old Hollywood movie, Sunset Boulevard.)
What else did I know about her? The hotel was her inheritance, the last in a crumbling empire. She’d told me (when?) that if she stayed in one place too long her feet broke out in hives. (A shocking phenomenon, if true.) There had been a photo too, posted in the online group we both belonged to (there’s something timeless about Serene, which made her having an online presence come as a surprise), though no one asked for proof (I’m not sure what she means by that. Proof of what? Isn’t the photo proof of Serene’s claim about her feet? And why would Mary doubt her, anyway? The statement seems loaded but I can’t work out the sub-text). I remembered the thick welts, how they glowed white-hot (a strong image but hives are usually an angry red) under the camera flash.
But now she was here, holding court (economical and elegant way to show Serene’s demanour) in a decaying ballroom overlooking the sea. (I love the way she’s brought us back into the scene. She’s skimping on her narration though and needs to show the ballroom to us.)
Serene smoked through lunch, (love it! You’re so right to think that a character springs to life when there’s some kind of friction between what we expect them to be and what they actually are) ate nothing and watched me as I picked at the pile of crackers and smooth lumps of cheese. (Hard to imagine anything less appetising, or a more awkward vibe.)
‘Do you know who that is?’ she asked, not for the first time (she hasn’t shown the previous times to us), gesturing to a framed photo above us. (She’s not showing the photo to us.)
‘No, I don’t think so.’ She sucked her teeth. (How does Mary interpret that? As disapproval? How does it make her feel?)
‘So, it’s Ida you want to know about. Her centre?’
I nodded. I had driven all day for this. Down roads that played tricks. (Fabulous! I’m really enjoying these hints of unreliability. She’s skating over the surface of the scene though. We need her to do more to show the setting to us, as well as the two of them in it as characters-in-action.)
Third person (NB: you will need to choose a POV and commit to it)
The hotel was used to solitude this time of year. (Personification of the hotel.) It was a time of stiffening, of holding its own against the elements. Ignoring the wind and its tantrums, the way it bucked the windows and filled the gutters with sand. While not as grand as it once was, the hotel stood tall above the rocks. (Gorgeous Gothic setting and an appropriately portentous voice.) Kept Serene tucked inside. (The teensiest suggestion that we might be moving into Serene’s POV, in which case, we’ll attribute the next sentence to her as well.) Kept people out.
But not her. (Depending on the context, we might stumble over who the pronoun refers to as we had the impression we were going to be in Serene’s POV. It’s not a head-hop, because we were never deep in Serene’s POV, but the transition from Serene to Mary is not as smooth as it could be.) Mary had travelled far, leaving behind a trail of lies to come here. (So intriguing.)
‘Come in, come in,’ Serene told her, when she realised (that filtering is explicitly Serene’s POV) the girl had arrived, sheltered in the doorway.
‘The cold doesn’t sit right with me. Catches in my bones. For weeks now, I’ve had a terrible headache,’ Serene told her as she hurried inside. But Mary was not listening, she was thinking about the journey. (Mary’s POV.) How the road had played tricks, tried to convince her it ran forward, not back on itself. That it was not wound tight like intestines in a stomach. That it would get here there eventually. (The voice is gorgeous – I would say it’s still that of the narrator – their take on Mary’s experience of the journey.)
‘So, it’s Ida you want to know about. Her centre?’
Mary nodded, thought that they might as well cut to the chase. (Mary’s shallow POV. *cut to the chase* is a cliché. Is that right for her character?) She did not come all this way for small talk. (She seems brisk and impatient. This is a very different version of the character we saw through Serene’s eyes, as well as the one we saw in first person. Which is the real Mary?)
‘It’s another world, Mary. A different way of life. You should go,’ Serene told her, pleased to see (we’ve jumped to Serene’s POV) some sign of life in the girl.
‘There are people who have been there for years. Start out as guests and end up working there,’ Serene laughed, ‘give up all their possessions.’I suspect the best version of this scene will draw on both the gorgeous external narrator’s voice that you’ve created and a close POV voice for Mary. At the moment, because the POV zigzags between the two women, we can’t really see either of them, from outside or from inside. You’re skating over the surface of a scene which has so much potential. A full scene will include the wonderful atmosphere you already have, as well as a lot more visual details to enable us to *see* it, plus more *show* of both women and their actions from the outside, as well as the interiority of one of them, presumably Mary. While I’m hesitant to mess with your fledgling WIP, I’ll try to come up with a version that includes both the narrator’s voice and commits to Mary’s POV voice.
The hotel was used to solitude this time of year. It was a time of stiffening, of holding its own against the elements. Ignoring the wind and its tantrums, the way it bucked the windows and filled the gutters with sand. While not as grand as it once was, the hotel stood tall above the rocks.
Mary had travelled far, leaving behind a trail of lies to come here. The road had played tricks, tried to convince her it ran forward, not back on itself. That it was not wound tight like intestines in a stomach. That it would get here there eventually. And it had.
There were no signs of life as she pulled into the car park. Nothing but rubbish skittering across the road, no cars except her own. She climbed out and looked up at the decaying façade. The hotel, she knew, was Serene’s inheritance, the last in a crumbling empire. Mary shivered as she climbed the steps to the ancient veranda and pressed her nose to a window, peering through the grime. Dark shadows. Sheets thrown over furniture.
The front door opened and there was Serene. A former ballerina of unknown age, she looked as though she was made of thousands of fine threads spun into a single rope.
‘Come in, come in,’ she said, holding the door open wide.
I’ll stop there as it’s over 200 words. We’re going to be building on all this next week, Katie. For now, it’s enough to know that you have a gift for creating a certain kind of voice. Have you read any of the novels by Anna Mazzola or Essie Fox? I’ve a feeling you’d enjoy them, especially Essie Fox’s The Last Days of Leda Grey, which your depiction of Serene brought to my mind. Possibly good comp titles too.
Popping in to reply to this, Gill. Or rather, not reply. The question is too big to be skated over in a reply to a reply, buried in a thread. It’s good that you’re asking the question though. It should be answered by this time next week but, if it isn’t, it will be better to have the discussion then, when you will have a solid understanding of psychic distance in your toolkit. Hope you can trust me on this.
Hi Lucia. Another lovely snippet of writing, in all three versions.
I presume you’re unaware that you haven’t interpreted the exercise in the way we intended. We asked for two first person voices and a third person version in one of those character’s POVs. You’ve given us one first person voice and two different third person POVs. I always say that there will be things to learn from whatever someone posts and the main lesson here is to differentiate between the terms voice (applies to both first and third person) and POV (applies to third person only). I’d noticed in your feedback to others that you were using the term POV to refer to first person narratives, so it comes as no surprise that you’ve interpreted the exercise in a way we didn’t intend. To be honest, I’m more surprised that no one else has picked up on this. Alison even said: I enjoyed his first person account, not realising that there isn’t one. It’s made me realise that most of you still haven’t fully internalised what we mean by voice and POV. I went into detail on Chithrupa’s thread about why I think it’s so important to define our terms. Please check out what I said there if you haven’t already done so. If I’d spotted this earlier in the week, I would have suggested you redo the exercise but it’s too late now, so I’ll work with what you’ve posted.
In the WIP, this scene is in third person, Anna’s POV, ie the first of your versions. For your second version, you’ve simply tweaked the pronouns, so there are few differences between first and third person. One of the main points of the exercise was to see if uncovering a first person voice would give you any new elements that you could feed in to create a stronger POV voice in third person. Your third version should have been in Robert’s first person voice (or Margaret’s). The aim was to get you to create a completely different voice, for a completely different character. In other words, you haven’t stretched your muscles as far as you could, making the exercise less helpful for you. Don’t even think of apologising! My only concern is that these exercises should be as useful for you as they possibly can be.
As I said, there will always be things to learn and the thing that strikes me most about Robert’s third person version is the amount of filtering you’ve used: Robert watched … he wondered … He hoped … Robert wondered (again) … as far as Robert could recall. This means that his POV is not as close as you think. Crucially, there’s less of this filtering in Anna’s third person POV, which is why her version is closer to her voice as the character. To expand: in third person, the narrator’s voice might be very different from that of a POV character. We’ll see next week that the narrator’s voice sits at the most distant end of the psychic distance spectrum, the character’s voice being the closest. When you have filtering, we’re halfway between the two. The narrator is allowing us limited insights into a character’s interiority but this narrator is standing between the character and the reader. That means we don’t get the full force of either the external narrator’s voice or the character’s POV voice.
Here’s where it gets interesting. Filtering also applies to first person but, here, it’s all about pulling apart the two functions of the voice: when they’re narrating and when they’re acting/reacting as the character. Several people have said they felt closer to Anna in third person than in second and that’s because you have extra filtering in her first person version: I stole a glance and saw … I turned my attention back … Anja picked up on this in her feedback (well done, that woman!) but didn’t recognise it as filtering, ie Narrator Anna telling us what Character Anna is seeing and doing. In other words, instead of getting closer to her in first person, which is what the exercise was designed for, you’ve placed more distance between us and her.
For my feedback, I’m going to reverse the order in which you posted, so we end with the WIP version. Please note that I’ve changed the headings to help you to differentiate between the terms voice and POV.
Third person, Robert’s POV
Robert watched (filtering) as Anna took a stethoscope and what looked like (surely, he’s seen one before) a blood pressure monitor from her bag and knelt beside Margaret’s chair. Surely, this examination was pointless posturing. (This comes over as brash and uncaring, suggesting he’s impatient and judgemental, rather than upset.) No matter how many qualifications she had or how good she was at her job, (he seems insecure – perhaps far less educated than Anna) there was nothing more she could do here. (He’s not giving us any clue as to how he feels about that. Despair? Acceptance? Relief?) What did she hope to find, he wondered (filtering). That his mother was improving? That she was soon to die? (This is such a dismal and sad place to be but I have no sense of how he’s feeling. He seems cold and detached.) He hoped (filtering) it was the latter only because that is what his mother wanted. (This is cold and formal, like he’s fulfilling a legal obligation, rather than contemplating the death of his mother. Is he fulfilling his duty but cares little for her? He’s really buttoned-up and if he’s suppressing his grief, there are no signs of that conflict.)
Margaret remained perfectly still, the only discernible movement being the opening and closing of eyelids over tired eyes and the faint rise and fall of her chest. (You’ve used these same words in all three versions, which is a sign that you haven’t stretched these voices as far apart as we intended. Think about it – Anna used the same words to describe the same things she sees in first person as you have here in what’s supposed to be Robert’s close POV voice in third person. The only change is that Anna said Margaret was *completely* still and Robert’s POV uses *perfectly* – not nearly enough difference to suggest these are the voices of two different people.)
Robert returned to the couch and sat forward, legs crossed, one hand to his throat. He might as well wait to see what Anna had to say. (He seems completely stripped of emotion. Is that right for him as a character? Or is it a sign that you haven’t got to know him for yourself yet? In theory, accessing his first person voice should have stripped away the layers and revealed the man within, though that should also be true in a close POV in third person. A cold psychopath? Or a grieving son who’s struggling to do the right thing for the mother he loves?)
Anna held Margaret’s hand, three fingers resting lightly on her wrist, her head bowed. She looked like she was praying. Robert wondered (filtering) if his mother ever prayed as she sat in silence, day after day. She had never been one for priests or church services. Neither had his father, as far as Robert could recall (filtering). (But what does he *think*? What does he *feel*? He’s an adult but he will soon be an orphan and, no matter what age you are, that changes your status in the world. I have no idea if he’s repressing his emotions – which is good conflict – or is simply devoid of them.)
Anna placed his mother’s hand back on the control button of the chair and reached for her blood pressure machine. She was going to continue with this charade. (He seems angry – but with whom? Anna for the pretence? His mother for dying? Life, for making his mother suffer?) He would have to see it out. He might as well as he had no place else to be. (Ooof! Is he really only there for that reason? It sounds like he has very little love for his mother. I know his POV won’t appear in the WIP, but you need to know where he’s coming from and what drives him, don’t you? I think you and Robert need to have a long chat and get to know each other. Your avoidance of creating his first person voice is probably a subliminal message to you that you don’t know him as well as you need to, given his pivotal function in the plot.)
First person, Anna’s voice
I had my stethoscope and blood pressure machine in my doctor’s bag. I retrieved them and knelt alongside Margaret, who was dozing in her chair. (Two consecutive sentences beginning with *I …* The narration is competent – we can see what she’s doing, though I can’t say her voice is leaping off the page.)
‘Do you mind if I examine you?’ I asked.
Margaret remained completely still except for eyelids moving over tired eyes and the faint rise and fall of her chest. I took hold of her left hand. It felt like a little bag of bones, each one easily defined beneath the thin, stretched skin. I turned it over. The fingers remained flexed, claw-like. I wanted to straighten them, smother them in hand cream, restore the parched tissues, loosen the stiff, tired joints. (That’s the sentence that gets closer to her as a character. The previous ones were the kinds of things she would register as a doctor. This is her as a compassionate human.) How long had it been since anyone had done this for Margaret? How long had it been since her daughter had visited? (More of her caring nature. I wonder why she thinks about the daughter in the context of gentle and tender care, when the son is sitting right there. Does she assume he wouldn’t do something as loving as massaging his mother’s hands? Is that because he seems so detached and undemonstrative or is it because Anna doesn’t think it’s a man’s role? Is this telling us something about Robert as a cold character, or about Anna having very traditional attitudes to gender roles?)
Robert resumed his seat on the couch. I stole a glance and saw (filtering) that he was sitting forward, legs crossed, one hand to his throat as if waiting for a significant announcement. What did he expect me to say? (Her attention is scattered. At this point, she’s more concerned about Robert’s expectations of her than her feelings about Margaret or questioning whether she should be there or not.)
I turned my attention (filtering) back to my patient and placed my fingertips just below the crease of her wrist. I sat back on my heels, my head bowed as I stared at my watch. I didn’t need to count. (Three consecutive sentences beginning with *I …*) Years of practice taught me to quickly recognise a strong, regular pulse. (How does she feel about that?) But I stayed kneeling until a minute had passed and allowed the examination ritual to restore me as my breath flowed in and out in time with Margaret’s heartbeat. (There’s an intriguing hint that she needs to self-calm but why? We’re not getting any insights into her emotional landscape. I know that doctors need to maintain a professional detachment, but isn’t the whole point that she’s overstepping the boundaries? That’s wonderful conflict, but you’re not enabling us to see it.)
Third person, Anna’s POV (as in WIP)
Anna took a stethoscope and a blood pressure monitor from her doctor’s bag and knelt beside Margaret.
‘Do you mind if I examine you?’ she asked.
Margaret remained perfectly still, the only discernible movement being the opening and closing of eyelids over tired eyes and the faint rise and fall of her chest. (Identical to the other versions.) Anna took hold of her left hand. It felt like a little bag of bones, each one easily defined beneath thin, stretched skin. She turned it over. The fingers remained flexed, claw-like. She wanted (we’ve been quite distant from Anna’s POV and the voice could be that of the narrator. This filtering *She wanted* has drawn us a little closer to Anna’s POV, because we’re not just seeing her and Margaret from the outside) to straighten them, smother them in hand cream, restore the parched tissues, and loosen the stiff joints. She wondered (filtering) how long it had been since anyone had done this for Margaret. How long had it been since Margaret’s daughter visited? (The filtering worked for bringing us gradually into Anna’s POV and this question goes a step closer to her voice. The same questions apply re her attitude to Robert.)
Robert resumed his seat on the couch and sat forward, legs crossed, one hand to his throat as if waiting for a significant announcement. What did he expect her to say? (Same comment as before.)
Anna placed her fingertips just below the crease of Margaret’s wrist and sat back on her heels, her head bowed as she stared at her watch. She didn’t need to count. Years of practice had taught her to recognise a strong regular pulse. But she stayed kneeling until a minute passed and allowed the examination ritual to restore her as her breath flowed in and out in time with Margaret’s heartbeat. When she was finished, she placed Margaret’s hand back on the control button of the chair and reached for the blood pressure machine. (As before, this is quite detached and clinical. The voice is stripped of any emotion. It feels to me like it must be the narrator’s voice, as I would expect to see internal conflict if we were closer to Anna’s POV. We’re seeing her from the outside. Even the info that she needs the ritual to *restore her* comes from the narrator, I think.)
Here’s where it gets tricky. I want to demonstrate what a closer POV voice could look like and usually I would get clues from a first person version. If we’re really lucky, there may be things in the other character’s first person voice that we could bring into a version that has the strengths of all three. You haven’t given me any of that to work with and I don’t feel like I have a firm grasp on Anna as a character. I know she’s repressing a lot of stuff. There’s potentially some delicious conflict between her professional persona and her personal feelings but I can’t see any of that here. That makes it impossible for me to work out what she would say if she trusted us enough to allow us deep inside her head, or how she would say it. I’m going to take a deep breath and dive in but do please know that this is my version of Anna as a character. It can’t possibly be true to the character you want her to be. I just want to show what a close POV voice could look like.
Anna took a stethoscope and a blood pressure monitor from her doctor’s bag and knelt beside Margaret. She shouldn’t be here. There was no professional reason for her to be checking Margaret’s vital signs. The woman would die in her own time. But Anna was here now and, conscious of Robert watching her every move through narrowed eyes, she’d better look like she had a professional purpose in being there.
‘Do you mind if I examine you?’ she asked.
Margaret remained still, the only discernible movement being the fluttering of her eyelids and the faint rise and fall of her chest. Anna took hold of her left hand. It was a little bag of bones, each one defined beneath thin, stretched skin. She turned it over. The fingers remained flexed, claw-like. If only she could straighten them, smother them in hand cream, restore the parched tissues, and loosen the stiff joints. How long had it been since anyone had done that for Margaret? Robert had resumed his seat on the couch and was sitting forward, legs crossed, one hand to his throat as if waiting for a significant announcement. What did he expect her to say? Anna couldn’t imagine him holding his mother’s hand, comforting her, letting her know how much he loved her. He seemed more like the uptight sort of man who would do his duty and no more. There was a daughter too. How long had it been since she’d visited?
I’ll stop there as it’s more than 200 words but can you see how this is closer to Anna’s POV? We’re accessing her inner thoughts, seeing her from both outside and inside. She’s covering up, behaving in the way that would be expected of a professional but knowing, internally, that she’s overstepping boundaries. It’s the contrast between external actions and interiority that brings characters to life. Please please don’t feel bad for not interpreting the exercise in the way we intended. All I care about is you learning the crucial elements of a strong voice, whether that’s in first or third person.
Some delightful writing here, Anja. One quick point for future reference. You’ve posted your homework as a reply to a previous comment. That’s why it’s not at the top of the page. For the coming weeks, scroll down to the bottom of your own thread and you’ll come to a blank box. Post your homework there and it will appear as a new comment at the top of your thread.
Anyway, coming to your exercise, you’ve stretched the two first person voices as far apart as they could go. Wendall is a British man and Alex is an American woman. They have very different life experiences and this is reflected in their voices, both in what they choose to say and how they say it, Alex’s voice being imbued with a distinct US flavour. Wendall’s whole focus is on the dog, to the extent that he doesn’t give us any description at all of the woman whose lap the dog is sitting on. That makes him a very limited narrator as he’s not showing her to us. In this respect, she’s far more competent as a narrator because she enables us to see him.
How old is Wendall? I note that Kate said: I heard that elderly voice loud and clear and I can see what’s created that impression. But I don’t think Wendall is elderly, is he? Old-fashioned, maybe, but I thought from previous weeks that he was, at most, in his thirties. Given the romance element of the story, he and Alex will need to be of similar age. An elderly man (possibly with no sexual experience), and a much younger woman who’s looking for love, is very different from a standard romance, but I don’t think that’s your intention. This certainly comes up as a voice issue because it’s *what he says* that creates the impression of an older character who’s stuck in his ways and struggles to identify with the younger generation.
You’ve chosen to write both first person versions in present tense. Was that a deliberate decision? Bearing in mind the options, it’s always good to think about all the possibilites. The obvious ones are:
- first person, present tense
- first person, past tense
- third person, present tense
- third person, past tense
As Lucia has pointed out, there are novels that mix these voices. In fact, they’re far more common than you might think, as you’ll see if you learn to read as a writer. A few examples: Let Me Lie by Clare Mackintosh has more than one first person and present tense voice, plus a third person past tense voice for a single POV character. C L Taylor’s The Fear mixes first and third person. Paul Burston’s The Closer I Get has two timelines, past and present tense, first, second and third person. I could go on. The main point is that these are all authors at the top of their game. There’s nothing at all wrong with keeping things simple, especially in a debut novel.
In Alex’s voice, you’ve used italics for thoughts, though you haven’t done that for Wendall. I’m glad you have though as I want to talk about that. Her whole version is her voice, her thoughts. So why would you feel the need to give us a visual signal for some of what she says? I won’t go into too much detail now but a lot of people do this. Next week, we’ll see how a skilful use of psychic distance renders the use of italics redundant as a device to let the reader know we’re seeing a character’s thoughts. The other thing is that people often use italics for various different purposes, eg titles, quotes, emphasis etc. Personally, I would restrict their use as much as possible to avoid confusion.
Your third person version works really well, which is good news as it’s the WIP. Katie raised a good point about the voice being more like that of an external narrator than Wendall’s POV voice. It may well be that this rather distant and ironic voice is the right choice for this WIP. If you do decide to go for a closer POV at times, you might be able to uncover Wendall’s voice in first person and can use that to feed into third person.
I’m going to reverse the order in which you posted.
Alex’s first person voice
Now, why did I think this would be fun? (Her voice is cool and sardonic.)
The weather’s a nightmare and this frickin’ train’s too crowded! Why don’t these trains work? So what, a storm fells a tree and now the whole schedule’s messed up? How hard is it to pick up a fallen tree? Can I only use the train in summer? (I love this string of rhetorical questions. They suggest a woman with strong opinions and a sharp wit, who doesn’t suffer fools gladly.)
I pull Sammie closer on my lap. It was awesome of Daddy to give me someone to keep me warm at night but I guess I need it in the daytime too. (Her mention of *Daddy* and her need for comfort might contradict the previous impression. She now seems more vulnerable than stroppy.)
Good golly, the smell of this train.
I wonder how long before Dad’ll show up unannounced?
Please God, give me a few months to settle and find me a cute husband! (This is more like internal dialogue than inner monologue. Her thoughts are flying all over the place, from the smells of the train, to wondering about her dad turning up, to her hopes for the future. She seems quite hyper.)
He doesn’t have to look or sound like Hugh Grant – Daddy would absolutely die if I ended up with a sissy-husband like that. (Daddy has strong ideas about masculinity. I wonder if she agrees with him or if they have different attitudes. She certainly seems to care about his opinion.)
A man stumbles through the corridor, looking for a spot. Now, this guy definitely does not look like Hugh Grant. But yeah, I have nothing against bald men as long as they have confidence, you know? Kojak had confidence. I think it’s because bald men are often blessed with deep voices, indicators of a healthy dose of testosterone as much as their hairless scalp. I mean, just look at Bruce Willis. (Seems she has bought into her father’s attitudes to men needing to be tough. That makes Wendall an unlikely candidate for love. Either he’s going to have to become a lot more butch, or she’s going to need to adjust her perceptions of what makes a man attractive.)
I look at Baldie again. When I squint I get a vague Bruce Willis vibe. Good enough for me! (She’s making her *wants* abundantly clear. There’s lot of comic potential here.)
I open my mouth to call to him ‘here’s a seat, if that punk will lift his bag for ya’ but he already sees it, yay! (Her attraction to him is instant – to the extent that she’s oblivious to the wriggling doggy bundle on her lap.)
Wendall’s first person voice
The 4: 50 pm from Leeds to Heptonstall was crowded. (You’ve started in past tense.)
I shuffle along the corridor and keep my umbrella in front of me. There’s three or four passengers in front of me who need to find empty seats before I can find a spot. One by one, they settle down happily.
Outside, the announcer repeats what we already know, that the 4:25 from Leeds isn’t going because a tree fell down and damaged it.
The last person in front of me sits down in an available seat so the next spot will be for me.
And then I see something I’ve always wanted. (Where does he see it? We’re not seeing through his eyes. As the narrator, he’s telling us that he always wanted the *something* he’s seen.)
“Is that a German Shepherd?” (They’re quite common. Would he really need to ask?) I forget all my manners and address this woman who’s a complete stranger to me. (He’s a very inadequate narrator because he gives us nothing at all to help us to picture her.)
And then I see the spot across from her is empty. All I need to do is climb over a dreary teenager who’s lost in his own world with his Walkman on. I hear some dreadful music coming out of it, no wonder no one will sit next to him. (He’s stuffy and judgemental.) But … that cute pup. (Would he use those words?) I’ve always wanted a dog but Mother has a ton of objections against it. (He’s fixated on the puppy. Clearly, his mother has far too much influence in his life. There’s a danger of the overbearing mother stereotype.)
The woman smiles at me in a very nice manner. (He notices the smile but we still know nothing at all about this woman.)
“Excuse me,” I say to the rude young man. (If he’s in his 20s or 30s, would he call a teenager a *rude young man*?)
Then I smile at the woman and ask her how young the pup is. (Still no description of the woman.)
“Howdy,” she replies. “Nine weeks old this young lady is.”
‘Howdy? ‘
Foreigner, obviously. (Interesting that he says *foreign* rather than American. Does that suggest a touch of xenophobia?)
Third person, Wendall’s POV (WIP version)
The 4: 50 pm from Leeds to Heptonstall was crowded.
Wendall Knightley shuffled along the corridor and held his damp umbrella in front of his wax raincoat. (The best *show* of Wendall so far.) The three or four passengers in front him stumbled onto any empty seats before he did and settled down triumphantly as if participating in a game of musical chairs. (A wry observation of train culture. The voice is that of an external narrator.)
On the platform, a metallic voice through the loudspeaker repeated once more what passengers already knew, that the 4:25 from Leeds didn’t go because it’d been damaged in the storm earlier. (More of that wry tone.)
And then Wendall caught sight of it. Not just an available half-spot but something that filled him with joy and yearning: an adorable young pup sitting on someone’s lap. (We’ve now moved into his POV but the narrator remains in control of the prose.)
“Is that a German Shepherd?” he burst out. “How young?”
“Howdy,” the woman said. “Nine weeks old this young lady is.”
“Mind if I sit here?” said Wendall to a greasy-haired teenager blocking the window seat with his backpack. The heavy metal on the boy’s Walkman could be heard through his headset. The boy, dressed in dungeon black, lifted his baggage almost unwillingly and Wendall wormed his way to it, the only vacant spot out of four. (We’ll ascribe the description of the teenager to the narrator. This narrator has a keen eye for detail and their voice has an engaging light tone.)
Why were young people so territorial? A train was a means of public transport not a private one. (We’ve now slid deep into Wendell’s POV. This feels like his voice and he comes over as buttoned-up and old before his time. He needs to lighten up.)
“I’ve always wanted a German Sheperd,” Wendall confessed to the woman. (No description of the woman and no sign at all that there might be a spark between them.)
“Then why don’t you?” she asked. “Full-time job at the office?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s not that.” He removed the rain-stained glasses from his nose and polished them before he put them back on. (Nice bit of action.)
Your narrator definitely does have a voice and I suspect it’s going to work well for this story. Although you might have chosen to stay distant from Wendall, showing him mostly from outside, I’ll come up with a version that shows what a closer POV voice might look like. Apologies for everything I will have got wrong for his character.
Wendall Knightley shuffled along the corridor and held his damp umbrella in front of his wax raincoat. The three or four passengers in front him stumbled onto any empty seats before he did and settled down triumphantly as if participating in a game of musical chairs.
On the platform, a metallic voice through the loudspeaker repeated once more what passengers already knew, that the 4:25 from Leeds didn’t go because it’d been damaged in the storm earlier. Wendall winced. Honestly, how hard was it to shift a fallen tree? But then there had been delays last week due to leaves on the line. Pfft. Always some excuse and all it did was make an unpleasant journey even more stressful.
And then Wendall’s entire attitude to this unpleasant commute changed. Not just an available half-spot but something that filled him with joy and yearning: an adorable young pup sitting on someone’s lap. Wendall always wanted a dog, but his mother had an extensive list of objections. While he was still living under her roof, he had no choice but to be dog-less. But here was this gorgeous pup and all he had to do was to persuade the greasy-haired teenager blocking the window seat with his backpack to move.
I’ll stop there as that over 200 words but can you see how that’s blended the voice of the narrator with Wendall’s POV voice? This is what we’ll be building on next week, so hold your horses (as Alex might say).
Hi Richard. Unlike the others in the group, you don’t have a choice to make between using first or third person. Also, a memoir is explicit that the voice we hear in the prose is that of the author. In theory, that might make this week’s exercise less useful for this WIP but I know you’re also writing fiction, which is where you need more flexibility in the voice(s). In any case, you’ll still need to think in terms of voice for your memoir, even though that might sound counter-intuitive given that it’s your own voice.
You’ve chosen a dramatic scene for the exercise and it gives us a really good insight into the practical difficulties in working in such terrifying and dangerous conditions. At the time, it’s the circumstances of the fire itself that takes precedence. We need to understand how it feels to be wearing a mask, breathing apparatus and heavy clothing, and with limited visibility. It’s only afterwards that the emotional impact would hit home. Though this WIP would never have Graham’s voice, he comes over as more experienced and confident than Rich does. (I’m going to refer to you in third person and hope that’s ok.) You do need to check your tenses though. It’s true that, at times of maximum jeopardy and/or emotional intensity, time and space can shrink to the extent that a past tense narrative can slip into present. In third person, this can also manifest as slipping into first person. But these transitions need to be handled with care, otherwise they jar – and that’s what we can see in Graham’s voice. The issue of where he’s standing keeps shifting between looking back with hindsight and being pinned into the moment of the action. But don’t worry about this because the key to handling these transitions more smoothly lies in psychic distance, which is what we’ll be exploring next week.
Another thing that crops up in Graham’s voice is filtering, so I’ll take a moment to expand on that. Filtering is things like I/she/he knew/thought/wondered etc and even I/she/he saw/heard etc. It’s a sign that the narrator, whether first or third person, is retaining control of the prose, keeping us at arm’s length from the character. This issue of filtering is going to crop up a lot this week and next, so file it away for now.
Your third person is almost identical to first. This is what we’d expect if the voice in first person is strong enough and I can see that you’re reverse engineered the voice to convert it to third person, making very few changes. It does demonstrate that third person doesn’t automatically equate to distance between a character and the reader.
At every point, you need to ask yourself which version of Rich you want us to relate to. Younger Rich as the character going through the trauma of the fire and his first fatality? Or Older Rich, the narrator, looking back from many years later? I was fascinated by this, which you said in one of your replies: Breathing Apparatus (BA) consists of masks and the air cylinder. When we breath through it, it sounds like Darth Vader from Star Wars. This sound gets louder the more stressed we become through physical exertion, fire heat, exhaustion etc. Therefore, in order to listen to other people speaking / listen for casualties calling for help / pinpointing sound direction etc, it is important to hold your breath, otherwise the sound of your own breathing will mask any external sound.
In order to squeeze the maximum drama from the scene itself, as you experienced it at the time, you’ll need to add in those sorts of details, even if we’ve heard about them before. Gill asked some very pertinent questions in her feedback: are you sweating under the suits? What do people’s voices sound like (through masks I’m guessing)? What did the fire itself sound like? You’ve said that this info comes elsewhere, which is good to know. It’s the sort of thing that helps a reader to fully share the experience of a firefighter in action.
I’ll waste no more time before delving down into the detail, but I’ll end with the WIP version.
Graham’s first person voice
I aimed the hose reel towards the upper layers of smoke, nearest the ceiling, and pulsed water in short bursts to control the fire spread above our heads. I was conscious not to take my right shoulder off the wall. It was the only method of orientating myself in the smoke and it was my responsibility was to lead us both to the exit. (His voice is highly competent. It doesn’t give me a strong sense of who he is as a character but, in a crisis, this is who I would want to be coming to save me.)
I can’t see anything! Not even Rich, but I know he’s not far. (You’ve jumped into present tense. There’s much more urgency and immediacy in his voice now, with the panicky exclamation, followed by a non-grammatical sentence fragment, but the transition in tense is jarring because you haven’t carried us with you.) I didn’t want to spray him directly with water because in this heat, he’d cook under his fire tunic. (You’re still slap-bang in the scene but the tense has now switched back to past. The info about water potentially cooking a firefighter is shocking but important for readers to know.) A few minutes later, (that delay undermines the tension) he called out to me.
‘Graham! I’ve found a casualty!’ His voice was somewhere to my left, or maybe in front of me. (I really like the way you convey how disorientating the situation is, even to a trained and experienced firefighter. The uncertainty is intrinsically bound up with their role and would be a constant and recurring factor.)
Shit. (We get his panic, in this moment, as the character.)
‘Where are you?’ I shouted back. (Past tense.) I can’t even see his helmet torch light and if he’s found someone, we’ll need to get them out fast. (This sentence has also jumped to present tense.) I held my breath, trying to pinpoint his location, then I felt his hand grab my tunic. (Past tense.) He’s no more than an arm’s length away! (Present tense.) I couldn’t drop the hose reel, but we needed to move. (Past tense.) I knelt down and reached out with my spare hand, feeling for the casualty in the dark. Found it. Must be a big man. (These two sentences work well. They’re tense neutral. We’re hearing his voice as the character *at the time* but without the jarring of an explicit change in tense.) I grabbed hold of an arm and pulled. He didn’t budge and the hose reel was already a hindrance. I was aware of Rich on the other side. We needed to co-ordinate our efforts. (Most of the sentences in this paragraph start with *I* *He* or *We*.)
‘Grab his other arm, pull together!’ The hose reel snagged around the casualty’s legs; I knew (that’s an example of superfluous filtering. As the narrator, looking back, he’s telling us what he thought as the character, at the time) I had to ditch it…
‘Rich, he’s too big, I’m going to get Sunbury to help, and they can lead us out.
Third person, Rich’s POV
He knew then, he had just found his first real casualty. Not a dummy like in training school. This was real. (Though this is third person and past tense, we’re very close to him as the character. That’s down to the build-up in intensity of these three sentences. The first is conventional and grammatically correct. It includes filtering *he knew*, meaning the narrator is standing between us and the character, limiting our access to their interiority. The second is Rich’s POV voice and is non-grammatical. The third is a blunt statement of fact, unembellished and unequivocal.) His heart was pumping hard, and he called out again, this time turning his head in Graham’s direction. (Physical sensations and action.)
‘Graham! I’ve found a casualty!’
‘Where are you?’
They were no more than half a metre apart, but the smoke was so thick it was impossible to know for certain. He reached back in the direction of Graham’s voice and pulled him closer. The casualty was lying on his back, unresponsive. (This is quite distant. It describes action but we’re not experiencing it as Rich does. The voice, which must be that of the narrator, is quite bland. It does the job of letting us see the scene but no more.) Richard judged him to be a large man, but he could not see the casualty fully, without bending low enough to the casualty’s chest. (This is now Rich’s POV, albeit shallow. The voice is still that of the narrator but has none of the quirks and idiosyncrasies that would make us feel that this narrator is a real person, who’s imparting this story to us.) He quickly learnt that lifting and dragging an unconscious human being, is not the same as lifting a dummy in the training house at Reigate. (That’s now explicitly the narrator’s voice. This narrator is standing in present day, looking back at Rich from a distance in time and space. It’s projecting forwards – Rich hasn’t tried to move the casualty yet – but we know the narrator’s standing where we are now as the readers due to the present tense *is not the same*. That’s because this is still true at the point where the narrator is standing.)
In Hollywood movies, actors appear to lift unconscious people effortlessly up into their arms but in reality, an unconscious person is dead weight. The arms flop loosely and don’t give any assistance. Their head lolls back to the floor and rolls this way and that. Feet get snagged on corners. It’s made harder if the rescuer can’t see their hands in front of their face… Imagine pushing a needle and thread through one hundred and fifty baking potatoes — then try to pick them all up from the floor, while blindfolded, without any of them falling down, and you’ll get an idea of what it’s like, trying to manoeuvre an unconscious casualty under such situations. (Here too, we’ll interpret this as the voice of the narrator. It’s conversational – they’re addressing us directly when they ask us to use our imagination. It’s also, as before, using present tense, so they’re contemporaneous with the reader, not the action. We’ve been taken out of the unfolding action and are analysing it from afar. I get what you mean with the analogy of the potatoes. It’s a fresh and surprising image, unlike the more commonly used *sack of potatoes*, making it more original. I don’t have a problem with it, or with this paragraph, but it does undermine the tension, jeopardy and emotional impact of the dramatic scene. We’re no longer relating to Rich grappling – physically and emotionally – with his first fatality because you’ve pulled right back and are analysing it from a distance.
First person, Rich’s voice
I knew then, I had just found my first real casualty. Not a dummy like in training school. This was real. My heart was pumping hard, and I called out again. (This is good but I would like to see more sensory information. I know you’ve said we get it elsewhere but, if you want this scene to be as immersive as its dramatic potential suggests, we need to share the claustrophobia and the adrenalin rush. His heart pumping is just one symptom – a physical manifestation of his stress.) This time I turned my head in his direction.
‘Graham! I’ve found a casualty!’
‘Where are you?’
We were no more than half a metre apart, but the smoke was so thick it was impossible to know for certain. I reached back in the direction of his voice and pulled him. The casualty was lying on his back, unresponsive. He felt like a large man but I couldn’t see his body unless I bent close enough to touch his chest with my face mask. (This *does the job* of showing the scene and action but it doesn’t have the sort of urgency that would make our hearts pound in the way his did at the time.) I learnt for the first time that lifting and dragging an unconscious human being is not the same as lifting a dummy in the training house at Reigate. (That’s Narrator Rich, standing now and looking back. He’s *telling* us what he, as the character, experienced at the time. We’re seeing commentary, rather than action.)
In Hollywood movies, actors appear to lift unconscious people effortlessly up into their arms but in reality, an unconscious person is dead weight. The arms flop loosely and don’t give you any assistance. Their head lolls back to the floor then rolls this way and that. Feet get snagged on corners. It’s made harder if you can’t see your hands in front of your face… Imagine pushing a needle and thread through one hundred and fifty baking potatoes — then try to pick them all up from the floor, while blindfolded, without any of them falling down, and you’ll get an idea of what it’s like, trying to manoeuvre an unconscious casualty under such situations. (As above, it’s not a question of whether the potato analogy works or not, but an issue of withdrawing from the action to comment on it from afar.)
It’s not for me to tell you how to write your memoir but it seems a shame to me not to use this opportunity of a life- and career-defining moment to pull us into the experience of a young and inexperienced firefighter. Funnily enough, I get more urgency and immediacy in Graham’s version because you’re committing to him acting in the scene, rather than reflecting on it from a distance. I’d like to know if Rich is operating on auto, or if he’s suppressing panic and (understandable!) fear. Instead, we’re hearing Older Rich’s voice, looking back on his younger self. With apologies for attempting to impersonate your voice, I’ll show you how this might look if you took us back to that time, so we experience it through his senses and thoughts at the time. Here goes.
So this was it. My first real casualty. Not a dummy like in training school. This was real. A real person. Unconscious. And I was their only hope of getting out of there. Unless they were already dead.
No, no. Can’t think about that. Not now. Somewhere behind me, Graham was aiming the hose reel towards the upper layers of smoke, nearest the ceiling, pulsing water in short bursts to control the fire spread above our heads. Jesus Christ, if that water soaked me, I’d cook inside my re tunic.
I turned my head and yelled. ‘Graham! I’ve found a casualty!’
‘Where are you?’
His voice was close. Somewhere to my left? Or maybe in front of me. We were probably no more than half a metre apart, but the smoke was so thick it was impossible to see. I blinked, squashing down the panic, searching for the torch on his helmet. Nothing. Dear God, don’t let me die here.
I swivelled back, my hands tracing the outline of the man on the floor. He was lying on his back. A large man, from what I could tell. I bent close enough to touch his chest with my face mask. Unresponsive.
The lessons from Reigate kicked in. This is what I’d been trained for. I reached back in the direction of Graham’s voice, found his tunic, gripped on and pulled him towards me.
You can see what I’ve done, can’t you? Apologies for all that I will have got wrong but the point is that this stays close to your voice as the character as it was at the time. There’s none of the hindsight we get from Older Rich, the narrator. This is something you need to be hyper-aware of and is what I mean when I talk about where the narrative is standing. You can still include your conclusions years later but, personally, I wouldn’t insert them into the middle of a scene of unfolding action. Next week, we’ll be looking at how you can move between those modes: that of the narrator and that of the character-in-action. In this respect, the same things apply for a novel as they do for a memoir, or narrative non-fiction, which is what you’re writing. Hope this is useful.
This is a tense scene, Gillian, involving two people whose relationship has gone through peaks and troughs. A wobbly marriage is always more complex when children are involved. As an aside, I don’t know how old the children are here, though I’m sure that the reader will. I know they were eight and six at the beginning and the story stretches over five years. A day out with their dad would be very different if they’re secondary school age.
At this point, Simon and Ruth have found ways to have separate lives but the accusations about Maya would rock the most solid relationship. Ruth is concerned for him but there’s still a gulf between them and they’re struggling to trust each other. She appears to think he’s so socially unaware that he might have sent out dodgy signals to Maya, or misinterpreted something. He’s appalled at the suggestion, and at her lack of unconditional support. His response is to run away, rather than to share his version of events and talk through the situation with her. You’ve said this comes towards the end of the draft but it looks to me like there’s still a lot of work to do to make this relationship work.
We had a discussion last week about present tense and I see that’s what you’ve used for all three versions. Because every story has its own demands, we need to train our muscles to write in both past and present, first and third person. It’s a shame you didn’t try past tense for at least one version, so we can see what difference it makes. There’s a particular challenge when it comes to using present tense in first person. If you haven’t already done so, please pop over to Chithrupa’s thread, where I spoke in detail about the dual roles for a first person voice. Stretching these roles apart creates variety in the rhythm and register of the voice and this is much harder to do when using present tense. It means that the voice has to do all the things that a storyteller narrator does at the same time as they’re acting and reacting as the character. If you imagine a fight scene, for example, as the narrator they need to let us know who is where and doing what. But as the character, they’re simultaneously reeling in pain, maybe dizzy and disorientated. I don’t think you have any fight scenes in this WIP but the same challenge exists. We’re not only fixed in the immediacy of everything happening *now*, but also fixed to a voice that has no perspective beyond this frozen instant. The result is that the rhythm in the voice can get very same-y, and that’s what we can see in both your first person versions.
Last week, you said this in our discussion: You’re absolutely right that Ruth’s voice may sound too like Simon’s, and it shouldn’t. She is less certain than he is. Vulnerable in different ways. Considerate, kind – and fluent. She can also laugh at herself – which Simon cannot do … That cropped up when we were thinking about character and it comes up again in the context of voice because they sound very similar to each other. They both use very short blunt sentences, sometimes a sentence fragment or single word. In other words, what they say differs, but not how they say it. In your comment last week, you used the word ‘fluent’ to describe her character. Might that not manifest as longer and more coherent and thoughtful sentences in her voice?
With the third person, there’s a slightly different issue with the tense. If you’re not careful, it can read like a summary, much like we did in week 1, almost like a storyboard, waiting for you to come along and write the complete scene. Have you tried reading aloud? You’re literally giving your voice a voice when you do that and your ear will probably pick up on repetitive rhythm in a way that the eye skates over. You asked if your WIP version is in free indirect style. I don’t think it is because the prose doesn’t have a strong sense of her as a character in the voice and the POV is shallow. We set the exercise in the hope that a first person version will enable us to pin down a stronger voice, which we can feed into third person. I don’t think you’re quite there yet.
Before I get down to the detail, I want to pick up on something Chithrupa said: The main reason why I naturally gravitate towards 1st person voice is the way it gives access to characters head and eyes. It’s my mission to change this attitude. Third person can (should!) give us this same access to a character’s experience – both their senses (seeing through their eyes, hearing through their ears etc) and their interiority (their thoughts and anything they cover up on the outside). Not every story can be told in first person, so it’s vital for our development as writers to understand how to achieve that same closeness in third person as we do in first.
For my crit, I’m going to start with Simon’s voice.
Simon’s 1st person voice
Soon be there. Soon be able to retreat. Just get the kids to Ruth, then I can collapse. Not that I can rest. Or sleep. It’s a struggle and they know something’s wrong. They heard about the bridge collapse. They know Maya’s gone, but that’s all. And I don’t know what Ruth thinks. Can’t bear to think about it. (His voice manifests in short choppy sentences, with a very repetitive rhythm. We don’t know where he is, or what he’s doing. We’re stuck inside his head as the character in the immediate *now* but he’s failing in his role as the narrator. Where are they? Are they walking? Driving? On a bus? How is it obvious the children know something’s wrong? We get that he’s deeply troubled but can’t see anything outside his thoughts.)
When she asks me in James leads the way without letting go of my hand. (He’s not showing her asking him in, or James clinging to him, so this feels tell-y.) No choice. But I’m not ready for this. (We’re only seeing his interiority. I know he’s stuck with his own troubled thoughts but this makes him a very inadequate narrator.)
Ruth in charge. Hugs. Then off they go to bed, and before I know it we’re back in the kitchen I made with a glass of wine each and Ruth begins. (He races through the action. He portrays Ruth as efficient but also able to dispense hugs – and maybe she needs to be since he’s clearly unable to give the children any attention. The words *I made* in relation to the kitchen suggest seething resentment. I have to say I’m struggling to like him.)
‘I believe you. I know you wanted to do the best for Maya.’ That’s when she looked at me properly.
Sounds OK. Maybe. She sounds serious. Better sit down. (Repetition of *sounds*. His voice is almost breathless here.)
‘Thanks.’
What next? What does she really think? Those big hands of hers on the move again. She’s got more to say. (He seems to have some really mixed feelings about her. On the one hand, he’s anxious to know what she really thinks. Is he scared to be judged by her? Does he respect her opinion? He doesn’t know her well enough to predict her reaction. The mention of her hands being big creates the impression that, in his head, she’s the adult and he’s a child.)
… Wait for it …
‘There must have been something …’
‘What?’
‘Something you were unaware of? Something you did …’
That’s it. I’m off. The chair fell over as I made for the door. (And he reacts like a petulant child. Instead of trusting her cool head to work out what might have happened, he assumes she’s judging him and his response is to run away, creating the added drama of the falling chair as a symbol. I have to say this looks like the early stages of a marriage in conflict, not one that’s close to being resolved. My reaction is to hope Ruth is happy to be single, or will find a more mature and supportive partner.)Ruth’s 1st person voice
This is awful. What a shock. And I haven’t been able to get a moment alone with Simon. He looks dreadful. He’s just about carrying on as usual for the children, and I don’t know if he’s avoiding talking, but clearly he’s hardly slept. It won’t be easy but I have to find out more. I’ll ask him in when he brings the children back. (As with his version, we’re stuck inside her head as the character in the immediate *now* but she’s failing in her role as the narrator. Where is she? What’s she doing while she’s thinking these thoughts? Remember what we spoke about last week re bringing characters to life through character-in-action? There’s no action here.)
They’re late, of course, (does that irritate her?) but James walks in, still hanging on to Simon’s hand so he doesn’t have a choice. (This is very similar to his version.)
The children are tired so I send them off to bed with a hug from both of us. (Skating over the action and interaction.) No problem. With a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table I hand him the corkscrew. He doesn’t notice, so I open the bottle, pour out two drinks and sit down. (There’s some action here but it’s very minimal. She’s clearly in charge.)
‘I believe you. I know you wanted to do the best for Maya.’
Silence.
‘Thanks.’
At last he pulls out a chair and sits.
It’s hard to know where to begin. I know he can get so absorbed in something that he misses the signals, but something doesn’t sound right. I don’t understand what, and it’s hard to think with him looking so strained. I can’t keep my hands still. I have to find out. (There’s more variety in the length of the sentences but four consecutive sentences begin with *I …*)
‘There must have been something …
‘What?’
‘Something you were unaware of. Something you did …’3rd person Ruth’s POV
Ruth can’t get to talk to Simon on his own and he looks distraught. (When? Is she seeing him now?) He’s functioning well enough to keep the family routines going but deeply shaken. Shocked and strained. Everyone’s distress has put misunderstanding on a hair trigger. She takes the initiative when he brings the children back one evening and asks if he’d like to come in for a moment. (There’s no action here. If there’s a voice, it is more like that of an external narrator. There’s no obvious POV.)
He hesitates. James walks in without letting go of his hand. (We’re not really in Ruth’s POV and there are no signs that we’re hearing her voice in the prose.)
They’re late and the kids are tired. Happy to get a downstairs hug and go on up to bed by themselves. Ruth finds a bottle of wine and the glasses. She offers Simon the corkscrew but he’s not looking. She opens the bottle and pours two drinks. She sits down at the kitchen table and looks at him still standing there. (This is a list of actions but there’s still no sign of us being in her POV, so we’ll assume we’re hearing the voice of an external narrator. However, there’s nothing distinctive in the voice to make us feel this narrator is a real person. Read this paragraph aloud. Can you hear how same-y the rhythm is? Also, the last three sentences all begin with *She …*, making the syntax also repetitive.)
‘I believe you. I know you wanted to do the best for Maya.’
She waits.
‘Thanks.’ He moves a chair out from the table and sits.
More silence. She purses her lips. Looks up. Can’t work out how to begin. Her hands shift over the table top as if sorting their way through this and then that. He gets so absorbed in what he’s doing. So fixed on one thing that he loses touch with anything else. Is that what happened? It’s hard to understand. She has the sense that something, she doesn’t know what, must have been misconstrued. (We’re now in her POV but it’s quite shallow. The narrator is still holding the reins of the prose.)
There must have been something ….’
‘What?’
‘Something you were unaware of. Something you did …’Right, I have a challenge now. I don’t feel I really know Ruth at all and that makes it very hard for me to come up with a POV voice for her and you haven’t given me any clues in her first person version. I want to demonstrate what the passage could look like if you had a much closer POV and voice, but that means I’m going to have to come up with my own version of Ruth. Please remember that I’m not trying to rewrite her in my own image, just demonstrate what a closer POV and voice – free indirect style – would look like. You will need to extrapolate the general lessons and apply them to the Ruth you’ve created. I’m itching to do a past tense version but will stick with what you’ve chosen.
Ruth potters around in the kitchen, wiping already clean surfaces and rubbing at invisible stains. Displacement activity is what it is. Simon is out with the children, and he looked completely distraught when he came to pick them up and now they’re late coming home. She can trust him with the kids – that’s never been in doubt – but she’s never seen him look so strained. If only the bloody man would talk, trust her, open up. But no, he has to go all macho and stiff upper lip, burying his distress. Like that’s ever going to work. This isn’t going to go away on its own.
There’s a shout outside and she glances out the kitchen window. They’re here at last, walking up the path. James is gripping onto his father’s hand. He’s such a sweet and sensitive child. Of course, he would sense his dad’s not okay and feel the urge to comfort him.
Ruth runs to open the front door, determined to get Simon inside. Whatever it takes, she has to get him to talk. She throws open the front door. ‘Hi guys. Have you had a good time? You coming in for a chat, Simon?’
He hesitates. After all these years together, he must know that her ‘chats’ are rarely casual. Isabel blinks at her but James, still gripping his father’s hand, runs in, dragging a reluctant Simon into the house with him.
I’ll stop there because it’s 235 words. Can you see that’s a mix of action, dialogue and interiority, creating a more complete scene, in a closer POV and voice? Please reject my version of Ruth and replace it with your own, but I hope this has helped you to see how to create a more distinctive POV voice. This, in turn, will give us a stronger sense of a fully rounded character.
This is a great scene to choose for the exercise, Gill, and you’ve done a really good job of it. Kat’s and Laura’s voices are stretched far apart in terms of both what they say and how they say it. Laura is distracted by what’s on her shoe – a common response to avoidance of something terrible – whereas Kat is focused on getting Laura to acknowledge the dreadful truth. Laura’s version of events is interesting because she’s in denial, creating a gap behind her initial angry spoken words. Whereas Kat is keeping it real, though she’s covering up her anger, as well as her deep affection for Laura, which is also good conflict. How interesting to hear that you relate to Kat more than to Laura. Both are interesting characters.
I can see you know what you’re doing and your writing reflects your maturity and confidence. You might not feel confident, but your writing suggests otherwise. It feels like we’re in a safe pair of authorial hands. Unlike several of the others in the group, you’re differentiating between voice and POV, and you know about filtering. I think you have an understanding of psychic distance too, which sets you in good stead for next week.
My mission in life is to persuade people it’s as possible to get up-close-and-personal in third person as it is in first. Once people accept this as true, they can make an informed decision about what would work best for each project. Too many people use first solely in the belief that it’s the only way to dig beneath a character’s skin. You’ve done a really good job of bringing us so close that some readers might assume you’re writing in first person. I was interested to see you using present tense for Laura’s voice, though not Kat’s. Was this a deliberate choice? It’s such good training for your writerly muscles to stretch them in different directions.
Anyway, each of your versions brings something to the table and there were elements of Laura’s voice that you could pull into the third person WIP version. I’ll get straight down to deconstructing them now.
1st person Kat’s voice
The photo was on page five, and exactly as Charlie had described it. (Her voice as the narrator.) Damn you, Charlie, Why couldn’t you be wrong this time, like usual? (Her voice as the character. Note that this was her thought *at the time* and carries that same immediacy and urgency as if it were in present tense.)
I paid and took the paper out to Laura, who was standing where I’d left her, watching the traffic, following a passing van with her eyes as if she’d find Mike that way. (She’s a very competent narrator, guiding us through the choreography and showing Laura to us.) Thinking he’d be sitting inside maybe, drumming his hand to King Tubby’s beat. (And now she’s zoomed into Laura’s head, giving us insights into both Laura and Mike.) Could Mike really be dead? Fuck. How would Laura cope with this? (And this is her as the character again. You’re really good at moving between the dual roles for her voice.)
‘You’ll know better than me,’ I said, speaking slowly, ‘but it does look like Mike’s van. That sticker?’ (She’s choosing her spoken words with care in an attempt to soften the blow. That suggests a gentle and sensitive friend.)
I pushed the paper towards her, but her eyes were still fixed on the road. I tapped on the photograph. (I like the contrast between her hesitant spoken words and her impatient actions, as characterised by the active verbs: *pushed … tapped …*)
She glanced at it briefly, before looking away, her shoulders set firm. ‘I would remember Kent if he’d said it. You know I would.‘ (I like the flat denial in Laura’s speech. This feels very realistic.)
Fucking Kent. Her fucking father in Kent. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to hug her. She’s never wanted the truth. Won’t accept it until it’s right there in her face, stomping its fucking boots. I took a deep breath, thinking of what would convince her. What to say or do next. (This para is glorious. You have the blunt hammer blows of the short sentences. The first two are appropriately sweary and are non-grammatical sentence fragments. Her conflicts are summed up in those repetitive sentences, contrasting what she feels towards her stubborn friend. Then her anger spills out before she pulls herself back again. You’ve got the perfect blend of narration, interiority and character-in-action. The variety in the lengths of the sentences and their construction makes for a really pleasing rhythm.)
‘It’s the sticker I gave him on the day of the demo.’ (I’m not 100% convinced by how articulate she is here.) Her eyes were large and round as she spoke. (I’m not sure she’d see her eyes. Maybe it would be better to describe her voice.) ‘I saw the yellow on the TV, last night.’
1st person Laura’s voice
Kat should stay in that newsagent’s for ever. Marry the guy, have babies together and never leave it. (I LOVE this! She’s completely off on one. We’re right there with her in this frozen moment.) While I stay here, counting the cars and the vans, knowing that as long as I keep counting, and the vans keep passing, Mike will be alright. (That’s a little more distant, the reason being the filtering word *knowing*.) Alive. Not like in my dream last night, with a siren’s fingers (because she’s looking atg traffic, my first thought was of a police siren) clutching at him.
But then Kat comes out, thrusting the newspaper in front of me, tapping at the photograph as if I don’t see it. ‘You’ll know better than me,’ Kat says, ‘but it does look like Mike’s. That sticker?’ She points again.
I look down. Lower than the paper. A wrapper is sticking to my shoe. I step on it with my right foot, then lift the left, shaking it to get rid of the paper. But the thing is still sticking there. Bloody paper. Bloody Mike. Bloody Charlie for phoning. (I really like this escalation from irritation with the wrapper and then widening outwards. I think I’d end up with Mike though.) And why the hell has Kat made me come here? Always demanding I face things when sometimes that’s the last thing a person should do. (This is such a good depiction of someone repressing their feelings, deflecting them anywhere that isn’t the truth.)
‘He’s not in Kent,’ I say, angry with her. Hurt. (That’s telling us what you’ve already shown.) ‘I would remember Kent, if he’d said it. You know I would.‘
Then the photograph draws me in again. The driver’s door. That sticker. That bloody CND sticker. I should never have given it to Mike. (As if the sticker is the problem …)
And Kat is gripping my arm as if to hold me up.
‘It’s the sticker I gave him on the day of the demo,’ I say.
Laura’s PoV As in WiP
As long as Laura kept counting, and the vans kept passing, Mike was alive. Not like in her dream last night, when a siren’s fingers clutched at him with long, green fingers. (This is good but was much better in first person.)
Then Kat came out of the shop and held the newspaper open, tapping at a photograph. A van on a muddy bank by a lake. A white van. White, like Mike’s. Or it looked white, anyway, in the photo. (Interesting that we get the description of what’s in the photo in this version. It works well. The repetition reflects her reluctant thought processes.)
‘You’ll know better,’ Kat said, ‘but it does look like Mike’s. That sticker?’ Kat pointed down at the photograph.
Laura lowered her gaze further, down to her shoe, where a piece of paper was sticking. A grocer’s bag, maybe, or a chip wrapper, sodden and sticky from last night’s rain.
She stepped on the paper with her right foot, and away with her left. But the paper hung on to her Doc Marten and she couldn’t shake it off. (Again, this is good but the first person version added whole new layers.) ‘He’s not in Kent.’
Kat’s finger was still on the photo but Laura didn’t have to look, no matter what Kat thought. They didn’t need that paper. Newspapers never told you the truth. Wasn’t Kat always saying that? (And this additional conflict works really well but didn’t make it into first person.)
‘I would remember if he’d said Kent. You know I would.‘
Then the photograph drew her eyes again. That sticker on the driver’s door. That bloody CND sticker. She should never have given it to Mike. (This is as close as it was in first person.)
Then (the paragraph above also starts with *Then*. It’s a common verbal tic for many authors, so it might be worth keeping an eye out for it.) Kat’s hand was on her elbow, fingers digging in as if to hold her up.
‘It’s the sticker I gave him on the day of the demo.’
Right, I’m spitting on my hands and rubbing them together because you’ve given us everything you need to make the most of a gripping and pivotal scene. All you need is to pull out the best bits and combine them in the WIP version. I’ll show you what I mean.
As long as Laura kept counting, and the vans kept passing, Mike was alive. Kat should stay in that newsagent’s forever. Marry the guy, have babies together and never leave it.
Yeah, Mike was fine. Alive. Not like in her dream last night, sinking down, down, down, a siren’s fingers clutching at him. Stop!
Five vans … two buses … a motorbike … Be alive, Mike.
But then Kat came out of the shop and held the newspaper open, tapping at a photograph. Laura glanced at it. A van on a muddy bank by a lake. A white van. White, like Mike’s. Or it looked white, anyway, in the photo.
‘You’ll know better than me,’ Kat said, ‘but it does look like Mike’s. That sticker?’ She pointed again.
Laura looked down. Lower than the paper. A wrapper was sticking to her shoe. A grocer’s bag, maybe, or a chip wrapper, sodden and sticky from last night’s rain. She stepped on it with her right foot, then the left, shaking her leg to get rid of it. But the thing was still sticking to her Doc Marten. Bloody paper. Bloody Charlie for phoning. And why the hell had Kat made her come here? Always demanding Laura face things when sometimes that’s the last thing a person should do.
Kat’s finger was still on the photo but Laura didn’t have to look. They didn’t need that paper. Newspapers never told you the truth. Wasn’t Kat always saying that?
Bloody Kat.
‘I would remember if he’d said Kent. You know I would.‘
Then the photograph drew her in again. The driver’s door. That sticker. That bloody CND sticker. She should never have given it to Mike.
Bloody Mike.
Kat’s hand was on her elbow, fingers digging in as if to hold her up.
‘I gave him that fucking sticker,’ Laura said, her voice flat. ‘Saw it on TV last night.’
I’ve tried to take what was already strong and elevate it to pack an even greater punch. I haven’t had to make anything up because everything I’ve added in was your own words, using Laura’s voice. What do you think, Gill? Any good?
Loads to pick up on in the exercise and discussions, Chithrupa. I’ll do this in no particular order and much of what I have to say should be of interest to the others in the group. Some of this is tangential to voice but everything is interconnected.
First this, re process: In the spectrum between plotter and pantser, I lurk dangerously close to end of pantser. A synopsis is the only plotting I do … Nothing dangerous about that. Everyone has their own process for spilling out a first draft. There are no universal right or wrong ways to write a novel and it’s a matter of finding what works for you. As it happens, my novels always started with only the vaguest of ideas and a first line. Whether you’re an extreme plotter or pantser, or a mix of the two, as most people are, the edit is where things get sorted out.
Your WIP is in Xander’s first person voice, so now I want to talk about the two discrete roles for a first person voice. I’ve alluded to this before, but this is where we drill down into the detail. In first person, the voice has two distinct functions. They’re the narrator, responsible for guiding the reader through the story, as any external storyteller would do. In this role, they have to set the scenes, giving visual details and showing who/what/when/where. They can also give background info – a wider perspective and context than we would get if we’re only seeing action in an unfolding scene. But they’re also the character-in-action, acting and reacting to what the plot gives them to handle. Obviously, they’re the same entity. Xander still needs to sound like Xander, no matter which role he’s in. But there will be subtle differences in his voice, especially when it comes down to what he says. (Remember that voice is a combination of what you say and how you say it.) It’s much easier to distinguish between those roles in past tense. Xander in the *now* may know things than Xander in the *then* wouldn’t have known. This is going to be really important for you to think about.
Keep asking yourself where he’s standing when he’s narrating. In my head, Xander had no reason to believe someone could be trying to kill him and hence took these attempts as accidents. What does he believe at the point he’s narrating from? The scene is back story. He’s looking back on his previous death after dying a third time. How much does he know *now*?
The next thing I want to talk about is defining what we mean by voice, and how it is not the same as POV. I anticipated this would come up and mentioned it in the tutorial: I expect I will be repeating this many times in the coming week: remember there’s a difference between POV and voice. POV is applied to third person, where the POV may change according to the scene and the story. First person, by definition, only has one POV so it’s more useful to think of this in terms of voice. I’m going to take the time to expand on this because it should really help people to internalise what we mean by voice.
In first person, the term POV is tautology. At best, it’s unhelpful. At worst, it can be confusing. Defining our terms is important. As there is only one POV in first person, rendering the term redundant, it makes sense to think only in terms of voice, differentiating between those dual roles I spoke about above. It’s in third person that the term POV comes into its own – and is crucial – because in third person, there will be more than one voice.
In third person:
- There will be the voice of the external narrator. Your WIP might not have one, or not one that you’ve identified, but, by definition, ‘someone’ is telling this story and it’s not one of the characters. Depending on your use of psychic distance (next week’s topic) this ‘someone’ will need a voice of their own.
- Then there’s the voice of the character whose POV we’re in. This is the character whose experience of the action we’re sharing – the eyes and ears we see and hear through. The closer we get into their POV, the deeper we dig behind the facade, and the more their voice colours the prose (psychic distance again).
- But many third person narratives have more than one POV character, and each of them will have their own voice. That means a scene written in the POV of Character A will look, sound and feel different from one in the POV of Character B.
I really believe it helps people to understand what these terms mean, and how they work, if we define them in this way. NB: this is very much my take! You will hear plenty of industry professionals talking about ‘first person POV’ and I grind my teeth whenever I hear it. As I said, at best it’s unhelpful, in my opinion.
Your WIP is in Xander’s first person voice and we’ve already seen you letting rip last week. What a revelation that was! How Trumpian do you want him to be? In the excerpt, he’s quite articulate and has a decent vocabulary. He’s your Xander, not mine, but his voice here sits somewhere between the two versions you gave us last week. He comes over as more intelligent and educated than Trump ever has. Taylor’s voice is certainly different but it’s a bit bland. Maybe that’s faithful to his character as the son of a loud and blustering man. You need to keep an eye out for inconsistent tenses. Once again, we come back to where the narrative is standing.
One last question, related to the plot: can fumes trigger anaphylaxis? I checked Google and it looks unlikely.
I’m going to copy your versions in now and will comment on the voices. I’ll leave Xander’s until last as that’s the one we want to polish and perfect. Please note my changes to the headings.
Taylor’s voice:
Things have been (present tense) rather strained (understatement? tentative?) between Dad and I (that’s incorrect grammar and should be *me* Would Taylor make this sort of mistake, which is usually made by someone who is consciously trying to be correct?). Of course, entirely my fault, if you asked him. He would tell me what a sorry excuse of a son I was. He wouldn’t be completely wrong, after all, I was still living off his generosity, and this apartment was his gift. I hoped this visit would help bridge the gap. (He … He … I … – repetitive syntax, which makes him feel a bit dull and unimaginative. As the narrator, he’s informing us of the state of affairs. As the character, he’s giving us no clue about how he feels to be a disappointment to his domineering father.)
Chinese, oh why did I ever venture into it? Sure, I knew Dad had a shellfish allergy. But I thought I was being clever. I could blame Dad. ’Don’t just give up. Only losers do. Think of other ways,’ he used to say. Or Renee, she was the one who told me about the Oyster sauce substitute. She wanted to impress Dad, so she had it specially ordered. Maybe even the open-plan Kitchen that carried the fumes to Dad’s nose. But I knew it was me, my fault, it always was. (He’s quite whiny and self-pitying. Maybe he’s been battered down but I’m finding him hard to like. He tries to blame others before accepting that it was his fault. But we’re not talking about a smashed plate or something here. The result is that his father ends up dead!)
I was still in the kitchen, dosing the sides of the pan with the killer sauce. (Your timeline is zigzagging. You started in present tense, before they arrived for the meal. The previous paragraph is after the fact, when Xander is already dead, or close to it. Now you’ve moved back in time to while Taylor’s cooking.) Kat was joking about the windowless kitchen, ‘This is just a show Kitchen, not built for cooking,’ she said. I heard croaking and a thud from the study. Dad was there. I ran. We all did, I, Renee and Kat. His throat looked like a swollen sack of a frog. Purple blotches spread all over his face. That time, I was scared (that’s an odd word for him to use. I might expect shock, panic, horror, revulsion. And what does he mean by ‘that time’?)
Even then, he croaked a scream at me, ‘YOU MORON, get some sense. Stop pouring that fucking sauce. Oh, my carpet…the carpet is ruined.’ (It says so much about Xander that he’d use his dying breath to berate his son. Whether it would be possible for him to speak at all is another matter. There might be a trade-off between humour and realism.)Third person, Xander’s PoV:
Xander, without much (equivocal) warning, was catapulted to his next destination––the place of his second death, (external narrator’s voice) what was now (when does *now* refer to? When he arrives there in the main timeline, or when he went there and died?) Taylor’s apartment. A beautiful open-plan apartment on the twenty-fourth floor of Hadrian Tower with a killer view of the spectacular Tyne. Taylor had invited him, Renee, and Kat for dinner—the first time since he got the apartment. ‘A little thank you,’ he said. (A lot of confusion in the timeline. We’re now prior to the scene, when Taylor issued the invitation.)
Things haven’t (present tense, making the question of ‘where the narrative is standing’ even less clear) been great between them, and Xander knew (when?) it was Taylor’s fault. He was always a sorry excuse of a son, a born and bred disappointment. He should give it to him, he was trying, (the pronoun ‘he’ refers to two different people) but this was not a bridge to be mended with food. (I love that metaphor.) Taylor had to get off his ass and prove his worth. (Strong sense of Xander’s voice in the prose. This was his feeling *at the time*.)
He could hear the laughter, cascading from the kitchen, that and the smell of Chinese in the pan. That was when the noxious fumes dove in, a little more with each breath. It all began with the eyes, always the eyes—angry and watery. Then his nose twitched, a fiery bu’rn searing the insides. Gradually, his airway swelled like an overinflated balloon, as the air was being slowly drained from him. (Watch out for adverbs: ‘gradually and ‘slowly’ in the same sentence.)
Even then, his sorry excuse for a son (Xander’s voice – repetition of *sorry excuse for a son*) remained clueless. He rushed right into the lounge with an opened bottle of that very sauce, splattering it all over Xander’s pride and joy—the olive-green silk velvet carpet that adorned it (narrator’s voice – what does *it* refer to? … *pride and joy* is a cliché. What does it refer to? The apartment? The lounge? The carpet?).
The decline after that was rapid. His throat constricted, and he gasped desperately as his once-healthy well-oiled body failed him. It was a torment until the end, the peace that came after was a welcome relief. (The voice here is rather distant, so we’ll intuit it to be that of the narrator.)Current MS – Xander’s voice:
Time to death—17:45:29 (would Xander know these precise times, down to the second? Which death is he referring to?)
And just like that, I found myself catapulted back to the site of my second death – Taylor’s apartment. On that occasion, it was an anaphylactic shock. You see, I had a well-known allergy to shellfish. Everyone knew it, including my pampered son Taylor. Unfortunately, he was too foolish to realise that an oyster fell under the category of shellfish. (He’s firmly in his role as the narrator here. He’s at the site of his second death, remembering the circumstances.)
Taylor invited me, Renee, and his sister for dinner—the first time since I gave him the apartment. A beautiful open-plan apartment on the twenty-fourth floor of Hadrian Tower with a killer view of the spectacular Tyne. ‘A little thank you,’ he said. (Again, there’s a confusion about where he’s standing. Look at how many timelines there are: 1) catapulted back there from the future 2) after his death from anaphylaxis 3) when Taylor issued the invitation 4) when Xander gave him the apartment 5) back when Taylor invited them.)
His fleeting passion for Chinese cooking became the catalyst for my second death—slow, agonising, and completely preventable. (After the death.) The noxious fumes dove in, a little more with each breath. It all began with the eyes, always the eyes—angry and watery. Then the nose twitched, a fiery burn searing the insides. Gradually, my airway swelled like an overinflated ballon, as the air was being slowly drained from me. (During the death. Same issue with the adverbs.)
Even then, the (not *my*?) sorry excuse for a son remained clueless. I’ll give him credit for being concerned, but in the midst of all the panic, what did he do? Rushed right into the lounge with an opened bottle of that very sauce, splattering it all over my pride and joy—the olive-green silk velvet carpet that adorned it. (Same issues as before. Interesting that I attributed the voice to the narrator last time.)
The decline after that was rapid. My throat constricted, and nothing could compare to the desperate gasp for breath as your once-healthy well-oiled body, failed you. (A switch to referring to himself in second person – creates distance.) It was a torment until the end, the peace that came after was a welcome relief. (I’m not sure if this sounds like the voice you unleashed last week for Xander. It’s quite formal and lacking in idiosyncratic vocabulary and syntax.)You’ve said that you’re not confident about writing in third person, Chithrupa. While you may well have made the right choice of voice for this WIP, not every story will work in first person, so you do need to stretch your writer-ly muscles to adapt to the needs of any story you want to tell. The main challenge with this passage is what I’ve summed up as, Where is he standing? Do you want us to relate mostly to Xander in the main timeline, catapulted to a new time and place without his volition? Or to the Xander who’s struggling to breathe and (presumably?) is in the grip of terror in this scene?
I hope you don’t mind if I take liberties and try to make that clearer. I’m going to have to construct a voice for him that feels more in keeping with what you unleashed last week. Apologies for messing with your WIP.
And just like that – whoosh! – I was catapulted back to the site of my second death – Taylor’s apartment. Gorgeous place, it was. A beautiful open-plan space on the twenty-fourth floor of Hadrian Tower with a killer view of the spectacular Tyne. This had been my bachelor pad, the site of numerous glorious affairs. And, yeah, that included with Renee. I say it was Taylor’s apartment, but it was mine, really. After I married Renee, she wanted me to get rid of it. I couldn’t bear to give it away, so I’d gifted it to my pampered son.
But back to the day of my second death. Taylor had invited me, Renee, and his sister for dinner. ‘A little thank you for the apartment,’ he’d said. I suppose I should give him credit for trying, but this was not a bridge to be mended with food. Taylor had to get off his ass and prove his worth.
Anyway, point is, everyone knew I was allergic to shellfish, and that included my sorry excuse for a son. Unfortunately, he was too stupid to know that oysters are shellfish. I was alone in the lounge, gazing through that spectacular window and thinking back to those glory days … all those conquests before Renee came onto the scene … when noxious fumes filtered in from the kitchen. It began with my eyes, angry and watery. Then my nose twitched, a fiery burn searing the insides. Next thing I knew, I was on the floor, my airway swelling like an overinflated ballon, the air being sucked out of me.
Even then, at the point when I was close to being a twitching corpse, my idiot of a son remained clueless. My weeping eyes registered him rushing into the lounge. And guess what he had in his hand. An opened bottle of the same damn sauce that was killing me in front of him. He was splattering it all over my gorgeous olive-green silk velvet carpet. Talk about adding insult to fatal injury.
My decline after that was rapid. My throat constricted, and my once-healthy, well-oiled body, failed me. Let me tell you, dying is no fun at all.I’ll be really interested to hear what you think, Chithrupa. This is my version of Xander’s voice and I by no means want you to simply accept it. My main aim is to clarify where he’s standing, as well as make his voice more idiosyncratic. Hope this is useful.
Apologies – I tried to edit it to indent the paragraphs but couldn’t work out how to do it.
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