Point of View
I was going to write a long post explaining point of view in fiction, but it is not easy to explain without lots of different examples. So I decided I want to say three things:
1. Experiment. Try writing in first (I), second (you) and third (he/she) person and see how it feels, notice the differences. Try seeing the story from different characters’ points of view and writing their version of the story, or a moment in the story.
2. When you are reading or watching films or tv dramas, notice whose point of view the story is in. How might it be different if we were following the life of another character?
3. When you are writing, stay in one character’s point of view at one time. This is particularly a problem if you are writing in third person. For example, if the story is about a brother and a sister and we are following what the brother is doing or thinking, then suddenly the sister’s thoughts creep in, it can be confusing for the reader.
And I’ll leave you with two examples from my writing. They are the same story from different drafts, when I was experimenting with how best to tell the story.
EARLY DRAFT - THIRD PERSON, MARI’S POINT OF VIEW, STORYTELLING NARRATIVE VOICE
On Friday 21 October, 1966, darkness slipped. In Aberfan, darkness became slurry, slid down the hillside and smothered 116 children and 28 adults in its wake. Before that, darkness soaked into the streams and rivers and hovered in the air. Darkness rose on top of the mountain, reached the sky and sank as a fog cloud, lurked in the valley. Darkness was Tip No. 7. Discarded coal dust.
Mari noticed. And she wasn’t the only one. Everyone in the village at the base of the mountain noticed. They talked about it at the school gates, in the butcher’s, the baker’s and the greengrocer’s. Jono said it was landing on every pore of his cabbage leaves down on the plot. He couldn’t wash off the darkness. Their baby noticed as he sniffed, snuffled and struggled to inhale the thick air through his tiny, crusted nose. For nine-year-old Francie, the darkness was her playground, her world, her everything. Before it slipped and smothered her, she would climb to the top of the tip and slide down with the other children, returning home with black dust on her skin and mud between her toes.
7:30am: A miner alerted his superior to the danger of coal tip No. 7 after days of rain, built on a stream, it was looking unstable.
Mari woke up, baby splayed on top of her chest. Mari and Tomo’s baby didn’t yet have a name. He was three weeks old and he didn’t have a name. They called him snooks and babs and boo but they knew those weren’t real names. Giving the baby a name would mean giving him a future and she was still holding on so tightly to the present. She stretched one arm out to see if Tomo was still there; the sheets were still warm, indented, bearing his shadow.
Tomo poked his head round the door, “I’m off now, cariad.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
***
LATER DRAFT - FIRST PERSON, STILL MARI’S POINT OF VIEW, CLOSER TO WHAT’S HAPPENING IN HER HEAD, HER VOICE
I wake up on the settee; back sweating on draylon, baby heavy on top, his arms flopped down my sides, his tiny, breathing body weighing heavy on my ribs lungs everything. My nipple naked and cold, his dribble-dried mouth open ready to feed, suck the life out of me. Time for bottles soon. My neck stiff, I can’t move it, ow, no, it hurts. I try to stretch it without waking baby. Not ready for him yet. Not yet. One more minute. My blanket has slipped off and it’s cold, smell of smoke from the fire in the air, but long gone out and cold now. And quiet, no rain on the window or wind in the chimney, just the night noises and night light creeping through the closed curtains from the mine. Always keeping me company, no matter what time of day or night. I’ll miss it when it’s gone. And go it will. One day. That darkness on the mountain, slag heap shadowing our valley, can’t get no higher.
Tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Need to get a chisel to it or a cuppa. Gasping, I am. There’s got to be some left from last night. Without moving baby, I reach down to the floor for the cold mug and shift myself up a bit. Am about to tip it down my throat when I see his fag end floating. No chance. Back it goes on its ring on the carpet. Seeing Tomo’s fag end there brings it back, last night, the words between us pile up like darkness, shadow our house, can’t get no higher. Don’t get me wrong, I love him, but I can’t seem to get through. He’s just like a father to Francie and now baby’s here, I thought it would be different. Baby is ours and after all the unborns, he stayed. Strong little thing. He’s made it to five weeks old. Still hasn’t got a name though. One day at a time, tomorrow never comes.
Floorboards creak upstairs, thumps, bathroom door clunks shut. Tomo’s up. Better move. I swing my legs round with one hand on baby’s back to keep him close and sleeping, but as soon as I start to lay him down in his carry cot, he starts to wake up, squirm, screw his face up and cry. Course he does. I pick him up, sit back on the settee, tuck the scratchy blanket around us and attach him.
Thump, thump, thump Tomo comes down the stairs, I know now it’s 5.15, his routine is like clockwork. It’s a wonder Francie never wakes up at this time he’s so noisy. He dips his head under the doorway, his face has a red line down his cheek where he’s slept on it, ’alright?’, he says.
‘Baby didn’t sleep much. I’ll get up and make your eggs now.’
‘Don’t worry about it. You stay there. I’ll pick up something at The Berni’s on the way.’