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Find out what narrative distance is and why fiction editors and authors need to pay attention to it.
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What is narrative distance?
Narrative means story. It’s the part of a novel that isn’t dialogue.
A narrator is the person who tells the story. They can be a character in the book or an entity that stands outside it. There can be multiple narrators in a book, too. That allows the author to present events from multiple perspectives. ‘Narrative distance’ describes the space between a novel’s narrator and the reader.
Are narrative distance and psychic distance the same thing?
Yes, narrative distance and psychic distance are the same thing. Some writers and editors use one term, some the other. They’re interchangeable. Use whichever you feel comfortable with.
You might find one or other useful depending on what issues you’re dealing with when you’re writing or editing. I like the word ‘narrative’ because it reminds me what part of the prose I’m dealing with. Then again, I sometimes use the word ‘psychic’ because it reminds me that although I’m dealing with fiction, and therefore something that’s not real, the narrator within that creative realm still has their own lived experience and a raft of emotions that come with that. How is narrative distance related to narrative style?
Narrative style refers to the way in which the narrator offers their perspective. Common narrative styles include:
Each of those narrative styles come with a certain degree of distance between the narrator and the reader. For example, first-person narrations always feel a little more intimate because the pronoun ‘I’ is used. Second-person narrations can feel equally intimate, but in a voyeuristic way. Third-person narrations – and the pronouns that come with them – are what we’re used to using for those not being directly addressed, so in prose they naturally put space between readers and narrators using the third person. When we move beyond a framework of narrative style and start to think specifically in terms of narrative distance, we’re able to analyse the effectiveness of prose in a more nuanced and flexible way. Why writers and editors need to learn about narrative distance
Take a book off your shelf and read a couple of pages. Even though the entire section might be written in a single narrative style – for example, third-person limited, it’s likely that the narrative distance still changes.
Perhaps you’ve never noticed before, and if that’s the case, the author and their editor have done a great job because the movement is seamless. If that movement is jarring and too obvious, it could be an indication that narrative distance isn’t being controlled sufficiently. Editors and writers who can recognize narrative distance and evaluate its effectiveness are better equipped to solve the problem, and justify their solutions. Using a visual framework to understand narrative distance
Are you confused by narrative distance? Don’t worry – you’re not alone! It’s a complex topic. Even experienced line editors and authors can struggle to get their heads around it.
My solution was to structure my own learning as a visual framework. I presented that framework at the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading’s annual conference in September 2021 and then for the Society of Authors in October 2021. The framework I shared at those two events garnered fabulous reviews and convinced me to record a webinar that everyone could access. Narrative Distance: A Toolbox for Writers and Editors is available now to anyone who wants to lift the curtain on narrative distance and use it to craft prose that offers a better reader experience. Use the button below to find out what’s included in the course.
Related resources for you to dig into
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
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Your novel’s written in first person. Here are some tips for how to ensure your narrative doesn’t become overloaded with ‘I’ but remains immersive.
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Why reduce the ‘I’
We might think that the mention of ‘I’ would always make prose more immediate, and draw the reader in closer to the viewpoint character. But sometimes the opposite is true.
Too much ‘I’ is a tap on the shoulder, one that says to the reader, ‘Just in case you’ve forgotten who the narrator is, here are lots of reminders.’ The consequence is that readers are pulled away. And that can actually increase rather than reduce narrative distance. Why ‘I’ still has a place front and centre
I confess to being a huge fan of first-person narrations. When done well, the pronoun is almost invisible, even if it’s used frequently. Certainly the books I’ve borrowed excerpts from here allow ‘I’ to take centre stage.
However, they don’t rely on a first-person pronoun to convey experience, thought, speech and action. Below, I'll show you some examples – ones that ensure the intimacy of the narration style is left intact. And so while we don’t want to obliterate ‘I’, because avoiding it completely would render the prose awkward, inauthentic and overworked, too much ‘I’ can be repetitive and interruptive. What’s required is a balance. This post aims to offer you choice – fitting alternatives that retain intimacy and immediacy when you’re concerned you’ve overdone it. 1. Focus on the exterior rather than the interior
With a first-person narration, what’s reported must be through the lens of the narrator. Since their presence is a given, we don’t always need to be reminded that ‘I’ is involved.
A little peppering in a more objective report will suffice because the reader knows that it’s coming from the narrator, and only the narrator. It has to be. And while writers can make space to explore the viewpoint character’s emotional behaviour, the exterior world is what grounds their experience in the novel’s physical world. It gives the novel substance, and the reader something to bite into. Instead of focusing on who’s doing the reporting, shift the prose towards what’s being reported. What and who else is in the scene? Why are they there? How do they behave? What do they look like? This information can be reported without ‘I’ so that the reader experiences the physical world within which the narrator is operating. Here’s an example from To Kill a Mockingbird (Harper Lee, Pan, 1974, p. 11).
Notice the (almost) absence of ‘I’. Scout – our narrator – tells us about the town she lived in: Maycomb. The recollection is hers certainly – ‘when I first knew it’ anchors it as such. It’s therefore intimate.
And yet because there’s only one I-nudge, we’re allowed enough emotional distance to step back and pan, like a roving camera, across Maycomb’s vista. We’re dislocated from Scout’s doing the experiencing and encouraged instead to focus on what she’s experiencing. What’s happening here is a shift from the subjective to the objective. Here’s an example of a short excerpt that’s subjective. The focus is on the I-narrator.
SUBJECTIVE FOCUS: 'I ...'
And here’s the real excerpt from David Rosenfelt’s Play Dead (Grand Central, 2009, p. 19). Now the focus is objective, yet in no way does this distance us from the centrality of the first-person narrator’s experience. We’re still deep in his head.
OBJECTIVE FOCUS: NO 'I ...'
2. Reduce the use of filter words
Filter words are a clue that an interior rather than exterior focus is in play. They’re verbs that increase the narrative distance, reminding us that what we’re reading is being told by someone rather than experienced, or shown, through the eyes of the character.
Examples include noticed, seemed, spotted, saw, realized, felt, thought, wondered, believed, knew, and decided. Filter words focus the reader’s gaze inwards (interior focus) on the manner through which the viewpoint character experiences the world – the how. They come with a pronoun: I saw, they believed, we decided, she knew, he noticed. By removing filter words, the reader’s gaze is shifted outwards (exterior focus) and onto what is being experienced. That can make for a more immersive read. Plus, the omission means we say goodbye to their accompanying pronoun: 'I'. Here are a few examples to give you a flavour of how you might recast in a way that avoids first-person filtering.
EXAMPLE 1:
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how I recall the argument we had last week. Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what Last week’s argument is still fresh in my mind.
EXAMPLE 2:
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how I recognized the man’s face. Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what The man’s face was familiar.
EXAMPLE 3:
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how I saw the guy turn left and dart into the alley. Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what The guy turned left and darted into the alley.
EXAMPLE 4:
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how I spotted the red Chevy from yesterday parked outside the bank. Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what There, parked outside the bank, was the same red Chevy from yesterday.
EXAMPLE 5:
‘I’ plus filter word. Reader’s gaze is inwards, on the how I still feel ashamed about the vile words I unleashed even after all these years. Recast: Reader’s gaze drawn outwards towards the what The vile words I unleashed still have the power to bathe me in shame even after all these years. 3. Remove speech and thought tags
Dialogue tags are what writers use to indicate which character is speaking. Their function is, for the most part, mechanical. If the reader can keep track of who’s saying what in a conversation, you can omit dialogue tags.
This will work best if there are no more than two characters. Most writers don’t extend the omission for more than a few back-and-forths before they introduce a reminder tag or an action beat. Watching out for unnecessary tags is good practice regardless of narration style, but with a first-person narration it’s a particularly efficient way to declutter ‘I’-heavy prose. Take a look at this excerpt from David Rosenfelt’s Play Dead, pp. 194–5. There are two characters in this scene: Andy Carpenter, the protagonist and narrator, and Sam Willis, the non-POV character on the other end of the phone.
The exchange involves 19 speech elements within the thread, but only 3 speech tags, and only one of those marks our first-person narrator.
At no point do we lose track, and at no point are we distracted by repetitive ‘I said’s. 4. Apply the principles of free indirect speech
If you’ve played with free indirect speech (also called free indirect style/discourse) in third-person narratives, call on your craft for first-person narration.
In a nutshell, free indirect speech offers the essence of first-person dialogue or thought but through a third-person viewpoint. The character’s voice takes the lead, but without the clutter of speech marks, speech tags, italic, or other devices to indicate who’s thinking or saying what. Here’s an example of third-person narration. Notice the filter words ‘glanced’ and ‘noticed’, the italic present-tense thought, and the thought tag:
Let’s change that to a first-person narration. The filter words are still there and there’s a thought tag with the ‘I’ pronoun.
Here’s what the third-person version could look like in free indirect style. The filter words and tags are gone. It feels like a first-person thought but the base tense and third-person narration remain intact.
And now the first-person version. All I’ve done is swapped out the pronoun ‘his’ for ‘my’.
5. Take the ‘I’ out of introspection
There’s nothing wrong with contemplation and introspection. Authentic characters ruminate just like real people.
However, when prose is littered rather than peppered with constructions such as I wasn’t sure if, I didn’t know whether, I wondered if, it can feel muddled and be laborious to read. The reader might respond: Well, of course you’re wondering. Who else could it be? You’re the narrator. Worse, readers might think the narrator’s rather self-absorbed and unsure of themselves. While that might be necessary now and then, it’s problematic if it’s a staple because a narrator who’s always focused on themselves, and who never instils confidence in us, can’t tell the story as effectively. Look out for ‘I’-centred introspection and experiment with statements and questions that allow the ‘I’ to be assumed. Here are a few examples to show you how it might work.
EXAMPLE 1:
‘I’-centred introspection I wasn’t sure if Shami was a reliable witness but I couldn’t afford to ignore her, given what she’d divulged. ‘I’-less introspection Was Shami a reliable witness? Maybe, maybe not. She couldn’t be ignored given what she’d divulged.
EXAMPLE 2:
‘I’-centred introspection I still didn’t know who the killer was. ‘I’-less introspection The killer’s identity was still a mystery.
EXAMPLE 2:
‘I’-centred introspection I wondered whether Shami was a reliable witness. ‘I’-less introspection (3 options) Shami might or might not be a reliable witness. Shami’s reliability as a witness was hardly a given. Shami’s reliability as a witness was questionable. 6. Balance ‘I’ with ‘we’
Another option is to consider whether your narrator’s lived experience at particular points within the novel involves others.
This is an opportunity to frame the narrative around ‘we’ rather than just ‘I’. Here’s an excerpt from To Kill a Mockingbird (p. 162) in which Scout, Harper Lee’s first-person narrator, frames the recollection around not just her own experience but those of the people she was hanging out with.
The effect is powerful because we’re shown rather than told a sense of her belonging, of her being in a group, of the togetherness of that experience. And that intensifies our immersion in her world.
Summing up
There’s nothing wrong with ‘I’, but a first-person narrator can tell a story without relying on their pronoun all the time. Since they’re the ones doing the reporting, the ‘I’ can often be assumed.
Try recasting sentences that start with ‘I’ more objectively, so that the focus is on the what – the emotion, the object, the person, the action and so on – rather than the sense being used to experience it or the I-narrator doing the experience. Use the principles of free indirect speech to reduce your ‘I’ count. It’s a tool that encourages a narrowing of narrative distance to such a degree that the reader feels deeply connected to the viewpoint character – more like we’re reading a thought than straight narrative. As for speech and thought tags, you might not need as many as you think. The speaker can usually be identified without them if there are only two people in the conversation. Removing redundant tags is worth considering whichever narration style you’re writing in. Related resources
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
You’re writing in third-person and your viewpoint character has become unconscious. However, you want the reader to understand how their discovery and recovery come about, and without head-hopping. Here are 5 ideas for how to tackle it.
In this article ...
Start at the top if you’re new to viewpoint, or jump straight to the solutions if you’ve already nailed it but are wondering what to do about your oblivious point-of-view character. Protagonists versus viewpoint characters
The protagonist is the person whose experiences drive the story. The novel revolves around them. Readers are usually more connected to them and their outcome within the story than any other character.
The POV character is the person whose internal experiences drive a scene or chapter.
While your protagonist might often be the POV character, one role doesn’t always equal the other. A POV character can also be an antagonist, a major character, or a bystander who makes but one appearance. Your protagonist, however, is always your protagonist, whether they’re in a scene, doing something else somewhere else, or lying in a coma on the beach. Why an unconscious character can’t be a POV character
Perhaps your POV character has had an accident, become ill, been knocked out, or drugged. Perhaps they’ve drunk or drugged themselves into unconsciousness.
As long as they’re unconscious, they don’t know what’s happening. Which means the reader doesn’t either. Their oblivion is ours. And at that point they’re no longer a viewpoint character. They can’t be; they’re busy being unconscious. However, just because they’re out for the count doesn’t mean the story is. Action is still taking place in the form of physical movement, dialogue, and the passing of time. If authors need to tell the reader what happens to the unconscious character during their period of absence, it needs to be done in a way that makes sense. If a character regains awareness, becomes the POV character and reports what happened to them during time out, they need a way to access that information. Otherwise, someone else will report that information, and a new POV character comes into play. Head-hopping, narration style and number of POV characters
What is head-hopping?
When readers are forced to jump from one character’s thoughts and experiences to another’s in a single scene, head-hopping is in play. Head-hopping is convenient because it lets readers know what everyone in a scene is thinking and feeling all at once. That convenience is usually a problem in commercial fiction because it rips out the suspense. Rather than readers getting in the heads of everyone, they engage with and invest in no one because they are never in one place long enough to do so. What is third-person limited POV? Third-person limits readers to a single character’s experience – what they see, hear, feel and think. Readers get to sit in their skin; it’s as if we’re them. In that sense, it’s not unlike first-person narration, another in-skin POV. The difference is the pronouns – he/she/they/it for third person; I/we for first person. The difference lies in the narrative distance – how close the reader feels to the character. With third person, the distance is wider because those pronouns are a constant reminder that the character is someone else. With first person, the ‘I’ personalizes the experience more deeply because we’re reading the same language we’d use if we were talking about ourselves. Third person is a narration style that most writers find easy to master at the beginning of their journey, and is popular with writers and readers of commercial fiction. How many viewpoint characters can a novel have? A novel can have multiple viewpoint characters sharing their experiences through various narration styles such as first person (I) and third-person limited (she, he, they). However, it’s conventional in commercial fiction for each POV character to tell their story in distinct chapters or sections. Lumping multiple viewpoints into a single scene is often an indication of head-hopping. The setup – a fictive piece of fiction!
Let’s set up a scene. Our current viewpoint character is Alicia, a private investigator. She’s also the protagonist.
Alicia’s received a tip-off from an old contact that her targets are using a derelict office building on the edge of an industrial estate for nefarious purposes. Early in the evening, she decides to snoop around. She scopes the place out and enters once she’s confident the coast is clear. Part way through her search, she feels a blow to the back of her head. Next thing she knows, the floor’s coming towards her face. That’s where the chapter ends. Because I’m the writer, I know the following:
How much of this information I can convey without dropping viewpoint will depend on how many POV characters I have in the novel, which narration styles I feel confident using, and when I decide to reveal this information so that I maximize reader engagement. Solution 1: Create a new section or chapter with a new POV character
Creating a new section or chapter with a new viewpoint character is perhaps the easiest option if the novel has been structured such that it regularly switches between several characters’ experiences, each narrated in a first or third-person-limited style.
Example
Let’s say it’s the first time Patty has entered the story but I plan to show the world through her eyes in future chapters and will deepen the reader’s engagement with her character in the process. And so, for now, we can switch from Alicia’s POV after she’s hit the floor and give Patty a section or chapter that introduces her to the reader and shows us the world through her eyes. Here’s how that scene might play out.
So now the reader knows what happened to Alicia but in a way that gives another viewpoint character the floor and opens the door to the reader’s journey with her.
There are questions too, because now we want to know more about Patty.
A word of caution
Those questions will need to be answered eventually. If they’re not – if out of the blue, we’ve been granted intimacy with Patty for the purpose of explaining what happened to Alicia only never to revisit her – the reader will be left feeling that there’s unfinished business, and that they’ve been party to a literary tool of convenience. That’s a contrivance and a manipulation, and will damage your story. Solution 2: Create a new section or chapter and switch narration style
To avoid the convenience problem, you could adapt Solution 1 by pulling back and opting for an alternative narration style.
A third-person-objective narration could work. Here, the prose is flatter, more told. The reader focuses on what can be seen and heard, rather than being immersed in emotional context. This style widens the narrative distance but allows you to tell the facts. And that might well suit the mood of your book now and then.
Example
We learned a lot about Patty in Solution 1. But what if I decide that Patty is a character I don’t want to develop? In that case, the reader doesn’t need to know anything about her. It might be discovered later that the perpetrator was called Patty, and that she’d got in with a bad crowd, or was a frozen-beef-joint-wielding walloper for hire, but that’s not the story. Patty will not make the grade as a POV character in the novel. And so instead, I could place this new section or chapter after Alicia’s scoped out the building and started snooping, but remove her experiencing the blow to the head.
It’s exposition without emotion, and told objectively. Now the reader knows what happened to Alicia, but it’s been narrated in a way that’s cold, clinical and anonymous. And that might very well serve your novel better than an emotional, limited narration that needs developing.
Solution 3: Unveil through dialogue
If your novel has only one viewpoint character, this solution will allow you to unveil what happened, and when, through a conversation.
Your POV character needs to have recovered sufficiently and be able to access the people who have that information and engage in dialogue with them or eavesdrop on a conversation they’re having. They could be the police or security services, medical staff, an antagonist, the saviour – anyone who knows and can fill in the blanks. It means the unveiling comes after the period of unconsciousness, which makes it an emotionally rich experience for the reader because we’re discovering what happened to the POV character at the same time as they are. We get to live their life with them in the moment.
Example
Let’s imagine Alicia has recently regained consciousness again. She’s the POV character; we experience the world through her lens. I want her to report her discovery of some of what happened to her and where she is. She’s ignorant of all the facts. Here’s how that might appear on the page.
Now she knows what the police officer knows, and the reader knows too. And unveiling it like this avoids a mundane in-the-now narrative about a group of kids whom we’ll never meet again.
Solution 4: Unveil through data
Similar to Solution 3, the unveiling of what happened and when during the character’s unconsciousness is revealed later, but this time through files, documents, records, a diary, reports, messages or some other physical repository.
Again, they’ll need to be sufficiently recovered and have a mechanism for accessing this data. As with the previous solution, the reader is drawn deeper into the POV character’s experience because we’re with them every step of the way on that journey of discovery.
Example
In this scenario, I want to reveal who knocked Alicia out and how – not just to the reader (as with Solutions 1 and 2) but to Alicia herself. Perhaps this happens much later in the book, once she’s much further on in her investigation.
This solution allows us to access Patty’s voice – she speaks through the pages of her diary – but it’s our protagonist whose eyes we read through and whose head we’re in.
Solution 5: Use emotional reflection
A fifth option is to use emotional reflection. This contemplation approach might be more suitable if your character has time to reflect.
Perhaps they’re still in hospital or bed-bound or imprisoned and are thinking about what they’ve learned. You might find it’s a good solution if you want to slow the pace and give the story some breathing room – space for a little recent backstory. Summing up
Just because your POV character is out of it doesn’t mean the story of what happened during that time can’t be unveiled while holding point of view.
Experiment with narration style and different time frames for the unveiling, and separate characters’ experiences by giving their scenes distinct sections or chapters. And don't forget that your protagonist is always your protagonist, even if they're not the viewpoint character because they're unconscious. Related reading
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Every novel has a viewpoint character and a protagonist. However, they’re not necessarily the same person, at least not all of the time. Here’s a quick guide that explains the differences.
Major characters aren’t always protagonists
Stories usually have multiple characters, and often have more than one major character. However, just because a character has a major role does not make them a protagonist.
Stories can be narrated by different characters in a book. Whoever’s head the reader is in is called the viewpoint character. However, just because a character is narrating a story does not make them a protagonist or a major character. Protagonists
We can think of protagonists as having a MACRO role.
The protagonist is the person whose experiences drive the story. The novel revolves around them. Readers are usually more connected to them than any other character.
Viewpoint characters
We can think of viewpoint characters as having a MICRO role.
The POV character is the person whose internal experiences drive a scene or chapter.
Is the protagonist always the viewpoint character?
No, the viewpoint character and the protagonist can be different characters. While your protagonist might often be the POV character, one doesn’t always equal the other.
A POV character can be the protagonist, the antagonist, a major secondary character, a minor character, or a bystander who makes but one appearance. As long as it’s their head we’re in, and they who are reporting the scene through their experience of it, they’re the viewpoint character. Your protagonist, however, is always your protagonist, whether they’re in a scene, doing something else somewhere else, or lying unconscious in some back alley. Applying the terminology: An example
I’m using Linwood Barclay’s Parting Shot to illustrate the distinction between viewpoint character, protagonist, main character and secondary character.
Here's a breakdown that shows you how Barclay weaves multiple viewpoint characters into the first 17 chapters of the book.
Chapter 1
POV character: Cal Weaver Role: Protagonist Narration style: First person Notes: We start the book by meeting our protagonist, Cal. The first-person narration style places the reader firmly in his head. We’re in his mind, experiencing his thoughts, emotions and senses with him.
Chapter 2
POV character: Barry Duckworth Role: Major character Narration style: Third-person limited Notes: We meet new viewpoint character, a detective called Barry. His chapters are always narrated in third-person limited. There’s a smattering of free indirect style – third-person narration that has the essence of first person – such that even though the pronoun used is ‘he’, the reader still sees, hears, thinks and feels along with Barry. Multiple chapters are offered from this major character’s viewpoint.
Chapter 3
POV character: Cal Weaver Role: Protagonist Narration style: First person
Chapter 4
POV character: Barry Duckworth Role: Major character Narration style: Third-person limited
Chapter 5
POV character: Cal Weaver Role: Protagonist Narration style: First person
Chapter 6
POV character: Barry Duckworth Role: Major character Narration style: Third-person limited
Chapter 7
POV character: Cal Weaver Role: Protagonist Narration style: First person
Chapter 8
POV character: Barry Duckworth Role: Major character Narration style: Third-person limited
Chapter 9
POV character: Cal Weaver Role: Protagonist Narration style: First person
Chapter 10A
POV character: Monica Gaffney Role: Secondary character Narration style: Third-person objective Notes: The reportage feel of the prose means it’s only just obvious that we’re experiencing the world through Monica’s lens.
Chapter 10B
POV character: Monica Gaffney Role: Secondary character Narration style: Third-person limited Notes: In this section, we’re drawn deeper into Monica’s emotional experience – a third-person-limited narration through which we access her thoughts.
Chapter 10C
POV character: Albert Gaffney Role: Secondary character Narration style: Third-person limited Notes: We shift to a new viewpoint character, that of Albert Gaffney (Monica’s father). The limited narration allows us to access an emotional response (e.g. ‘He steeled himself’).
Chapter 11
POV character: Barry Duckworth Role: Major character Narration style: Third-person limited
Chapter 12
POV character: Cal Weaver Role: Protagonist Narration style: First person
Chapter 13
POV character: Trevor Duckworth Role: Secondary character Narration style: Third-person objective Notes: Now we’re in the head of Barry’s son, Trevor. The third-person narration style is objective for the most part, but firmly rooted in Trevor’s experience.
Chapter 14
POV character: Brian Gaffney Role: Secondary character Narration style: Third-person limited Notes: The POV character is now Brian, Monica’s brother. The author enhances the third-person limited narration with free indirect speech (e.g. ‘It sure was nice to get out of the hospital. Even though his family had come to see him, the visit had stressed him out.’) to narrow the narrative distance between the reader and the character, and root us in Brian’s head.
Chapter 15
POV character: Barry Duckworth Role: Major character Narration style: Third-person limited
Chapter 16
POV character: Cal Weaver Role: Protagonist Narration style: First person
Chapter 17
POV character: Barry Duckworth Role: Major character Narration style: Third-person limited
It goes on until the final chapter wraps up with Cal’s first-person viewpoint. We are in his head as he recalls critical information that enables him to put it all together and verbally reveal whodunnit to his audience.
There are 65 chapters in total, each with distinct viewpoint characters narrating the scene. As each viewpoint character takes a turn, they show us what’s happening through their actions, emotions, thoughts and senses. The characters – major and secondary – play a variety of key roles.
But there is only one protagonist. It is Cal’s job throughout to discover who did what, and why. Even when he’s not in the scene, and therefore not the viewpoint character, he’s driving the direction of the story, the goal of which is to understand how a young girl came to die. Summing up
The key is not to confuse the terms ‘major’, ‘protagonist’ and ‘viewpoint’. Those attributions don’t mean the same thing. To summarize:
A novel can have multiple viewpoint characters, each taking a turn to narrate part of the story. Their viewpoints will enrich the tale but their overall goals don’t underpin it. The viewpoint character could be the protagonist, the antagonist, a major character, or a secondary character. As long as they’re narrating, they’re the viewpoint character. A novel will usually have only one protagonist. They might be the viewpoint character throughout, in which case we only ever see the world through their lens. Or they might be temporarily absent and allow others to tell a part of the tale and share their emotions and experiences. A novel will usually have other major and secondary characters whose experiences are central to the story. They might get a chance to narrate the story and therefore be the viewpoint character, or their experiences might be narrated by someone else. Further reading
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Give your novel a sentence-level workout. Here are 6 common problems, and the solutions that will improve the flow of your fiction and make the prose pop.
Review your novel for 6 common problems
None of the following activities involve major rewriting, just relatively gentle recasts that will improve your prose significantly, and make your reader's experience more immersive. Here's what I suggest:
1. Assess invasive adverbs
Not all adverbs and adverbial phrases are bad. Suddenly, slightly, slowly, nervously, calmly, quietly can be effective if used now and then.
However, overuse is often a symptom of an author telling us what’s already been shown, which means the adverbs are repetitive and cluttering. In the two examples that follow, they can be ditched because 'fidgeted' shows the nervousness, and the apology in the dialogue shows the regret.
Examples
Even when adverbs are telling us something new, consider elegant recasts that use stronger verbs but still keep readers in the moment.
Examples
2. Remove redundant filter words
When readers are told of doing being done by a viewpoint character, filtering is in play. Realized, knew that, wondered, thought, saw, and decided are just a few examples.
The reader is already experiencing the story through a viewpoint character. For that reason, we often don’t need to be told that they realize, see, think or feel anything. We’re already in their heads. It’s telling what’s already been shown. Examples
Alternatives
Filtering pulls us out of the deep, limited viewpoint. Worse, it’s repetitive and obvious. Jane has already looked at the screen so we know her eyes are doing the work; telling us that she saw as a result of her glancing is redundant. In the example where Matthew’s the narrative viewpoint character, we needn’t be told he feels the thumping in his temples, since if he weren’t feeling it he couldn’t report it. Nor do we need to know he’s thinking about that third glass because we’re already in his head. 3. Take the spotlight off speech tags
'Said' is almost invisible when it comes to dialogue tags. A smattering of 'asked', 'replied', 'whispered', and 'yelled' can also work well.
Sometimes tags aren’t even necessary because it’s obvious who’s speaking. Other times, we can replace a tag with an action beat than conveys movement and emotion. Readers should be focused on the dialogue. If a showy tag is necessary to convey a character’s voice or mood, the speech might need a rethink. In the examples below, the speech tags do the following:
Examples
Alternatives
4. Pick up dropped viewpoint
Narrative viewpoint is a big topic so I’ve focused on two common sentence-level slips:
The viewpoint character reports what they can’t know Reporting what can’t be known often comes with filter phrases such as 'could tell (that)' and 'knew (that)'. In this example, John is the viewpoint character. We experience the story though his senses. Example There, behind the desk, sat Reja, the girl he’d dated two decades earlier. ‘Sergeant John Davis,’ he said, and held out his hand. He could tell she didn’t remember him. Actually he can’t tell any such thing. It might seem that way, but for all John knows, she could be hiding it because she has another agenda. Telling us that’s not the case removes any underlying suspense – stops us asking the question. This might seem like a small slip but it’s the kind of thing that turns over all the power of a limited/deep viewpoint to an all-knowing narrator and rips apart the tight psychic distance between reader and the viewpoint character. Here are two recasts that avoid the viewpoint drop: Alternatives There, behind the desk, sat Reja, the girl he’d dated two decades earlier. ‘Sergeant John Davis,’ he said, and held out his hand. She showed no sign of recognizing him. There, behind the desk, sat Reja, the girl he’d dated two decades earlier. ‘Sergeant John Davis,’ he said, and held out his hand. There was no recognition on her face. Non-viewpoint characters’ internal experiences Here we’re talking about head-hopping. It’s when readers are able to access emotions, mood and thoughts of a non-viewpoint character. In the example that follows, Reja is the viewpoint character. Example Bloody fool. Who did he think he was? Reja jammed her hat down over her ears. No way was she leaving with him. John could have kicked himself. He shouldn’t have come on that strong. Not after what she’d been through. The solution is to recast the text so that these emotions, mood and thoughts can be inferred or accessed externally – for example, through movement or speech – by the viewpoint character only. Here’s a possible recast. Alternative Bloody fool. Who did he think he was? Reja jammed her hat down over her ears. No way was she leaving with him. John palmed his forehead and spluttered an apology. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. Not after … well, you know.’ 5. Trim anatomy-based action
Prose is more immersive when readers aren’t told what they can assume is being done by body parts that are associated with particular actions – holding with hands, gazing with eyes, standing to their feet, kneeling on their knees, nodding heads, and shrugging shoulders.
In the example below, we might remove the obvious body parts and focus more specifically on the part of John's legs doing the kicking and the impact of his action. As for the gun-toter, the hands have been ditched. Example John kicked out with his legs. The woman stumbled, righted herself and came at him again, pistol raised in her hands. Alternative John kicked out, slamming his heel into her kneecap. The woman stumbled, righted herself and came at him again, pistol raised. 6. Turn intention into action
Sometimes the reader needs to know what a character wants to achieve from a particular action. This is about the why of an action.
Example Jane squeezed the detergent into the porridge. Just a couple of squirts to give Alice a taste of her own medicine. However, when an author means to show the how of an action but tells of intention to act, there’s a problem. The red flag to watch out for is 'to'. We can check whether the focus is on point by asking a question: What action do we want to show the reader (via Jane)? If we want to show the reader that Jane can lift her wrist – because that’s what the first example below is showing us – we can leave as is. However, that's rather dull; it's more likely that we want to show that Jane is checking the time, and so a leaner alternative is more effective. Example Jane lifted her wrist to look at her watch. Bang on two. Alternative Jane checked her wristwatch. Bang on two. Summing up
None of these 6 tweaks are rules! Think of them instead as suggestions to consider, ideas that can help you smooth and tighten up your prose.
And don't worry about them at first-draft stage. Use that space to get the words on the page. Put your sentence-level editing craft in play with a later draft, and once your story's structure, plot and characterization have been fully developed. Further reading
Want to develop your line-editing skills? Check out these resources:
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
This post helps less experienced fiction writers and editors make sense of omniscient point of view, and work with this narrative style effectively.
What is narrative point of view?
Point of view (POV) describes whose head we’re in when we read a book ... from whose perspective we discover what’s going on – and the smells, sounds, sights and emotions involved.
What is an omniscient point of view?
This viewpoint is probably the trickiest to master. Omniscient means all-knowing. It’s the most flexible because it gives the reader potential access to every character’s external and internal experiences. It also has the potential to be the least intimate if not handled well.
Imagine a futuristic news helicopter. Inside, our roving reporter shifts her camera from one person to another, and one setting to another. She’s also got some serious kit, stuff that enables her to tap everyone’s phones, TVs and computers. But that’s not all; the characters’ brains are bugged too; our reporter knows what they’re thinking. She can see, hear and smell it all! Says Sophie Playle:
Examples: Deeper knowledge than third-person narration
If you’ve read anything by Neil Gaiman, you’ll see a blatant external narrator in evidence with a depth of knowledge that defies the rules of a third-person viewpoint. Here’s an example from Neverwhere (p. 10).
The first ten words might appear to be a third-person viewpoint (‘He’ refers to Richard, the protagonist), but that’s not the case. What follows is a distinct narrative other, a voice that explains ‘white knowledge’.
In the second and third paragraphs, the all-knowing narrator offers historical information. Then in the final paragraph, we’re told more about Richard. The viewpoint was never third-person objective. It was omniscient all along. In Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, ‘the man’ takes centre stage in most of the sections such that we see what he sees and feel what he feels. It’s almost as if he’s the narrator, and once more we could be forgiven for thinking the viewpoint third person. But there’s more going on here. In the following extracts, notice the shift beyond what it’s possible for the man to see, think or know.
In the first extract, only an all-knowing alternative narrator could be privy to the intent behind the marchers’ colour choice of scarves. In the second, the man watches the army, but it’s only an omniscient narrator who can know where their blades were forged and how the boy is feeling. Maybe that narrator is McCarthy; maybe it’s someone else. But it’s not the man.
Example: World-building backstory in a flash
Some genres – science fiction and fantasy for example – lend themselves well to omniscient narrators because they can provide critical world-building backstory quickly. Terry Pratchett’s Wyrd Sisters provides a fine example (pp. 1–2).
What omniscient is not
An omniscient viewpoint can be powerful but it needs to be controlled and used with purpose. If we’re accessing one character’s thoughts and experiences, and we jump to another character’s viewpoint, it can jar the reader. That's called head-hopping.
Imagine you’re listening to your best friend tell you about a difficult experience. Even though it didn’t happen to you, her description of the event helps you to imagine the challenges she faced, the emotions she grappled with. You’re thoroughly immersed and emotionally connected. Then someone else barges up to you both and tells you what it was like for them. Your friend butts back in to wrestle the telling back to her. Would the interruption annoy and frustrate you? Would you feel like your efforts to invest in your friend’s story were being thwarted? The impact is the same when it occurs in a book’s narrative (though not the dialogue, of course). That viewpoint ping pong is not omniscient POV. It’s third-person limited gone awry. Recommendation
I recommend caution. The beauty of fiction often lies in the unveiling, in the immersion. Overuse of an omniscient narrator can block this.
The all-seeing eye can be a powerful tool – as demonstrated by the examples above – but less experienced authors, particularly those writing commercial fiction such as thrillers and mysteries, risk accidental head-hopping, which will destroy the tension and distance the reader from the characters. Cited works and related reading
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Not sure what a second-person narrative point of view is, or how to use it effectively in your fiction writing? This post shows you how it works in a novel.
What is narrative point of view?
Point of view (POV) describes whose head we’re in when we read a book ... from whose perspective we discover what’s going on – and the smells, sounds, sights and emotions involved.
There can be multiple viewpoints in a book, not all of which have to belong to a single character. Plus, editors’ and authors’ opinions differ as to which approach works best, and what jars and why. My aim is to keep the guidance as straightforward as possible, not because I think you should only do it this way or that way, but because most people (myself included) handle complexity best when they start with the foundations. Second-person narrative viewpoint
In second-person narrative POVs, the pronoun is ‘you’. This narration is intimate, but strangely so, as if the author is talking directly to the reader as a character.
That intrusive element is both its strength and its weakness. It’s powerful because it places readers at the heart of the story, and yet we – the ‘you’ – know less than the narrator. That can create a sense of immediacy, but almost amnesiac dislocation. We have to discover what we think, see, know and do. And if we don’t identify with the ‘you’ – if we feel implicated rather than attached – we can be pulled out of the story rather than brought deeper into it. Still, this controlling aspect of second person can have an advantage. Whereas first-person narrators tell you what they thought and did, second-person narrators tell us what we thought and did. This witnessing adds a level of reliability (even if we don’t like it). And readers aren’t daft. They know they’re not really the you-character, which means authors could use it as a tool to create surprise when the ‘you’ is unveiled later in the book. If you want your readers to feel connected but controlled, second-person POV might be just the ticket, but it’s difficult to pull off and rare that authors of contemporary commercial fiction write an entire novel in it (though check out Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas by Tom Robbins if you want to see a good example in action). More likely, you’ll see shorter-form use: dedicated chapters or other narrative forms such as diary entries, letters or other missives. Example: Curiosity, reliability and the complicit reader
In this example from Complicity (p. 9), Iain Banks uses the second-person viewpoint in which a narrator reports on the actions and thoughts of an unnamed serial killer addressed as ‘you’.
Think about how you feel as you read this. It’s as if you’re being addressed, as if you’re complicit. At the very least, the prose arouses curiosity – who is this ‘you’, and how is it that the narrator knows so much about them?
Banks doesn’t present the novel fully in second person; these sections fall between those of a first-person viewpoint character, journalist Cameron Colley. As such, readers are confronted by a juxtaposition of Cameron’s version of events and what was witnessed by the narrator. Recommendation
By all means, experiment with second-person point of view but understand its implications. If you want to draw your reader into the heart of your story, it’s a good choice. However, that connection can come at a price – a lack of control that could alienate your audience.
For that reason, consider the purpose of this narrative style and the extent to which you employ it. It might be better constrained – limited to chapters inhabited by specific viewpoint characters. If in doubt, rewrite your scene in an alternative narrative viewpoint so you can evaluate how this affects your perception of the story as a reader. Cited sources and related reading
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Non-viewpoint characters have emotions too. But how do we show them without head-hopping? The answer lies in mastering observable behaviour.
What is head-hopping?
When a reader can access the internal experiences (emotions, thoughts, memories) of more than one character in a chapter or section, head-hopping is usually in play.
The exception is if you’re tackling the tricky beast that is omniscient narration. It’s difficult to pull off and rarely used in contemporary commercial fiction. Here’s an example of what head-hopping looks like on the page. Jack is the viewpoint character and the narration style is third-person limited.
Notice the following:
How to enter a non-viewpoint character’s space without dropping viewpoint
There will be times when you want your reader to enter the emotional and physical space of a non-viewpoint character.
Mastering observable behaviour – showing us what the viewpoint character can see, and their interpretation of that behaviour – is one solution that will enable you to hold viewpoint. Here’s a recast of the Jack/Pete scene:
Notice the following:
Mastering observation
Mastering observation enables writers to retain viewpoint but not be restricted by it. Think about how non-viewpoint characters will move in a way that reflects their internal experience, or what they will look like. Here are a few examples:
Example 1 What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
Example 2 What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
Example 3 What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
Example 4 What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
Example 5 What the non-viewpoint character feels but cannot be told because we’re not in their head:
Summing up
If you’re writing in a third-person limited narration style, consider what the viewpoint character already knows, what they can observe in relation to a non-viewpoint character, and what they could infer from those observations. That will determine what they can report.
What they report can still allow readers to access the internal experience of the non-viewpoint character through a back door. And while that report will be biased, it will be immersive. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Are your readers bouncing from one character’s head to another in the same scene? You might be head-hopping. This article shows you how to spot it in your fiction writing, understand its impact, and fix it.
Holding viewpoint when writing in third-person limited
Take a look at this excerpt from In a House of Lies by Ian Rankin (p. 16, Orion Books, 2018). It’s a solid example of third-person limited viewpoint.
Analysis: Tight third-person limited narration
Rebus is the viewpoint character. That means the internal experiences we access are limited to his. For example:
We cannot get in Rawlston’s head. All we can do is consider his internal experiences via his observable and audible behaviour, and his dialogue. For example:
What head-hopping would look like
Here’s what that excerpt might look like if there was head-hopping going on:
Analysis: Confused narration
Notice how we bounce between the heads of Rebus and Rawlston. Now we have access to the internal experiences of both.
In that butchered version, the reader is forced to play a game of ping-pong on the page. Why head-hopping spoils fiction
Here are 4 reasons to hold viewpoint rather than head-hopping:
1. Head-hopping renders a story less immersive
In Rankin’s original prose, we are limited to the world of the novel as Rebus experiences it. That’s powerful because every word on the page is a step we take with Rebus, as Rebus. I get to be a male, Scottish detective for a few hours rather than a female, English book editor! In my butchered version, I take that first step with Rebus but then trip and fall into Rawlston. Because I’m bouncing between those characters’ internal experiences, I don’t have time to invest in either. And so I stay as lil’ ol’ me. I do like being me, but when I buy one of Rankin’s books I want to immerse myself in its world for a few hours at a time and dig deep under the skin of the viewpoint character. I can be me without paying fifteen quid for the privilege!
2. Head-hopping diminishes suspense
In the original text, Rankin keeps the suspense tight by allowing us to access only Rebus’s senses. Rawlston’s sombre expression, twitching mouth and curt responses make Rebus (and us) think, Does he want me here? Does he begrudge my presence? What’s going on in his head? Those questions demand answers and we seek them in the clues offered by the limited narrative. Because the limited viewpoint requires Rebus and the reader to make assumptions based on what’s observable and audible, there’s uncertainty. That’s what provides the suspense, and it compels us to keep reading in the hope that the truth will be unveiled. In my head-hopping version, the prose is flat. There are no questions. We know what everyone’s thinking because we’re in everyone’s head. Readers aren’t called upon to use their imagination – both characters’ internal experiences are spoon-fed to us.
3. Head-hopping is less authentic
Head-hopping reminds readers that they are in a story written by an author. We don’t get to suspend belief because the writing won’t allow us to immerse ourselves that deeply. In Rankin’s original prose, we walk through the world as if we are Rebus, and Rebus alone. That’s what happens in real life. I know only what I’m thinking, feeling, seeing and hearing. I can’t be sure than another’s perception is the same. Audio-visual signals help me make reasonable assumptions but I’m only ever in my own head … or Rebus’s if I’m reading a story about him because Rankin knows how to hold viewpoint. In my mangled version of the excerpt, there’s a reality flop. Now I’m everyone, which is ridiculous of course. Authenticity has fallen off a cliff.
4. Head-hopping can be confusing
When a writer head-hops, the reader has to keep track of whose thoughts and emotions are being experienced. When a reader doesn’t know where they are in a novel for even a few seconds, that’s a literary misfire. This is what happens in the head-hopping excerpt. For example, Rawlston walks down the hall and identifies Rebus through the peephole. We’re right with him, in his head. But what follows is jarring. That he reports on his spectacles sitting in front of keenly intelligent eyes is oddly self-aware. Of course, it’s not Rawlston’s perception; it’s Rebus’s. And once we realize that, the prose makes sense. But working that out is not where Rankin wants the reader’s attention. He’s telling us a story and he wants us to read it. That’s why he holds a tight limited viewpoint throughout. Head-hop check
Make a list of the characters in a chapter or scene. Identify the viewpoint character.
There can be more than one viewpoint character in a book but most commercial fiction authors separate them by chapters or sections. Here’s a quick way to check whether you’re holding viewpoint. Viewpoint characters: What the reader can access
Non-viewpoint characters: What the reader can access
Some examples to show you the way
Summing up
Even if your readers don’t know what head-hopping is, by removing it from your novel you’ll give them a more immersive, suspenseful and authentic journey through the world you’ve built.
Plus, you’ll ensure they’re reading your story, not trying to work out who’s telling it. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
This post helps less experienced authors and editors understand how a third-person narrative viewpoint works in fiction, and the differences between objective and limited.
What is narrative point of view?
Point of view (POV) describes whose head we’re in when we read a book ... from whose perspective we discover what’s going on – and the smells, sounds, sights and emotions involved.
Third-person limited POV
Along with third-person objective, this viewpoint is the one that most writers find easiest to master at the beginning of their journey. Furthermore, readers are used to encountering it in contemporary fiction. The pronouns of choice are ‘she’, ‘he’, ‘it’ and ‘they’.
Third-person limited is so called because it’s a deeper viewpoint that limits readers to a single character’s experience – what they see, hear, feel and think. Readers get to sit in their skin and that provides an immersive experience. It’s as if we’re them. Example: Intimacy and getting under the character’s skin Here are some examples from Mick Herron, Harry Brett and Louise Penny that demonstrate an intimate third-person limited narrative:
The voices are distinctive. It’s not just dialogue that conveys how the viewpoint characters speak and think; it’s the narrative too.
However, it’s called third-person limited for a reason. Strictly speaking, what that character can’t see or know shouldn’t be reported. In the above examples, we’re left with questions – of destination in the first, of the origin of a smell in the second, and of the nature of the journey – because we don’t know any more than the viewpoint characters. Third-person limited is effective because an author doesn’t want to give everything away at once. The limitations over what can be known, and therefore divulged, allow the writer to control the unveiling of information via the viewpoint character. Recommendation I recommend you stick to a single character’s POV per chapter or section to avoid confusion or interruption. Mittelmark and Newman (p. 159) offer this wisdom:
That’s worth heeding. It means the reader’s trust has been lost, that they’ve been pulled out of the story rather than drawn further into it.
Trickier still is narrative ping pong, where within one section we bounce back and forth between the POVs of Character X and Character Y. Here’s a made-up example that demonstrates how things can go wrong.
The problem with this kind of setup is that it ‘alienates the reader from both perspectives. She is unable to identify with either because there’s no telling when it will be yanked away’ (Mittelmark and Newman, p. 161).
In other words, the reader has been prevented from immersing themselves in the character’s version of the story. When you stay in the head of one character per chapter or section, you make your writing life and your reader’s journey easier. Third-person objective POV
If third-person limited provides intimacy – allowing us to explore a character’s emotions and hear their voice – third-person objective offers a more neutral flexibility when we need some distance to look around and beyond objectively.
Like its limited sister, writers find this easiest to master and readers are used to encountering it. The pronouns too are ‘she’, ‘he’, ‘it’ and ‘they’. It’s a useful viewpoint for the author who wants to convey descriptive information – height, weight, facial expression, environment. If you’re using this POV, practice your observation skills so that you understand how people move from place to place, what they wear, where they live, how they gesture, so that you can show what might be going on in their heads through what can be observed. The same can be said of the objects in your novel. How does light play on water or a brick building at various times of the day? What sounds might be audible in your environment? How do the seasons affect the flora and fauna? Third-person objective viewpoints are powerful because they force a writer to show rather than tell what’s being seen. That’s because we don’t have access to the internal thoughts of a character. Example: A more distant and descriptive narrative Here’s an example from David Baldacci’s The Fix (p. 3) that demonstrates third-person narration as observable description.
Example: Shown-not-told in action Here are some excerpts from Stephen King’s The Stand that demonstrate a close attention to the way things and people behave when observed.
Objectivity allows the writer to explore in detail what would be unnatural for a character to report directly. Remember, we’re not accessing thoughts, opinions and emotions with an objective POV, just the stuff that any onlooker could see, hear or smell.
Objective is the key word here. Third-person objective viewpoints should focus on what could be known by a narrator witnessing that scene. When information is reported that moves beyond a floating camera that’s tracking the immediate environs and into a space where the narrator knows more than could possibly be witnessed by the character or the onlooker, omniscience is in play (more on that below). In some genres – crime fiction for example – this can be useful because the reader will be forced to reach their own conclusions as to the reasons for, or motivations behind, a particular event or behaviour. In other words, it’s mysterious. However, it can be distancing if overused and as a result contemporary commercial fiction writers rarely write entire novels from an objective POV because it’s reportage and we can’t get into the characters’ heads. It’s harder to understand what motivates them unless they express it through dialogue. A blend of limited and objective is a more likely choice. Recommendation Use third-person objective POV to create suspense, to make your reader wonder, and ask their own questions, and to provide scene-setting information, but blend with a limited viewpoint for deeper emotional engagement. In the first paragraph of the example below, Baldacci (The Fix, p. 3) uses third-person objective to give us background facts. In the second, he switches to limited to explain the character’s feelings. It’s a lovely fusion:
Cited works and related reading
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
If your character's intention to act is trumping their action, a small recast could be in order. This article shows you how ‘to’ can affect immediacy and plausibility in certain circumstances.
The intention to act
Take a look at these sentences:
What’s noticeable in these examples is that the character does X in order to achieve Y. Let’s be clear – there’s nothing wrong with any of the sentences in terms of either grammar or syntax. A proofreader wouldn’t touch them. A line editor, however, would take a closer look. In all three cases the narrator is describing the intention to act, rather than the act itself. And that can be problematic for a couple of reasons.
Removing ‘to’
Now look at what happens when we remove the ‘to’, introduce a conjunction and tweak the conjugation.
In (1), now we’re moving through the story with Jan. She acts and we go with her. We feel closer to her, as if we are her. In the unedited example, she discovers the empty attic and yet the light never got switched on – all we had was her intention to do it. The ‘and’ fixes that problem. In (2), Andrew picked up a phone and made a call. We’re doing those things with him. And Carla can now answer on the third ring because Andrew made a call, rather than just picking up the phone with the intention of getting in touch with her. In (3), readers are focused on my journey to the caravan, not the reason why I get out of the car (to walk over to the caravan). And now that I do walking rather than just car-exiting, I can get to that caravan and peek through the window. Shown prose versus told prose – which to choose
This problematic use of infinitives can be framed in terms of showing and telling. There’s room for both in any story, but, as always, context is everything.
Here are three points to bear in mind when deciding whether to ditch your ‘to’ and recast.
Conjunctions aren’t the only option. There are other ways of fixing told motivation-based prose where action is what the author really wants to convey. Let’s revisit one of our earlier examples. Each recast has a slightly different mood, but the ‘to’ has been ditched.
Red flags – words and phrases to watch out for
What we mustn’t do is hunt out every example of an infinitive verb form and hit the DELETE button. That would be catastrophic. Instead, during the revision process, check what the following words and phrases are doing to your prose.
Are they showing motivation or impending action? Is that what you want? And will the logic hold up? ‘To’ and viewpoint drops
Infinitives can also interfere with point of view. In this case, it’s not immediacy at stake but what it’s possible for the viewpoint character to know.
Take a look at these examples:
In (1), I’m the viewpoint character. All is well until I meet the dog. It bares its teeth. We’re still good. But then the infinitive slips in, and with it I’m now privy to the dog’s intention – to bite. It’s a step too far. Perhaps the dog’s been trained to snarl. Maybe it’s more a warning than an impending attack. The scene could demand I get bitten or escape intact. Either way, what matters is that we’re not in the dog’s head so we can’t know its intention. A recast that shows what happens, rather than telling what might, is in order.
In (2), Denise is the viewpoint character. We have access to her thoughts via the free indirect discourse: The guy was a pain ... That Matty grabbed the side of the boat is fine. In fact, it’s a solid example of shown prose because although we don’t have access to his intentions or motivations (because we’re not in his head) we can make a good guess at what they are from his observable action – grabbing the side of the boat. The infinitive tells us why he grabbed the side of the boat. And that’s a problem because we can’t know; we’re not in his head. All we can do is see through Denise’s eyes. Yes, it’s likely that he’s steadying himself, but why not let the reader do the work? His actions are enough to show them. A recast might go like this:
Or this more staccato version:
When intention is the intention!
There are times when the infinitive form of a verb is a good choice because intention, purpose or desire is exactly what the author wants to convey, not the action itself.
Here’s an excerpt from Nuala Ellwood’s Day of the Accident (Penguin, 2019, p. 94). The viewpoint character intends to talk but the action never happens. We’re supposed to focus on the intention, so the infinitives – to speak, to defend myself – work.
Here are some additional (made-up) examples of where motivation is the order of the day. The character does X for the purpose of achieving Y, and the infinitive is effective.
Summing up
If you want your characters to act, show those actions in your prose rather than telling readers about intention. Replace the infinitives with a conjunction and modify how the verb’s conjugated. Or, for a more staccato feel, try commas, or closing the sentence with a full point and starting a new one.
If it’s motivation you want, a ‘to’ plus a verb has the right to stand. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Novels and screenplays are two very different art forms. When a story is presented to a reader as if it were something being watched in a cinema or on TV, the book begins to wobble.
Great screenwriters can be great novelists, but being the former doesn’t guarantee the latter.
Description and dialogue
When a novelist approaches their story as if it’s going to be watched, the narrative and dialogue can become overwritten.
In TV shows and movies, characters do lots of quite mundane things – walking into and out of rooms, opening and shutting doors, scratching their heads, putting the kettle on, wringing their hands, frowning, standing up, sitting down, walking over to windows and gazing out of them, picking up tea cups or beer bottles and taking a sip or a slug. They say hello and goodbye, and hmm, mmm, er, um and aah as they talk to each other and themselves. All this stuff happens quickly and provides a backdrop to the main action and dialogue. Sometimes there’ll be a backing track to assist with mood creation. Some of that mundane stuff can go into a novel, but when it’s replicated in full it can be tedious to read and does nothing to drive the novel forward. Example: taut description and dialogue in a novel Here’s a scene from Harlan Coben’s Don’t Let Go (Penguin Random House, 2017, p. 201). There are 122 words.
Example: description and dialogue in a screenplay If we were watching that on TV, we’d be shown a great deal more.
In his book, Coben omits almost all of that. Instead, he lets the reader do the work. Good choice because all that stage direction would be boring to read. It could take a page to get through it all, maybe two, and none of it would drive the novel forward. He gives us just enough to imagine the setting in our mind’s eye, then gets down to business with the interesting elements of the story. He and we know that no one’s walking through doors spectre-like; they need to be opened and shut. No one’s leaving the car running; the engine will be switched off. And natural speech invariably includes noise and pause. Example: overwriting in a novel Here’s my mangled example of how that might have looked if the detail of the screen version had been written into the novel. There are 421 words.
Word dump
Writers who choose to write novels for viewers rather than readers risk adding ten, maybe twenty thousand words to their books that don’t need to be in there. I’m not advocating removing description; I’m advocating writing for the page. That means making sure that the description is relevant rather than suffocating, enriching rather than boring. If you have pages of characters making small talk about how they take their coffee over the noise the kettle’s making, that small talk needs to be central to the plot. So does the whistle of the kettle. And if it takes 500 words to get your character out of their car, there needs to be a reason for that. If that information is just filler, give your reader the nudges they need and dump the rest into a box for when you write the screenplay version. Your director will the delighted!
Viewpoint characters
Viewpoint can unravel when a novelist approaches their story like a screenwriter.
When a novelist selects a viewpoint character for a section or chapter of their book, the reader will experience the story through that character’s perspective – what they see, smell, hear, touch and think. Viewpoint characters allow the reader to immerse themselves in the moment, and for that reason they’re tremendously enriching. Example: viewpoint on the screen Imagine watching this short scene on TV:
Example: confused viewpoint in a novel What some beginner writers do is render the scene in a way that partially mimics the screen version. That’s because they’re familiar with how stories are presented on the TV or in film.
The problem is that there are multiple viewpoints that force the reader to bounce from one character’s experience to another. We never invest in Matt, Adriana or John because as soon as we try to immerse ourselves in the experience of one of those people, we’re dragged into the head of another.
The result is a wonky hybrid of novel and screenplay. We know what everyone’s doing, thinking and seeing. It rips out the tension and destroys the structure of the scene. Example: singular immersive viewpoint in a novel If, however, the writer commits to the viewpoint of one character, the prose is very different. In this version, we lose John completely. Adriana is visible but only from Matt’s perspective. We don’t have access to her thoughts, only what Matt thinks might be going on in her head based on what he knows, sees and hears. It’s shorter, certainly, but the tension is back and the writing is tighter.
Summing up
If you’re at the start of your writing journey, take care to craft words for the page, not for the screen. Keep the boring stuff out, even if it’s realistic. You’ll reduce your wordcount but enhance reader engagement.
Look to books written by your favourite novelists for inspiration on how to build a beautiful page, rather than the Netflix adaptations. Your writing will be all the better for it, I promise. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
If you’re not sure what a first-person narrative point of view is, or how to use it effectively in your fiction writing, this post is for you.
What is narrative point of view?
Point of view (POV) describes whose head we’re in when we read a book ... from whose perspective we discover what’s going on – and the smells, sounds, sights and emotions involved.
There can be multiple viewpoints in a book, not all of which have to belong to a single character. And to complicate things, editors’ and authors’ opinions differ as to which approach works best, and what jars and why. POV can be tricky and my aim is to keep the guidance as straightforward as possible, not because I think you should only do it this way or that way, but because most people (myself included) handle complexity best when they start with the foundations and build up and outwards. Why should you bother nailing POV?
Pro editors and experienced writers agree on one thing: it’s worth the beginner author’s time to understand POV so that they can make decisions about which to use, where, and why. Consider the following:
Point of view: What are the options?
There are multiple ways in which to narrate a novel. Some are more popular than others, and some easier to master. What you choose will shape not only the story you tell but also your readers’ understanding of it. The options are as follows:
First-person POV
First-person narrative POVs are the most intimate, the most immediate, but they’re less flexible. The pronouns used are ‘I’ and ‘we’. The reader is privy to an individual character’s thoughts, emotions and experiences, all told through a distinctive voice.
We can only see, hear, smell and feel what the character sees, hears, smells and feels. We are compelled to move through the story knowing only what they know, and at their pace. However, used throughout an entire novel, from on character only, it can be problematic for the following reasons:
Example: Not relying on ‘I’ In To Kill a Mockingbird (p. 5), Harper Lee keeps ‘I’ to a minimum and yet the prose oozes with first person. Note in particular how the voice is rich and distinct, rather than the more neutral tone we’d expect from third-person objective narration.
Because Lee doesn’t append ‘I’ plus a verb to much of the prose, we are given a shown narrative that we can experience rather than being told how the narrator experienced the world being described.
Compare it with the ‘I’-heavy made-up example below and consider how the narrator’s told experience keeps the reader at a distance.
Let’s rewrite this with a less invasive first-person narration in which the reader can experience the action as it unfolds.
Example: Sustaining interest with other interpretations In The Word is Murder (p. 208), author Anthony Horowitz is one of the characters! The viewpoint is first person (his). The author is like a floating camera; we see the protagonist – the detective (Hawthorne) who solves the crime – through Horowitz’s eyes as he accompanies him to interviews with suspects and on visits to crime scenes. The author-character offers his own theories, even pursues his own lines of investigation, and interjects with stories about his life and career. This adds interest but, ultimately, it’s the detective who grounds the crime story, brings reliability to the narrative, and drives the novel forward; it’s through him that we access the procedural elements and the answer to whodunnit. Here’s an excerpt:
Recommendation
First-person narratives introduce depth and explain motivations but can be difficult to sustain if not sufficiently interesting and there’s too much told narrative. Watch out for filter words if you think you’re over-telling.
Consider whether your whole novel needs to be in first person. Perhaps limiting this approach to specific characters in dedicated chapters would be more effective. If you decide to stick with first person throughout, think about voice and how your viewpoint character (and therefore the reader) will discover the how, when and why of the story at an engaging pace. And, finally, if you’re basing your whole novel in the first person, be cautious about using the present tense throughout. The past might give you more flexibility, particularly if you’re writing action-heavy scenes where, in reality, the character wouldn’t have time to give much thought to the consequences and motivations of their behaviour. Cited sources and related reading
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Slipping into character – understanding the impact of narrative point of view: With Sophie Playle7/9/2017
Sophie Playle takes you through the fundamentals of narrative point of view so you (and your reader) know who's telling your story.
Why narrowing POV options can be liberating
As an author, you have a lot of decisions to make when it comes to putting the ideas you have for your novel down on paper. Where should you start the story? Which characters should you focus on? Should you write in past or present tense? Third or first person? The possibilities are overwhelming.
It seems counterintuitive, but narrowing your options can be quite freeing. Once you’ve eliminated the paralysis of infinite choice, you can focus your creativity. Choosing the viewpoint from which you tell your story is one decision you should certainly consider. It doesn’t matter whether you think about this before you start writing or during the redrafting stage. Either way, by deliberately and purposefully aligning your narration with a particular character, you’ll be able to:
When a novelist hasn’t considered the point of view from which they’re telling their story, it makes things a lot harder for the reader. The story might lack focus, the characters might feel at arm’s length, and the writing style could fall flat. If you struggle with any of these issues, considering point of view could be the answer. What is ‘point of view’ in fiction?
Let’s start with the basics.
When we talk about point of view in fiction, we’re talking about the position from which the events of the novel are being observed or experienced. It’s essentially where you’ve decided to place the lens through which a reader accesses your story.
But before we get into the details of slipping into character, we should back up a little. There are many narrative layers to a novel, and it’s useful to understand them.
Narrators, not authors, tell stories.** The difference is subtle, but important. If the author tells a story, the reader knows it’s made up. But if the narrator tells the story, it’s much easier for the reader to willingly suspend their disbelief and immerse themselves in what the narrator is saying. When you write, you – as the author – should disappear. Instead, you channel the narrator. The narrator can either be a character in the story or a disembodied observer. Either way, you see what they see, hear what they hear, and smell what they smell as they experience the events of your story. And depending on the type of narrator you’ve chosen to use, the narrator can also slip in and out of the perspective of your viewpoint character (or characters), experiencing the world through their body and mind, expressing those experiences using their language and style. I admit, it’s a little confusing to wrap your head around. So let’s take a quick look at the most common types of narration and the implications each can have on your writing, and hopefully all will become clear. The different types of narration
FIRST PERSON
First-person narration is when a character is telling the story from their own perspective and uses the pronoun ‘I’. Unless the character is telepathic, they will only be able to express the events of the novel from their own point of view and have knowledge of things only they have experienced. If they learn things from other characters, this knowledge will be filtered through (and potentially distorted by) their interpretation. Pros
Cons
EXAMPLE:
THIRD PERSON OBJECTIVE
Third-person narration refers to characters as ‘he/she/it’. Third person objective is used when the point of view from which the story is told is like a floating camera following the characters around. The narrator is almost invisible as it won’t express any thoughts and emotions and can only report on sensory experience – what could be seen, heard or smelt by any onlooker. There is no direct access to the thoughts and emotions of the characters, other than what can be interpreted by their dialogue and actions. This viewpoint isn’t normally used over the course of a whole novel, and it can be blended with third-person subjective (see below). Sometimes new writers will inadvertently use this viewpoint if they’ve taken the advice ‘show, don’t tell’ to an ill-considered extreme! Pros
Cons
EXAMPLE:
THIRD PERSON SUBJECTIVE (OR LIMITED)
Unlike with third person objective, the reader has access to the thoughts and emotions of the viewpoint character. The story is told only through one viewpoint character’s perspective at a time. We see, hear, smell, taste, feel and think what they do; the narrative is written in the character’s voice; and the reader can know only what the character knows. Third person subjective narration can be blended with third person objective narration to varying degrees. If the narrative is slightly more objective, the character’s direct thoughts might be made visually distinct from the main narrative by either being presented in italics or quote marks; if the narrative is very much subjective, separating direct thoughts isn’t necessary because the whole narrative is written from the direct perspective of the character. Jumping from one viewpoint character to another in close succession is known as head hopping and can be very confusing for the reader. It’s advisable to stick to one viewpoint character at a time. Pros
Cons
EXAMPLE:
OMNISCIENT
With omniscient narration, the narrator knows everything and isn’t limited to the viewpoint of any single character. An omniscient narration could be written in present or past tense, and use first or third person; they could be a character in the story (like a god or an enlightened person), or they could be an observing nonentity. Completely omniscient viewpoints are difficult to pull off well and have fallen out of fashion. Pros
Cons
EXAMPLE:
Omniscient narration is quite complex, so let’s go into a little more detail. Omniscient narration can never truly be all-knowing because of the limitations of the nature of writing and reading: words must be read in order, so experiences must be felt in a linear way, which is not the same as having all knowledge in your head simultaneously.
Because of this, as with all writing, the issue is that of choice: what information does the omniscient narrator choose to divulge at any given time and, more importantly, why? Jumping from one viewpoint character to another (head hopping) should still be kept to a minimum to avoid confusion, and using an omniscient narrator is not an excuse for using this device in an uncontrolled way! How to choose the right viewpoint for your novel
Choosing which type of narration to use will depend on the kind of effect you want to create, and the kind of knowledge-handling your plot requires. When deciding which point of view to choose, ask yourself the following:
These might not be simple questions to answer, but if you can figure out which answers are most important to you, you should be able to decide which narrative form and which character’s or characters’ viewpoints will allow you to tell the type of story you want to tell. How to control the POV in your story
Once you’re aware of the issues of point of view, it’s surprisingly easy to control it and avoid confusion and inconsistency. All it takes is a little logical thinking, depending on your answers to the following questions:
Once you’ve answered these questions, it should be simple to use your chosen viewpoint in a consistent and focused way. How to handle multiple viewpoints
Should you have multiple viewpoints in your novel? It’s really up to you – and will depend on the type of story you want to tell and the effects you want to create.
The main advantage of sticking to one viewpoint is that it allows you to explore it in greater depth; the main advantage of using multiple viewpoints is that it allows you to explore the events of the novel in greater breadth. Switching the POV often makes it harder for the reader to really get to know a character. It’s the equivalent of going to a party and talking to a different person every twenty minutes. My advice is to keep your number of viewpoints to a minimum. Use only what the story needs – not what you feel like writing. If you have two narrators or characters telling the same story, you need a very good reason for it. When using multiple viewpoints, it’s imperative to make the switch between them seamless and clear. It’s best to start a new chapter or scene when switching viewpoints; at the very least, start a new paragraph. Whichever method you choose, keep the pattern consistent. Don’t just have one chapter in which there are multiple switches when all your other chapters stick exclusively to one viewpoint. Summing up
The way you chose to narrate your story will have an impact on how your story is read. Different narrative styles allow you to create different effects. Choosing viewpoint characters brings focus, tension and originality to your writing.
Controlling the point-of-view elements in your novel and learning to slip into character is one impactful way to become a better writer and write better books. Further reading from Sophie Playle
Sophie runs Liminal Pages, where she offers editorial services to authors and training to fiction editors.
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
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