Whose thoughts are these anyway?
The following extract is from a fantasy novel written by an experienced and respected author. Since I don't want to point fingers that might get snapped off, and I haven't the publisher's or author's permission to quote, I have altered names and suchlike to retain some anonymity. The style and structure is all the author's own. We have spent the previous few pages observing Karen's thoughts and feelings and she is now in conversation with her father, Albert, who has announced that he is about to head off on a great quest, adding:
'If I stay here I, too, will go mad.'
Karen bit her lip to stop herself saying what she truly thought: that the Master of Red Isle might already have turned that corner. But while her head told her his plan was at best folly and at worst wilful idiocy, her heart began to beat faster and the palms of her hands itched as if with incipient sweat, though the night was chill. It was the sensation she often felt before attempting a climb she had been assessing for days. The memory of the voice she had heard, urging her to stay behind, she pushed firmly away, locked it into the small box at the back of her mind where she kept all the doubts and fears and other extraneous matters that tried to assail her as she was making the first move off the ground.
'There is nothing for me here, either, Da. Take me with you. I can row, and free rigging and help the navigation. I am as strong as any man, and you know I will utter no complaint in even the harshest conditions. What good am I here, under Ma's feet? She looks at me with reproach, no matter what I do. I cannot cook, or sew or spin or weave or behave in the way she wants me to. I want no husband, and I have lost as much as you; let me come with you.'
Albert gazed at his daughter and saw how in the fey light her face shone with fervour. She was so like him it hurt. His eyes began to prickle and he looked quickly aside. 'I cannot. Your mother would never forgive me if she were to lose another of her children to the sea.'
'And what about Fred?' {Karen's brother}
'I have promised him a place.'
Karen was incensed. 'But that's not fair! Why can Fred be risked, and not me? Take me instead of him: you know I am of more use!'
'I have my reasons.' In his mind he saw Frances the Witch berating him, telling him to look well to his daughter. He would never admit it to any living soul, but the idea of the sorceress returning to Red Isle made his stomach turn over; made the hairs on the back of his neck rise like a wary dog's. Besides, Karen had already disobeyed him once in the matter of seagoing expeditions: she would not play that game twice. And Fred was becoming a liability at home with nothing to absorb his increasingly destructive energies. There would be more than one girl bearing red-haired children come the following summer, and the would all have to be provided for. 'My mind is made up, Karen, so do not try to wheedle around me, nor think to trick your way aboard. I am not so amenable as Thom Cadno: I'd not have hesitated for a moment in putting you over the side.'
The mention of the mummer chief's name filled Karen with a sudden overwhelming despair. If even a man so vital and strong as Thom Cadno could be taken by the seas, what chance did any other stand? She found herself staring at the Sarff Hir {Albert's ship} with fresh eyes. It was beautiful, but deadly, a slender twig of wood to be tossed at will by waves and storm. Did she really want to cling to its slim gunwales while the wind howled around her ears and pelted her with ice shards and freezing spume?
But in her heart she knew the answer to this question.
No matter what the consequences; yes, yes, yes.
OK. So it's not great literature, but it's the best example I could come up with at short notice. This is from book two of a series and there are countless similar examples throughout both books. But examples of what? I hear you ask. Well, in the course of two pages, we've swung from Karen's mind, through her father's thoughts and then back to her at the end. The narrative point of view is all over the place.
So does it matter? If the narrator is an omniscient observer, then surely it's fine to dart into each character's thoughts and feelings to help explain their behaviour. It's difficult to build up any kind of emotional link with a character who just seems to react to events in an arbitrary fashion; and if you can't build such a link, you'll soon grow tired of the character and the novel. Getting inside a character's head is essential to good development, though I've seen it done more subtly than in the above passage. The problem arises when you start to jump from one character's thoughts to another's without any obvious break.
The above passage has been all about Karen, her tomboy streak, her fierce independence and her desire to prove herself better than her brothers, or any mere man for that matter. Suddenly, towards the end, we're seeing Albert's thoughts about a warning he has had from a wise witch, telling him to look after his daughter. Karen knows nothing of this warning, so the thought is plainly not hers. It explains Albert's stubborn refusal to let Karen come with him on his quest to us, the reader, but not to Karen. Karen can't know about the witch and her prophecy, otherwise she'd be more reasonable about being told to stay behind.
Jumping abruptly from Karen's point of view to Albert's interrupts the narrative flow. For me - reading this as escapist entertainment, pure and simple - I have immersed myself in Karen's character, her thoughts and motivations. I am rattling along at a merry pace, seeing the world through her eyes when suddenly I am forced to jump into her father's mind. The story jars, and the spell is broken. I have to pause, take my bearings and then plough on. Or I might just put the book down and do something else instead.
OK, so that's maybe a bit extreme, and the example quoted here is quite subtle in its switching back and forth. There are other examples where point of view switches within a single paragraph - that really brings me up sharp. The point is that the construction of the tale in some way detracts from the story, and to my mind that must be a bad thing.
It's a very easy habit to fall into. My first draft manuscripts are full of red scribbles and 'P.O.V' scrawled in the margin where I've forgotten which character is in the driving seat. I have a terrible habit of berating Stuart for it as well, though he's getting much better at spotting it before it happens. I found a couple of instances in Cold Granite, but the sequel had none.
What then is the best way to manage point of view in a narrative? The accepted practice seems to be to write each passage entirely through the eyes of one character. When it is necessary to see something from another perspective, a section or chapter break is in order. Stephen Donaldson took this to the extreme in his GAP SF series, where each chapter was named after the character from whose point of view it was narrated. But the layered construction of the story through a series of different perspectives leant the whole epic a depth that it otherwise would have lacked. And it allowed the reader to understand why the characters were doing what they were doing, adding further to the realism of the story and maintaining the ever-important suspension of disbelief.
So there you have it - the thorny problem of maintaining narrative point of view. It was probably something you were blissfully unaware of until now. By reading this, you have condemned yourself to spotting it every time you pick up a book.
Maybe next time I'll do something about maintaining a coherent balance between all those conflicting points of view. Literary pedantry rules!
And in the unlikely event that the author of the above example stumbles across this blog and recognises their work, I'm sorry. I have enjoyed the first two books immensely and will buy the third just as soon as it comes out ;}#
'If I stay here I, too, will go mad.'
Karen bit her lip to stop herself saying what she truly thought: that the Master of Red Isle might already have turned that corner. But while her head told her his plan was at best folly and at worst wilful idiocy, her heart began to beat faster and the palms of her hands itched as if with incipient sweat, though the night was chill. It was the sensation she often felt before attempting a climb she had been assessing for days. The memory of the voice she had heard, urging her to stay behind, she pushed firmly away, locked it into the small box at the back of her mind where she kept all the doubts and fears and other extraneous matters that tried to assail her as she was making the first move off the ground.
'There is nothing for me here, either, Da. Take me with you. I can row, and free rigging and help the navigation. I am as strong as any man, and you know I will utter no complaint in even the harshest conditions. What good am I here, under Ma's feet? She looks at me with reproach, no matter what I do. I cannot cook, or sew or spin or weave or behave in the way she wants me to. I want no husband, and I have lost as much as you; let me come with you.'
Albert gazed at his daughter and saw how in the fey light her face shone with fervour. She was so like him it hurt. His eyes began to prickle and he looked quickly aside. 'I cannot. Your mother would never forgive me if she were to lose another of her children to the sea.'
'And what about Fred?' {Karen's brother}
'I have promised him a place.'
Karen was incensed. 'But that's not fair! Why can Fred be risked, and not me? Take me instead of him: you know I am of more use!'
'I have my reasons.' In his mind he saw Frances the Witch berating him, telling him to look well to his daughter. He would never admit it to any living soul, but the idea of the sorceress returning to Red Isle made his stomach turn over; made the hairs on the back of his neck rise like a wary dog's. Besides, Karen had already disobeyed him once in the matter of seagoing expeditions: she would not play that game twice. And Fred was becoming a liability at home with nothing to absorb his increasingly destructive energies. There would be more than one girl bearing red-haired children come the following summer, and the would all have to be provided for. 'My mind is made up, Karen, so do not try to wheedle around me, nor think to trick your way aboard. I am not so amenable as Thom Cadno: I'd not have hesitated for a moment in putting you over the side.'
The mention of the mummer chief's name filled Karen with a sudden overwhelming despair. If even a man so vital and strong as Thom Cadno could be taken by the seas, what chance did any other stand? She found herself staring at the Sarff Hir {Albert's ship} with fresh eyes. It was beautiful, but deadly, a slender twig of wood to be tossed at will by waves and storm. Did she really want to cling to its slim gunwales while the wind howled around her ears and pelted her with ice shards and freezing spume?
But in her heart she knew the answer to this question.
No matter what the consequences; yes, yes, yes.
So does it matter? If the narrator is an omniscient observer, then surely it's fine to dart into each character's thoughts and feelings to help explain their behaviour. It's difficult to build up any kind of emotional link with a character who just seems to react to events in an arbitrary fashion; and if you can't build such a link, you'll soon grow tired of the character and the novel. Getting inside a character's head is essential to good development, though I've seen it done more subtly than in the above passage. The problem arises when you start to jump from one character's thoughts to another's without any obvious break.
The above passage has been all about Karen, her tomboy streak, her fierce independence and her desire to prove herself better than her brothers, or any mere man for that matter. Suddenly, towards the end, we're seeing Albert's thoughts about a warning he has had from a wise witch, telling him to look after his daughter. Karen knows nothing of this warning, so the thought is plainly not hers. It explains Albert's stubborn refusal to let Karen come with him on his quest to us, the reader, but not to Karen. Karen can't know about the witch and her prophecy, otherwise she'd be more reasonable about being told to stay behind.
Jumping abruptly from Karen's point of view to Albert's interrupts the narrative flow. For me - reading this as escapist entertainment, pure and simple - I have immersed myself in Karen's character, her thoughts and motivations. I am rattling along at a merry pace, seeing the world through her eyes when suddenly I am forced to jump into her father's mind. The story jars, and the spell is broken. I have to pause, take my bearings and then plough on. Or I might just put the book down and do something else instead.
OK, so that's maybe a bit extreme, and the example quoted here is quite subtle in its switching back and forth. There are other examples where point of view switches within a single paragraph - that really brings me up sharp. The point is that the construction of the tale in some way detracts from the story, and to my mind that must be a bad thing.
It's a very easy habit to fall into. My first draft manuscripts are full of red scribbles and 'P.O.V' scrawled in the margin where I've forgotten which character is in the driving seat. I have a terrible habit of berating Stuart for it as well, though he's getting much better at spotting it before it happens. I found a couple of instances in Cold Granite, but the sequel had none.
What then is the best way to manage point of view in a narrative? The accepted practice seems to be to write each passage entirely through the eyes of one character. When it is necessary to see something from another perspective, a section or chapter break is in order. Stephen Donaldson took this to the extreme in his GAP SF series, where each chapter was named after the character from whose point of view it was narrated. But the layered construction of the story through a series of different perspectives leant the whole epic a depth that it otherwise would have lacked. And it allowed the reader to understand why the characters were doing what they were doing, adding further to the realism of the story and maintaining the ever-important suspension of disbelief.
So there you have it - the thorny problem of maintaining narrative point of view. It was probably something you were blissfully unaware of until now. By reading this, you have condemned yourself to spotting it every time you pick up a book.
Maybe next time I'll do something about maintaining a coherent balance between all those conflicting points of view. Literary pedantry rules!
And in the unlikely event that the author of the above example stumbles across this blog and recognises their work, I'm sorry. I have enjoyed the first two books immensely and will buy the third just as soon as it comes out ;}#
Comments
As for the example, I agree that the dialogue is tortured in the extreme - although in its defence the setting is an 'olden times' world where people still ride around on horseback and hit each other with swords. I guess the dialogue is an attempt at 'Old Fashioned', though I still prefer to make such characters use words like 'contumely', 'perchance' and 'methinks'.
As an aside, you know this writer. I don't want to give away their identity in the relatively public space of this blog, but if you're curious, drop me an email and I'll spill the beans ;}#
I don't think you selected a very good example to illustrate your point!
Yes you can use an internal dialogue on the part of one character to explain their behaviour at any given point, but in my opinion (which has never been humble) flopping from one character's mind to anothers in the course of a couple of paragraphs (and then back again) is sloppy writing and should be discouraged!
We're taught these rules because, I think, they're the only teachable part of the process. (Besides "sit down and write. Now do it again.")
Unfortunately, I don't think they're the whole truth.
The other point, which I perhaps should have made earlier, is that both of the books in this series are riddled with examples of this POV switching and, for me at least, it detracts from what otherwise is a well-constructed fantasy tale (with some terrible dialogue). Since the whole point of a fantasy is to lose yourself in the story, it's annoying if every so often you're jolted up to a level of omniscient observer.