Point of View

Point-of-view for most writers means: First Person, Third Person and Omniscient. There seems little reason (other than for novelty value – and the desire to be noticed) to opt for the likes of, say, second person. These guidelines will concern themselves with First Person (FP), Third Person (TP) and Omniscient (Om), and examine briefly the advantages and disadvantages of each. It’s not part of my remit to persuade you into favouring one viewpoint over another - despite my own distinct preference for FP!

First Person (single & multiple viewpoints):

Graham Greene stated that FP offers the novelist a great technical advantage in that she/he is not open to the temptation of deviating from the main storyline. There is no opportunity to go blithely wandering off down the attractive highways and byways of the narrative merely because they appear interesting, or offer a welcome diversion from the story’s current obstructive, rock strewn path. FP forces the writer to tackle such ‘everyday’ difficulties head-on and deal with them as, and when, they manifest themselves. FP makes no allowances for woolly or imprecise writing, which it will unmercifully expose.

FP gives your story a wonderful, and seductive, immediacy (‘I came home that rainy September evening to find our new hall carpet puddled with blood…’), making it much easier for the reader to enter quickly into the text and to readily believe what they’re being told. The events comprising the narrative actually happened to (or within the orbit of) the narrator (the ‘I’ of the story), and this fact gives the text a weight and authority – an instant believability - which TP has to strive a little more energetically to achieve. The ghost of the author is not so obviously present at the feast. With TP the author has to work harder to remain invisible and impartial. Partiality is no problem in an FP narrative. It comes, as they say, with the territory. (Think of Humbert Humbert – Lolita, or John Self – Money.)

FP lends itself naturally to an easy, colloquial style of expression which quickly helps build a close, and collusive, relationship between reader and story teller. Because this style simulates direct speech there is, in theory, less danger of the writer slipping into purple prose or pretentiousness. However even the merest whiff of over-writing will smell like an avalanche of pig shit. Beware!

The main restriction imposed by FP is that the reader can only be knowledgeably informed about those matters/circumstances with which the narrator him/herself is personally acquainted. The reader and the narrator share the same position within the story – unless, of course, it is being told using flashback. (‘The day Laura was murdered, I arrived home later than I’d originally planned. Now I’m often forced to wonder what would’ve happened if I’d caught my usual train and…’)

If, for example, the narrator’s girlfriend is having a passionate, and sexually unorthodox, affair with the man next door, the reader cannot be privy to this volatile information until the narrator himself finally learns what’s been regularly occurring under cover of darkness in the neighbour’s prized Dormobile while he (the narrator) has been sequestered in the garden shed lovingly tending his cacti collection. There can be no humourous, and tellingly symbolic, cutting between what’s happening within the rocking, steamy windowed caravanette and the narrator in his lonely, unheated shed pricking himself on a spectacularly erectile and vigorous example of Astrophytum Capricorne.

Use of FP precludes the possibility of entering into the minds of the other characters and accurately describing what they are thinking or feeling; nor can we see what the other characters are getting up to once they leave the narrator’s presence. The best that the narrator can do in terms of the above is to speculate about what might be happening within the minds of the people with whom they’re sharing the story and what they’re engaged in when they are ‘off stage’. Of course, the characters themselves are free to speak their thoughts whilst in the narrator’s company/proximity, but you must ensure that their speech is not laden with information necessary to make sense of the narrative. (‘John since I saw you last I’ve had the abortion, booked an appointment at the rehab clinic and got shot of Sam, had the dog put down and lost nearly two stone…’)

The huge advantage of immediacy mentioned above can often outweigh the restrictions of FP. It’s impossible to imagine certain famous novels being written in anything other than the FP: ‘Jane Eyre’, ‘The End of the Affair’, ‘A Clockwork Orange’, ‘The Catcher in the Rye’, ‘Bonjour Tristesse’, etc. Supply your own examples.

It’s perfectly possible (and permissible) to have more than one FP narrator, switching viewpoints at appropriate moments in the story. You must bear in mind, though, that any change in viewpoint creates a deep fissure in the otherwise seamless flow of your narrative which can be both irritating, and disruptive, for the reader. There is also the likelihood that the reader will identify much more strongly with a particular narrator and will grow bored and frustrated when another character temporarily takes over the telling of the story, causing them to skim through the book until their favourite ‘I’ makes their next appearance. (Also a major problem with TP multiple viewpoint: see below)

You should only switch viewpoints if it’s absolutely necessary to do so, ie, the story demands it. This rule applies no matter what viewpoint you’ve chosen. It’s best to make any viewpoint changes at either chapter or section breaks. Switches in viewpoint should never be made just to ‘spice up’ your work, or because you’ve grown bored with, or are finding it difficult, to stick with (or control) a single narrator. Any such changes borne out of expediency are likely to be picked up by the reader and this will greatly impair their enjoyment of your work. Most readers are extraordinarily sophisticated and not easily duped.

If you’ve spent sufficient time thinking about who would make the most appropriate narrator for your story, the above problems should not arise. You must choose a character from whom you can generate the maximum amount of emotion and with whom you most empathise. (This doesn’t mean that you should pick your narrator on the basis of his/her charm and innate likeability, and because they’re an all round ‘good egg’. Complete bitches and bastards can make excellent FP protagonists.) The character who takes on the role of narrator should, ideally, have a principal part to play within the narrative. They must have some stake in the story as it unfolds. Will their crime of fratricide be discovered? Will they win – or even survive – the gruelling Channel swim? Will the medical profession succeed in finding a cure for their terrible wasting disease before the arrival of the Grim Reaper? (There is nothing to be gained from having our story of Dalliance in a Dormobile told from the point of view of the boy who’s paid a fiver a time to give it its fortnightly wash and wax, and who has no role in influencing the ultimate outcome of the narrative.) Nick Carraway the narrator of The Great Gatsby, might be on the periphery of events but his viewpoint enables us to see deeply into the characters of Gatsby and his cousin Daisy and their lives/circumstances – insights that could not be gained were to the novel to be told from either Daisy or Gatsby’s point-of-view. He is, after all, instrumental in reigniting the romance between them.

Third Person (single & multiple viewpoints):

TP single viewpoint tells the story from one character's perspective but that character is now referred to as either ‘she’ or ‘he’. This approach allows the reader to ‘become’ that character for the duration of the narrative and is ideal if you’re seeking maximum reader involvement – which, of course, you should be. Once the story gets up a full head of steam there are no untimely disruptions to prevent the reader from applying their full concentration to the story and immersing themselves completely in it. TP single viewpoint is well suited to genre fiction: thrillers, romances, etc, where immediate, and lasting, identification with the protagonist is the sine qua non of successful story telling.

TP multiple viewpoint accounts for approximately three quarters of what might be dubbed ‘mainstream’ fiction. This is the viewpoint that comes with all those no-expense-spared sleek and sexy add-ons for maximum reader pleasure. The author, too, gets to have a really good time and is granted the freedom to choose to tell their story through as many different characters’ eyes as they wish: male, female, Foxy the dog – whoever. This approach is superb for unravelling, and analysing, complex character relationships, for teasing out vast, intricate plots - and for injecting tension into a story. We can instantly shift from the plight of the poor imprisoned princess to those faithful subjects risking their own lives as they labour night and day to free her.

TP multiple viewpoint gives the writer plenty of opportunity to really ‘pig out’ on their material – but, like indulging in any over-rich meal, the result can often lead to chronic indigestion on the part of both writer and reader. For example, severe problems with chronology can frequently arise. It’s easy with a large cast of disparate characters each pursing their own particular strand of the storyline (and with their own specific agendas) to loose all track of time - you go from vivacious Jo enjoying a champagne supper with her man of few words, Rory, on a Sunday evening and switch (without problem) to Rory’s paranoid blind sister, Marion, being terrorised by an obscene telephone caller on the same evening – but when we next meet Jo what day are we going to see her on? Tuesday? Wednesday? And when Marion makes another entrée into the text what day is it for her? Sunday? Friday? And what about David, Lois, Rachel, Phoebe, Martin, Luke, Andrea, and Jane? How have they been amusing themselves whilst hairy, and heroic, Rory wrestled with Marion’s mad, infatuated stalker atop the Post Office Tower?

Imbalance is an equally common problem (a crime of which Dickens was frequently guilty, but, being Dickens, no charges were brought). Too much ‘page time’ can, unwittingly, be given to certain ‘addictive’ characters at the expense of others whose roles within the story are, perhaps, more crucial – but because the writer has found himself especially smitten with Maisie, Marion’s pretty and vulnerable teenage sister, we get to spend a great deal of time in her winsome, sexually precocious company watching her experience her first exposure to marijuana and molestation, and sacrificing her virginity to her married, one legged music teacher after the school concert during which her stunning performance of Bach’s Cello Sonata in G Major caused grown men to weep. (See? I’m now doing it myself!)

Omniscient:

Much beloved by those nineteenth century literary behemoths, this viewpoint is not often employed today. Om viewpoint truly puts the writer in the position of God; he is free to indulge in external and internal examinations of his characters, to detail events which are happening simultaneously, to leap from mind to mind as the mood takes him, gathering thoughts, and then to offer up discursive passages of analysis/description. The writer exercises a total control over his material; nothing escapes his pervasive, pantheistic presence. Diluted Om can be extremely handy for the 21st century writer, eg, giving the reader an early, and necessary, overview of the novel’s personae and their respective predicaments - a device very popular with writers of ‘apocalyptic’ fiction where we need to be au fait with the large assemblage of characters in the first reel before the tidal wave/earthquake/comet/volcanic eruption/nuclear holocaust decimates their lives and puts their loved ones in jeopardy.

Whatever viewpoint you finally employ to tell your story, be sure to exploit its virtues rather than fall foul of its vices.