Whodunnit?

I love mysteries, but that’s not what this newsletter is about.

Things happen in stories. Characters do things. When we write a story, we reveal who did what–whodunnit. How we reveal that is the topic of this newsletter. In particular the words and phrases we use can suggest or reinforce point of view and deepen the readers’ engagement with your fictional world.

The Fictional World

Cinema, theatre, and the written word all present fictional worlds. One artistic goal is to bring the fictional world to life in the imaginations of the audience. There is a deliberate collaboration between the artists creating those worlds and the audience who embraces them.

In cinema, the camera is the eye of the audience and the soundtrack is their ear. We not only hear the sarcasm in the actor’s tone, we see the scorn on her face. The director makes sure we hear and see these things by manipulating the camera, the soundtrack, and the mise en scene and by deploying the the Foley artist and myriad other components. Everything comes together in a seamless collaboration that includes us, the viewers, sitting in a dark theatre and experiencing the events as they transpire on the screen. Those events come alive in our imaginations. We become one with the fictional world.

Theatrical productions use many of the same tools, with staging and lighting replacing the camera.

In written fiction, we don’t have the diverse tools a director deploys. All we’ve got are words on a page. But what we do have is collaboration with our readers. The right words, deftly chosen, enhance that collaboration and breathe life into the scene. The right words place the reader inside our fictional world just as surely as good direction does in a movie or stage production. Poorly chosen words, on the other hand, distance the reader from the fictional world and make it abstract rather than concrete.

Words matter.

Point of View

In fiction, in effective fiction, each scene has a point of view. In the nineteenth century and well into the twentieth, an omniscient narrator, standing outside the story looking in, often provided the point of view. There are many examples of great literature using this technique—Lord of the Flies or Pride and Prejudice, to name two of many possibilities. But modern fiction, especially commercial fiction, today overwhelmingly uses either third person limited or first person point of view. In third person limited, the author selects a single character in each scene to provide the point of view. The author puts the reader inside that character’s head and the reader then experiences the scene through that character.

In a well-crafted, third-person-limited story, the point-of-view character engages the readers’ imaginations. Point of view plays the same essential role in written fiction as the array of tools that the director deploys in cinema.

An Example

There’s a famous scene in Cheers where Diane and Sam have a fight in his office, each character showing increasing rage. In the background, we hear Norm and Cliff arguing about whether or not Wile E. Coyote is a metaphor for the Devil. Finally, Sam grabs Diane by the shoulders and they tell each other how they really feel. The heart of the scene is this exchange:

Disgusted, Sam said, “No guy in his right mind would want a babe that thinks like you.”

Diane said, “On behalf of all the babes in the world, whew!”

Sam shouted, “You drive me crazy. I can’t stand you.”

Diane screamed, “No, I can’t stand you.”

He grasped her by the shoulders and demanded, “Are you as turned on as I am?”

Helpless, she dissolved against him and cried, “Yes, my darling!”

I can imagine that the screenplay might have had dialogue somewhat like the above. As written, this could be in anyone’s point of view: Sam, Diane, or even Carla listening at the door and peeking through the keyhole. Declarative sentences convey all of the information. Even at the end, where she’s “helpless” and “dissolves” against Sam, the point of view could belong to any any observer.

The words and actions certainly have impact, and the precursor subtext of good-versus-evil in the background argument about Wile E. Coyte helps to add tension. However, adding a point of view to the exchange can transform the disagreement to one of dominance/submission, add emotional context, and add a character arc. Done with a bit thought, the point of view can add immediacy, intimacy, and tension.

Consider this modest change.

Sam rolled his eyes. Diane always acted like she was better than everyone. He sneered, “No guy in his right mind would want a babe that thinks like you.”

Diane gave an exaggerated swipe at her forehead. “On behalf of all the babes in the world, whew!”

Sam suppressed a growl at her mocking tone and clenched his fists. Instead of ringing her scrawny neck, he shouted, “You drive me crazy. I can’t stand you.”

Diane’s eyes flashed daggers and she screamed, “No, I can’t stand you.”

Sam grasped her by the shoulders. Her eyes, blue and blazing, consumed him. Impulse gripped him. Without thinking he demanded, “Are you as turned on as I am?”

Her body tensed against his before she surrendered to him and cried, “Yes, my darling!”

The words the characters speak are the same. The subtext—the argument over the Roadrunner cartoons—is still in the background. But in this version, Sam acts, thinks, and senses. He rolls his eyes, clenches his fists, and wants to ring her neck. He senses her body tense, then feels her “surrender.” Subjective descriptions reinforce that we’re in Sam’s head.

In the first version, the declarative sentences tell the reader what’s going on. But the second version doesn’t tell the reader Sam is disgusted, it shows it by having him roll his eyes. It adds, via free indirect discourse, Sam’s thought that Diane is stuck-up, which gives a reason for his anger and frames the conversation that follows. The opening now establishes Sam as the POV character, so whatever follows will be in his head.

We learn that Diane’s gesture is exaggerated and that it’s delivered in a mocking tone, both subjective descriptions in Sam’s head. We know that it makes Sam mad since he reacts: he clenches his fists and suppresses a growl. Then, “instead of ringing her scrawny neck,” he shouts at her. But the alternative action suggests that his anger is close to violence, adding tension when he later grasps her by the shoulders.

Next, we have Diane’s eyes “flash daggers.” We’re in Sam’s head, and so we see this as his subjective view of how her eyes look. When Sam grasps her shoulders, those eyes “consume” him—another subjective take how he’s feeling. Finally, we have Diane’s body “tensing” against his before she “surrenders,” both subjective ways of describing Sam’s sensations and his emotional reactions as he embraces her. This brings to closure the reason for Sam’s anger in the first place—Diane’s supposed feelings of superiority. It adds a character arc—his perceived triumph over the snooty Diane–to the mini-scene that’s absent in the dialogue-only version.

Of course, writing the scene from Diane’s point of view would have her feeling triumph over Sam, the exact opposite of Sam’s feelings. That disconnection, even as they share a passionate embrace, is the core dysfunction of their relationship and what makes it interesting.

Carla’s point of view would be different yet again. In her case, she’d be dismayed that the despised Diane has used her evil wiles to befuddle her hero, Sammy. She’d see each of the two characters’ actions in her own, unique and subjective way.

If this were a course I were teaching, I’d have two homework assignments, first to redo the scene from Diane’s POV and, second, to redo it from Carla’s. This isn’t a course, however, so I’ll leave it as an exercise for the interested reader.

Conclusion

The point of the last example—and this newsletter—is that how you frame descriptions and actions can reinforce and solidify point of view. It can also add tension and emotional subtext to a scene. The words you use to do this matter.

In principle, these ideas are simple. In practice, they are hard. I spent over forty years of my life as a professional mathematician. One thing this taught me about writing was that clear, precise, declarative sentences are at the heart of good mathematical prose. When I tried my hand at writing fiction, I soon learned that the one thing I thought knew for sure was wrong. This is still the biggest challenge I face in writing fiction, where clear, precise, emotive and subjective sentences are at the heart of good prose. Those declarative sentences I learned to write as a mathematician still sneak into my fiction, despite my knowing better.

Hopefully, you’ll have an easier time applying these ideas than I’ve had.