Le Guin Apprenticeship Journal VII(b)
On the voices, and whose heads they are in
We're back, and we're still talking about the voices - the points of view - we use to tell our stories. And why shouldn't we take so long over this topic; it's a big decision.
I left you at a cliffhanger last time: involved author versus detached narrator.
Speaking of the involved author: allow me to demonstrate. A brief authorial intrusion. I, like the characters in the little story I've been practising on, am having a day. The ceiling sprung a leak (it was the water tank, ergo no hot water). A queen wasp ambushed me in my office (seriously, it was the size of my whole thumb). And, as I type this, biblical hail has begun to rain from the skies.
If I were superstitious, I might think something ill-fated was coming. Such as trying out the detached narrator for the first time.
And learning how much I hated it.
When asked if I want the good news or the bad news first, I usually go for bad news. So, let's start with the bad here too.
A brief refresher on the exercise parameters:
Exercise Seven: Points of View
...a narrative sketch of 200-350 words. It can be anything you like but should involve several people doing something... It doesn't have to be a big, important event, though it can be; but something should happen, even if only a cart tangle at a supermarket.
Part Two: Detached Narrator
Tell the same story using the detached author or 'fly on the wall' POV.
Steering the Craft, Ursula Le Guin
Before I throw you straight into the deep end of my creative genius, a quick definition of fly on the wall: "There is no viewpoint character. The narrator is not one of the characters and can say of [them] only what a totally neutral observer... might infer of them from behaviour or speech. The author never enters a character's mind."
Ok, everyone primed? Go!
Rain. Drenching rain that drew a steady flow of customers. And the boss was restless, pacing behind the counter, double-checking inventory, wringing his hands. The new hire followed him from behind the till with her eyes. Up and back, up and back. Until he met her gaze and cleared his throat.
“Keep up the pace, everyone, we’ll be nice and busy,” he said before hustling back to his office, and his account books. He left the door cracked, as he always did, eyes dancing from his accounts to his customers to his workers.
The girl at the bakery counter sighed over the croissants. The kitchen boy checked the coast was clear before coming out with a tray of pistachio twists.
“It’s going to be a day, isn’t it?”
No one bothered to answer.
The door banged, and there was laughter and wet feet on the welcome mat stamping out the music. The new girl eyed the pumpkin spice syrup bottles, cracking her knuckles: teenage girls, caffeinating the school run. She took the names for the cups. A Molly, an Emily, two Hannahs. A Madeline, and an Abigail bringing up the rear. Six pumpkin spice lattes. One double-pump; the girl’s friends shot her a look that she ignored.
From his office, the boss watched the new girl’s steady, nimble hands. Watched the teens go giggling back into the rain. He smiled. Leafing through his account book until he found the girl’s name, he ran his finger along beneath it as he muttered aloud.
“Meg.”
I'll admit, I do graze the underbelly of not neutral in a couple of places here. But I think it's allowed; I keep it to things that can be observed through body language.
Secondly, ooph, does this ever take all the fun out of writing. No curlicues, no flourishes. No flights of fancy. We are all business, Ma'am. Which, fine. I respect that. Except, and this is the vulnerable last thing.
It really means you have to be clever. Le Guin says, "It's excellent practice for writers who expect codependent readers." Which is her characteristically unflinching way of saying you can't hold the reader's hand. Grow up, you wrote it, but it's not yours any more. Leave them to it, and if you did your job, they'll know what you meant. So do your job.
I love that about writing; that it doesn't belong to you after you finish it, that it outgrows you. But that doesn't mean I don't love dropping hints about what I meant. (Preferably amusingly worded.)
Maybe when I'm older, more mature, I'll settle into what I can now see as a glimmer of the sleek, classical feel of this style.
What about you? Do you have any POVs you avoid like the plague? Or gravitate toward? Please tell me I'm not the only one with a narrative nemesis?
Ok, back to the fun!
Part Four: Involved Author
Tell the same story or a new story using the involved-author POV.
Part Four may require you to expand the whole thing, up to two or three pages, 1000 words or so... the involved author needs a fair amount of time and space to move around in.
Steering the Craft, Ursula Le Guin
I'll dive right in this time; might as well keep you on your toes.
Rain. Drenching rain that drew in the customers like ants to a drop of jam on the pavement. Single-file. Charlie couldn’t keep still, pacing behind the counter, double-checking the inventory, wringing his hands. The new hire followed him from behind the till with her eyes. Up and back, up and back. Until he met her gaze and ground to a halt, like a wind-up toy soldier with the key pulled out. He choked on thin air, then cleared his throat.
“Keep up the pace, everyone, we’ll be nice and busy,” he said, before hustling back to his office. As always, he left the door cracked. The better to watch the flow of customers as he fondled his account books. And if it let him watch the staff as well, that must be a coincidence.
Poppy, at the bakery counter, sighed over the croissants. Joel, checking the coast was clear before emerging, brought out a tray of pistachio twists for the display. He spun the tray on his palm, but packed it in when he noticed Poppy wasn’t looking.
“It’s going to be a day, isn’t it?”
She didn’t bother to answer. No one did.
The door banged, and there was laughter and wet feet on the welcome mat stamping out the music. Poppy roused herself, but slumped back at the sight of the teenage girls, there to caffeinate their school run. They wouldn’t be needing her wares; she looked to the new girl, who was eyeing the pumpkin spice syrups and cracking her knuckles. Then came roll call for the cups. A Molly, an Emily, two Hannahs (one with no H). A Madeline, emphasis on the full name, thank you very much. And an Abigail bringing up the rear. Six pumpkin spice lattes. One double-pump; the girls gave that friend a speaking look that she shrugged off with the ease of habit.
Seeing them, Poppy felt, not for the first time, like a live audience member at a sitcom taping. But she liked the new girl. Glancing at the cracked office door, knowing the all-seeing eye that lurked behind it, Poppy wondered how the boss felt she was doing.
Sure enough, from his den in the office, Charlie was indeed watching. He liked the new girl’s speed and precision. She’d hesitated over one of the cups with a strange smile, but she was polite enough. She handled their steam engine of an espresso machine without fear. Good. The teens got their coffees and left, giggling all the way out into the rain. So the customers were happy, he thought. Very good. He smiled again, showing a little teeth. Turning the pages of his account book, he found the new girl’s name and moved his finger along beneath it as he muttered aloud.
“Meg.”
Back behind the till, Meg shrugged off the sensation of being watched. The overpowering smell of teenage perfume still lingered, and she pressed her forefinger and thumb hard into the bridge of her nose. That golden retriever kitchen guy with the giant crush on Poppy had been right, she thought; it was going to be a day.
Ta-da! Can you see me, capering around in there, winking and nudging you in the ribs.
This is the one and only time I get a little annoyed at Madame Le Guin.
She uses author and narrator interchangeably throughout this section, and it screwed me up a bit. I had to completely rewrite my detached narrator exercise because it had too much side-eye in it, and it took me forever to remember my secondary school English lessons.
Narrator is not technically interchangeable with author.
And Le Guin does have this point concealed in her definition of an involved author: "There may be numerous viewpoint characters, and the narrative voice may change at any time from one to another character within the story, or to a view, perception, analysis, or prediction that only the author could make."
As a baby writer (and I don't think I'm alone in this), forms that involved multiple POV, or anything that manipulated an involved authorial voice, were intimidating. And as I've actively practised, I've realised it was not knowing how to control it that made it feel impossible to take on in the first place, and a key part of that? Recognising the differences between author and narrator in some of these forms.
Once you recognise each character's viewpoint as the narrative voice of the moment, and the author's voice as ever-present, able to colour the narration throughout, you can notice when you've skipped too frequently and might make the reader seasick, or if you've blended too many viewpoints in one paragraph and will befuddle them.
For example, writing this, I wanted Meg's viewpoint to speak, but I knew I'd boxed myself out of her mind because she didn't have her name yet. So she has to go last. (Which meant poor Poppy had to carry us all the way from the pistachio twists to Charlie's office, even over the little hump of coffee service being all Meg's to-do.)
Why did I want a peek into Meg's mind at all. To bring us full circle, back to the person we started with, but with a new perspective on her. Because that's everything we've been learning about: the eyes we see with, and what they're seeing. And how it changes, even as we're looking.
Anyway, my eyes have other things to look at now. Namely a very good book I've been reading.
Goodbye. Maybe see you next time
xx
About the Creator
Lauren Everdell
Writer. Chronic sickie. Part-time gorgon. Probably thinking about cyborgs right now.
Website: https://ubiquitousbooks.com
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