Filtering: why it harms deep POV and how to fix it

Photo by Earl53 at morguefile.com

First person point-of-view is way of narrating as if you were looking through someone else's eyeballs, wearing her skin, moving about the world in her body. It offers tremendous access to another person's psyche.

But only if you remember to let your reader get that close.

A common problem in writing first person POV is what I call "filtering," that is, when the character first labels an experience before experiencing it. While filtering is a staple of third person limited POV, it weakens first person narration.

Here are some examples, (both past and present tense):

1. I feel a chill prickle up the back of my neck.
2. I see eleven elven princesses arrayed in silver sweep into the room.
3. I hear the waves crash against the shore.
4. I smell the pungent odor of old fish and gag.
5. I wondered what my dad would do when he found out.
6. I thought he had the style sense of a colorblind accountant.
7. I turned my head and there to my right I noticed a patch of cheerful daffodils swaying in the breeze.

They don't sound like problem sentences at first blush, do they? But consider that we have access only to the sensations of the protagonist narrator. Is it really necessary to tell us first that he is feeling a sensation or thinking a thought? Of course not. Obviously only the protag/narrator could be having these sensations and opinions, since we are privy to no one else's inner world.

The filter clause further adds a redundant telling to something the rest of the sentence shows. And these filter clauses add a load more iterations of that pesky pronoun "I" that can make even the most selfless protagonist sound like a raging narcissist.

Now let's see those sentences "unfiltered":

1. A chill prickles up the back of my neck.
2. Eleven elven princesses arrayed in silver sweep into the room.
3. Waves crash against the shore.
4. The pungent odor of old fish makes me gag.
5. What would my dad do when he found out?
6. He had the style sense of a colorblind accountant.
7. To my right, a patch of cheerful daffodils swayed in the breeze.

Note how much more immediate and punchy these are. As a reader, you feel as if you are experiencing sensations with the protagonist, rather than being told about them across a table. You're looking through her eyeballs, not sitting on her shoulder.

The thoughts and opinions sound more natural, the way thoughts form inside your own head. You don't think to yourself "I think I want cake." No, that desire will be in your head as "I want cake" or simply "Cake! Must have cake!" (For some, the "I think" filter is a way of expressing uncertainty, so the unfiltered version would be "Should I have cake?" or "Is it bad that I want cake?")

Most of these filters are easy to find and trim away.With "I wondered" some rearranging will likely be necessary, because wondering is a way of contemplating questions.

Example 7 is a way of filtering using excessive "stage business"--narrating movement that could be inferred from context. Obviously a character turns her head to see something to her right. Trust the reader to get it.

A few caveats

When your character is relaying a story to someone else, these filters would be perfectly appropriate. His or her storytelling will not be deep POV, but limited.

Another instance where filtering might be necessary is when the reader knows the protagonist's senses have been interfered with or limited in some way. For example, "Through the blindfold I could see only dark blotches against a field of orange."

What special challenges do you have with writing particular points of view?

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Who said? Who did? Dialogue paragraphing

Writing effective dialogue is tricky, no doubt about it. It can't be pointless and boring. It can't be too fast or too slow. But most of all, it can't be confusing.

An important consideration in creating dialogue clarity is paragraphing--which lines should be grouped together, and which ones shouldn't.

I think the best way to learn is to analyze an example, then look for guiding principles.

Below is a section of an unpublished middle grade short story of mine about a bunch of preteen musicians at a competition, trying to psych each other out. It's in third person limited omniscient POV, told by eleven-year-old Callie.

Because the audience is younger readers, more of the dialogue has either a tag (he said), or an action beat (Joe smiled), or a description than would be strictly necessary for adult readers. But note that there is variety in how speakers are identified. Constant "he said...she said" can be as grating as no attribution is confusing.

Note also in the fifth through seventh paragraphs, there is one actor, but noticeable shifts in emphasis, which calls for separate paragraphs. Callie goes from processing to decision to acting on a decision. Those paragraph breaks are an important clue to the reader to pay attention, something is changing with each new paragraph.

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The flautist beside her kicked her legs out straight. Callie flinched when she noticed a wide run snaking from ankle to knee of the girl’s dark tights. [Callie's observation, her POV]

“Trumpet, huh?” the flautist said. She tossed her hair and wrinkled her nose at Callie. “You know a brass player has never won this contest.” [flautist response]

Callie set down her horn and said, “You have a run in your tights.”

The flautist narrowed her eyes. “Nice try, brassy. I’m gonna wipe the stage with you.”

A snarky comeback tumbled to the front of Callie’s brain. Then she remembered the boy who’d been stalking the hall, bragging. He came back from the audition red-eyed and smelling of puke. Two minutes under the bright lights and his toughness had vanished. A scared kid among other scared kids. Why couldn’t anyone be real about it? Or at least less jerky? [Callie's interior mental and emotional processing]

Could I? she wondered. Could I play a new tune, a different game? [Callie's crux moment thought]

Callie sat up straighter. “I have an extra pair you can borrow if you want.” [Callie acting on decision]

“What?”

“Tights. I have extras. You want them?”

The flautist looked at her leg and screamed. “What am I gonna—? I can’t go out there like—!” Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Callie pulled a crinkly cellophane package from her bag and set it on the flautist’s lap. “Here, please take them, um…”

“Amber,” the flautist whispered, sniffling. “I’m Amber.”

“I’m Callie.” She jutted her chin toward the bathroom. “Go ahead, there’s time.”

Amber nodded, clutched the tights, then jogged down the hall.

The boy violinist a seat down from Amber smiled and gave Callie a thumbs-up. “Nice strategy,” he said. “One down, eighty six to go?” [new actor introduced]

Callie shook her head and rolled her eyes. [action beat only reaction]

“Let me guess…I have spaghetti sauce on my shirt? Mismatching socks? Come on, Trumpet Girl, bring it on.  I can take it.”

“You look fine. Good luck.” Callie blew another warm breath into her horn.

“Yeah, right. It is spaghetti sauce, isn’t it? Man, I knew it!” He jumped up and ran for the bathrooms, nearly banging into Amber. [violinist action and speech, segue to new actor]

“What’s his problem?” Amber asked as she took her seat.

“Nerves, I guess.”

“Hey, Callie? Um…thanks for the tights. They’re way nicer than the ones I was wearing.”

“No problem.”

Amber bit her lip. “Can I ask you something?”

“I guess.”

“How come you’re being nice to me? I was, well, not to you.”

Callie shrugged. “I just don’t see the point of us all snarling at each other.”

“But it’s all part of the game. Throw the other guy off balance and all that.”

Photo credit: ronnieb from morguefile.com

“I came here to play music, not mind games. Honestly, does putting other kids down make anyone a better musician?”

Amber picked a hangnail. “I think it just makes me tense, trying to look tough.”

Callie nodded. “Exactly. I mean, what good is that?”

“So how do you not get nervous?”

Callie twirled the mouthpiece in her pocket. “I remember how it feels when I’m playing. Like there’s liquid gold flowing from my breath, through my horn and filling everything with light and happiness.”

Amber stared at her, wide-eyed.

“That sounded totally nuts, didn’t it?” Callie said.

“No. It sounded nice. Light and happiness. I like that.”

The boy violinist stomped up the hall. He stopped in front of Callie’s chair and yelled, “I look fine! Totally fine!” [previous actor returns. His actions and speech]

“Of course you do. Didn’t I say that?” Callie replied.

“She did, I heard her,” said a cellist two chairs down. “So how about you stop hollering? I’m trying to meditate.”  She closed her eyes and laid her hands, palms up, in her lap. [tertiary character speech and action]

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What are some key takeaways from this example?

1. Same actor and speaker in a paragraph.

2. New actor or speaker, new paragraph

3. Segues to new actors need to be clear.

4. Use not only tags, but also action beats, descriptions, distinctive diction (dialect, pet phrases), address to another speaker ("Hey, Joe"), or mention of a relationship ("Mom wouldn't like it") to distinguish speakers.

5. Reactions that are unspoken--action beats or the POV character's thoughts--should be separate paragraphs from what they are reacting to. See #1 above.

6. Moments of interiority or even action interspersed in dialogue should be paragraphed topically or thematically, with breaks for new topics or themes or actors (see THIS post for more examples)

For further reading, I recommend Gloria Kempton's Dialogue: Techniques and exercises for crafting effective dialogue. Cincinnati: Writer's Digest Books, 2004.

Do you find paragraphing dialogue difficult or easy? Why?

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Abracadabra! Using sleight of hand in fiction

Narrative misdirection is a writerly trick of establishing false expectations in your readers, directing their attention to the wrong information and causing them to ignore correct information. It's an excellent way to surprise them, and has uses in nearly every genre, though it is a staple of mysteries.

J.K. Rowling happens to be a master of this technique. Time and again, Harry is certain he knows who the villain is, and every time he is wrong! Author and blogger John Granger goes into a great deal of detail about Rowling's method in his book Unlocking Harry Potter.

In my novel Never Gone, I also played with the technique in various places. For example, take a look at this excerpt from chapter 12.

Go ahead. I'll wait for you.

You're back? Excellent. Did you see how misdirection can be an effective tool to make humorous moments funnier?

I'll explain the elements of narrative misdirection by walking you through what I did, and why and how I did it.

1. Limited viewpoint. My piece is in first person. The only perceptions you have are Dani's. There's a good possibility that she does not have the whole picture. She very well might misinterpret the data in front of her. But it's hard for you, the reader, to know that because I've removed other sources of interpretation by limiting the perception to only what she directly experiences, knows, or remembers.

Rowling uses third person limited. Omniscient narrators are a no-no in this technique. Your POV must limit perception.

2. Sympathetic voice and reader identification. Dani's internal monologue paints her as a smart, arty dreamer who's a bit shy. She obeys her aunt grumblingly, having thoughts of being put-upon with "stupid" assignments. Everyone has felt this way at one point or another. As a reader, you sympathize and take her side. You become willing to trust her judgments about what is happening and why.

3. Playing with expectation. Aunts are those sorts of benevolent authority figures we expect to play "the straight man" in any joke. I describe Cecily having a young child who is usually weaving through her legs or swinging from her purse strap, which cements a picture in your mind: maternal and focused there. I give you only the details that would support your existing expectations of "aunt."

4. Clues the character chooses to ignore. This is VERY important. The truth must be in the scene and there for the astute reader to pick up. Otherwise you just have very annoying out-of-nowhere surprises, not narrative misdirection.

I hint that Janie should be around, and that she had been playing a game called "guerrilla stealth"--a name that implies unexpected combat. I also point out that Aunt Cecily is the instigator of Dani ever leaving the cathedral nave and going into the quire. As a reader, you chose to ignore the importance because Dani does.

5. Details that capture your MC's attention. Does the beauty of Durham cathedral's quire really matter that much? Or the fact that the guide has an exotic accent? No, but as a reader you're willing to be pulled along in Dani's flight of fancy because of the style in this paragraph. I used a little writerly magic dust of pretty words and alliteration and imagery to momentarily sweep you into Dani's distraction.

Keep in mind you can't do pages of this kind of thing, but just a paragraph can be an effective "sleight of hand." It's like the "jazz-hands" dazzle that magicians use to point you away from the real action.

Likewise, drawing Dani's attention primarily to the guy she tripped over keeps you, the reader, from looking deeper into what her family members are doing.

6. Confirm misinterpretations. Both Aunt Cecily and Janie play to Dani's expectation. The aunt scolds, the cousin becomes "ashy pale" at the scolding. And it's no small scolding. The aunt's big reaction cements the misinterpretation as true.

7. Payoff, in which misinterpretations are clarified. This is one tiny detail you might be tempted to overlook. Do wrap up how the surprise really happened, because it's annoying to the reader when you don't. Rowling always does. In my little scene, it was a simple exchange: "You weren't supposed to tell your mum" and "you never said that." I didn't have to give a detailed back story of how or when Janie and Cecily planned their trick on Dani. The reader can imagine it easily enough. But I did need to make it clear they were in cahoots deliberately from the beginning or the payoff would have fallen flat, because readers just wouldn't buy it.


So there you go, a quick primer on the basics of simple narrative misdirection. In mysteries, of course, it gets considerably more complicated. The author must layer in clues and dazzling distractions, one on top of another.

How do you think you might use this technique in your writing?

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What is that thing? Harnessing outsider perspective

A friend from Texas visited my neighborhood and saw a fellow just like this scamper across the street and up a tree.

"What the heck was that thing?" he asked.

"A squirrel," I said.

"Yeah, but it's...black. Like some kind of crazy fluff-tailed ninja."

My friend's outsider perspective made our local nature oddity a whole lot cooler than, say, a park guide might. The guide would give you a lot of dry facts about how melanistic squirrels are a subgroup of the eastern gray squirrel that developed darker fur to better hide in dense northern forests and stay warmer in cold winters. Sorry, but ya-awn.

This contrast an important thing to keep in mind as you make decisions about how you will go about describing your setting, and through whose eyes details will be filtered. The local character might know a deeper, more detailed history, but the outsider will always give you the colorful twist on what's most unique in your setting. Not a dull science lesson on genetic adaptation, but fluff-tailed ninjas.

What's unique about your setting? How could outsider perspective make it just a little bit cooler?

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