Who's Telling Your Story?

Cricket McRae

Point of view is one of the most defining choices writers make when they decide how to tell their unique story.

My Home Crafting Mysteries are told from the first person point of view of Sophie Mae Reynolds. I use first person for a variety of reasons. The first is voice. By telling the story through the filter of Sophie Mae, her personality colors the tale. Part of that voice includes Sophie Mae's preconceived notions and areas of naivete, so sometimes she's an unreliable narrator which can add another layer to the mystery. For the most part, though, we can count on her take on things.

Related to voice is accessibility. When you read one of my mysteries, you're getting the story from the protagonist herself, not a close but disassociated observer or some omniscient overlord. This is necessarily limiting, but friendly. It also means that the reader learns what Sophie Mae learns, at the same time. This is particularly useful as the puzzle unfolds and the story marches toward resolution.

Sophie Mae likes to look at all aspects of the problems she confronts. She thinks and rethinks, considers, guesses and makes connections, and, as guests in her fictional brain, we get to go along for the ride. I am hopeful that the reader is making the same connections, wondering the same things, arm in arm with Ms. Reynolds. I find inherent satisfaction in participating in a story that way as a reader.

Lastly, the first person point of view affects my writing style. Sophie Mae's thoughts and opinions poke their way regularly into the narrative without benefit of italics or attribution in a way that -- I'm told -- feels conversational and natural. Her voice drives the story, and she's not shy about letting us know what she thinks. In some ways it also seems to lubricate the pacing.

This sounds like I am an advocate for the first person point of view exclusively. Not so. It has served me well for this series, but that doesn't mean it's right for every situation. I've written books from a close third person pov, and I wouldn't have done it any differently. At present, I'm playing around with a new project told from the point of vew of several different characters. I've considered using first person for all of them, with the subsequent reality shifts, but I'm not really going for An Instance of the Fingerpost or even something like The Poisonwood Bible (both fabulously amazing books). So I think I'll stick with third person and do a bit of head hopping on a chapter by chapter basis. Except for the diary of a dying woman, which will have to be in first person.

I don't know if this thing is a mystery (except I believe most stories, wherever they end up on the book store shelf, are mysteries), or something more literary mainstream with a pinch of magical realism. Whatever it is, it's been dancing around in the back of my mind for years now, and I'm letting it out to play while at the same time plotting and writing Home Crafting Mystery #5. That separation may be another reason I chose to change the pov for this standalone. I think Sue Ann said at one time that she is able to work on two series in part because the pov is different in each one (?), and that makes a lot of sense to me.

How does pov influence your writing? Do you think first person pov is easier? As a reader, do you have a preference for first or third person pov? Have you ever seen second person pov used successfully?

Inkspot News - August 9, 2009

G.M. Malliet's third book in the St. Just mystery series, Death at the Alma Mater, is now available for pre-order at Amazon. In this story, DCI St. Just investigates murder at St. Michael's College, Cambridge.

"Cash for Clunkers" or "Cash for Suckers?"

by Felicia Donovan

I felt somewhat vindicated back in February 2008 as I slipped the final car payment into the envelope, gave it a good lick and mailed it off.  Free at last, free at last. A few weeks later, the vehicle title arrived in the mail to prove it was officially mine.

My van, with its 70K plus miles, was still doing duty after many years of porting me through New England blizzards and ice storms to get to the Police Department where I worked. Nobody ever calls a Snow Day when you work in Public Safety and my van has done a good job of getting me there even when the going was tough. 

"I'll drive it into the ground," I thought.  I rubbed my hands together gleefully as I tried to estimate just how many years I could be without a monthly car payment.  So what's all the hoopla about "Cash for Clunkers?"

First of all, if it's running and it's drivable, it's not really a "clunker." I know a clunker when I see one. The hub caps are all gone, the windshield is sealed in place with bathroom caulk, the foam padding from the seat cushions juts out all over the place and flies through the air when the windows are down, and there's more duct tape than metal. I haven't seen any program cars that look like that. The mere fact that you can drive it onto the car lot proves it's not really a "clunker." What was Washington thinking?

Secondly, somebody's got to figure out what this program is all about. Do they really want to clean up the environment and make it healthier for us all by putting more fuel-efficient cars on the road? How about issuing a law banning cigarettes first? I betcha that will do more for my health and my children's health than trading a car in that gets 5 more miles to the gallon. No disrespect to the President, but if you want to set a really good example for the American public, quit the sticks.

How about instead of trading in my 2003 van for a 2010 car that gets a few more miles to the gallon and paying me $4500 in the process, I get to trade in my house with its leaky walls and windows for a new one? There's a housing glut out there, in case you haven't noticed. Not only will I be improving the environment with my nice new R-Factor insulation, I won't be contributing to the coffers of the oil sheiks in Saudi Arabia trying to keep it heated in the winter. I'll even stimulate the economy by committing to shopping locally to buy furniture to fill my new rooms.

While I can't claim to be a true-blood Yankee, I've lived in New England for over twenty-five years so that old adage swirls in my head wherever I go. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." And if it ain't broke, why get rid of it and take on the burden of a monthly payment? Doesn't that increase our debt and isn't that how we got into trouble in the first place?

When the Government decides to let me have the new car but not burden me with payments every month, I'll reconsider. Meanwhile, I'll keep my trusty old van with the dented bumper and scratches and drive it into the ground payment-free. Sure, I could get a few more miles to the gallon, but is that any reason to toss it aside? Besides, I've got a few dents and scratches myself and I'd like to think I'm not ready for the junk pile because of it.

The Launch of A Bad Day

Keith here.

Last night at M is for Mystery, a full house of writers, friends, and fans watched Sophie Littlefield launch her first published book, A Bad Day for Sorry. At Thrillerfest last month, Sophie’d told me she was worried about being nervous, and so arranged to be accompanied by two other authors on her maiden voyage. If Sophie was nervous, the audience either couldn’t tell or didn’t mind. She more than held her own with eloquent veterans Steve Hockensmith and Jilliane Hoffman. (She won whoops of approval from the audience when she read an excerpt from A Bad Day about her heroine's ruminations on lesbianism in women’s prisons.)

Sophie had written novels before A Bad Day that she hadn’t sold. Her reaction? She got pissed off and that anger, she told us, drives the plot of the book. In it she tells the story of 50 year-old Stella Hardesty who’s dispatched her abusive hubby with a wrench. She’s now providing comparable correctional services in rural Missouri on behalf of other women whose men are not behaving. (What writer hasn't dreamt of taking a little vengeance on those who have abused him or her?)

When asked last night if prospective agents had pressured her to make her hero younger, Sophie said no, but she did get advice to clean up her language and make Stella prettier. But Sophie stuck to her guns; she even made sure that Stella’s knees on the cover of the book were roughed up.

Three vacationers from Melfort, Saskatchewan, a town of 5,000, came along for a drink with a bunch of us afterwards. Apparently, they always try to find an author appearance at a mystery bookstore when traveling. God bless them. Whatever’s in the water up north needs to be piped down here.

I have a little extra incentive now to finish the next draft of my manuscript by Friday. After I ship it off to my agent, I'll reward myself this weekend by reading A Bad Day for Sorry (and, if as I expect, it goes down fast, I'll consume pal Marcus Sakey's newest, The Amateurs, for dessert). Can't wait. Cheers.

A Tale to Be Told

We bring our years to an end, as it were a tale that is told.

Last week we buried my mother, Joanna Evans Funk Campbell. This is her story:

My mother was part of a prestigious old Southern family, the Middleton-Manigaults. The Middletons signed the Declaration of Independence. The Manigaults loaned George Washington a half a million dollars to finance the Revolutionary War. In my grandmother's house was a spindly, uncomfortable white wooden chair where Lafayette sat and discussed strategy for the conflict. You can't go anywhere in Charleston SC without seeing a name connected to the Middleton-Manigaults. For example, they owned part of Kiawah Island. They owned the breath-taking Middleton Gardens, they built the Manigault House, and their plantation Brookgreen is legendary for its beauty.

Mom was justifiably proud of her family history, and she made sure that each of us three girls, her three children, had scrapbooks with family photos and lore in them. She found the world a fascinating place and she loved pointing out historical tidbits or scenic wonders. In fact, my sisters and I still laugh about the way she'd drive us through the mountains around Chattanooga with one hand on the steering wheel and the other pointing to the mist over the valleys. "Oh, look, girls," she'd drawl.

We, meantime, screamed back, "Watch the road! We're all going to die!"

Mom was, at her heart, a teacher, an instructor who enjoyed passing on her knowledge. After dancing with the Atlanta (Georgia) Civic Ballet and the New York City Ballet, she ran a ballet studio. Her method for teaching students to do "grand jetes" (big leaps) was simplicity itself: she drew an oval on the floor, added wonky "fishes", and said, "Now jump over the puddle and don't let the fishies bite your toes."

When I asked her why she didn't continue her career in New York City, she shared a litany of reasons. She had seen how the other dancers starved themselves, and she wasn't interested in that. A partner had knocked her foot out from under her during a "pas de deux" (dance for two), and her ankle was seriously compromised. She'd watched another dancer finish a piece, step off stage, untie her satin ribbons, and dump blood from her toe shoes. But most compelling, Mom wanted a family.

So she had us. Me (Joanna Ward or "Jonie"), Jane, and Margaret.

She also had a crappy marriage with an abusive alcoholic, my dad. When he left us, we all went on welfare. Then Mom embarked on a second career. She went back to school and got a degree in nutrition, which allowed her to work in the food service industry.

For the past 20 years, she lived in Florida with my sisters. Three years ago, she survived a bout of cancer of the larynx. In January of this year, a scan showed two masses, one in each lung. Mom clung to the idea that chemo would again save her life. But on July 17, a hospice nurse, Sally Lippert, came to assess her situation. Mom had been struggling, but once a performer, always a performer--she'd done a great job of hiding how sick she was.

When Sally asked Mom in private, "Do you know why I'm here?", my very proper Southern belle of a mother said, "Yes, and it sucks."

On July 19, Mom slipped into a coma. My sisters and I cared for her in Margaret's home. With the help of hospice, we administered morphine regularly, cleaned her, and kept her comfortable.

It broke my heart to see her beautiful legs--as shown in the photo above--so bowed and distorted. The cancer had infiltrated her bones.

On July 26, my mother died.

Character Perspectives

They walk purposefully toward me in the grocery stores. Their hair is gray or white. They sometimes use the shopping cart to aid their walking. They nearly always start off with a determined, “Honey?” when they talk to me.

I know what they want as soon as I see them. Why? It happens all the time.

I’m tall. They want me to reach something at the back of the top shelf. This item is usually on sale, they have an additional .75 cent off coupon (which will be doubled at the register) and the product has already had a tremendous run on it.

How does a simple thing like height change your perspective on things? I think everything about ourselves—if we’re attractive or not, our geographic location on earth, our level of education—colors our mindset and gives us insights, or possibly even prejudices, that others don’t share.

The first time I saw a picture of Michelle Obama, she stood alone with no frame of reference beside her. I knew immediately that she was tall, though. She wore flats with her dress. She rolled her shoulders in a sort of slump.

I don’t use character questionnaire sheets when developing my characters, but there are many of them online and I understand they can prove useful.

But I do want a handle on my character’s unique perspective on the world. What background, physical attributes, or upbringing contributed to his or her viewpoints? What insights does this perspective provide this character (especially useful to me in crafting a sleuth who relies on intuition to solve a case.)

How do your characters view the world?

Inkspot News -- Aug. 1, 2009

Deborah Sharp will be tying up her pony at the NBC Today Show, Tues., Aug. 4. Sometime between 9 and 10 am, she's scheduled to chat about MAMA RIDES SHOTGUN, the second book in her funny, Southern-flavored mystery series. The book is set on a six-day, cross-state horseback ride. Deborah (insanely) did the trail ride for research. Oline Cogdill, Sun-Sentinel mystery columnist, blogs about the Today show spot here.