Your Narrator is Not a Realist
Glass of water? Half full
or half empty?
“Four ounces.”
“Four ounces.”
Not what I’m asking. And if
you’re going to be “accurate,” it’s closer to four and a half.
You can’t ask the question
of optimism or pessimism without dealing with the answer of “I’m a realist,” which,
for me, is not an answer at all. A realist is a pessimist who can’t accept the
reality he’s a pessimist.
If we were to be fair, of
course everyone is sometimes a realist. And sometimes they’re an optimist and
sometimes they’re a pessimist, and it’s healthy to fluctuate back and forth.
When we ask the question do you consider yourself an optimist or a pessimist,
the idea is what do you lean towards? Do you usually think positively or
negatively?
Stating, “I think
realistically,” is an obnoxious and unrealistic answer. You tend to assume
things will go well for you. You tend to assume they won’t. You look at a
situation and you see problems first. You look at a situation and notice the
positives. Both have their benefits, but no one is constantly objective.
In order for a “realist”
to truly exist, it would mean that he is better at perceiving the world around
him than most. He can, with a glance, successfully gauge the exact amount in
the glass. He has an accurate perception of himself and, for whatever reason, a
good estimate of the qualities of the others who are applying for the same job.
When he says the chair is blue, it is because that chair is blue. Anyone who would
call it teal or green is wrong. They just don’t have the perfect grasp on
reality he does.
We are all realists on
some subject matter. We’ve done the research, had the experiences to
effectively analyze likely outcomes in specific situations. We can sit back and
objectively run through a list of positives and negatives of the situation and
at times even manage to allow that logical rundown control our feelings on the
situation.
But not often. Not on everything. And let’s face it, even if you are like that, it’s not necessarily a good thing. It’s boring. It’s awkward. It’s unnecessary.
“Pass me my glass. The one
with four ounces please…”
When we say we are
realists, we are claiming our own reality is the one true reality. Which brings
me to narrators.
When I say “narrators,” I
am referring to the narrator of all books, evens those which do not have an
actual character telling a story. An important factor in this is what I call
the “seeing orb” narrator and how the cold, analytical voice of a camera can
tear a reader out of a scene.
(Notice I said “can.”)
Some authors naturally write
from a third-party perspective. It is most often a “camera,” a “reader,” or
“God.” When they envision a scene, they don’t see it as an over-the-shoulder
shot from the protagonist’s (or narrator character’s) P.O.V., and they don’t
describe details in the protagonist’s words. Or they do use characters’ words,
but will move between “heads.”
This is called
third-person omniscient and many times it is considered a mistake. And
sometimes it is. It’s not uncommon for a writer to jump heads in a singular situation,
or without warning, either because they forgot, the subconscious continuity
changed, or it suited that one specific moment. If the reader can’t tell whose
reality they’re experiencing the book from, or if the images are abruptly
contradicted because the reader is “standing” in the wrong place, it can be
legitimately argued that the choice was unsuccessful.
But it is also one of
those things that we’re told to look out for, something we’re told not to do.
The authors who naturally envision their books as an invisible character
walking into a room are less than those who see it as inhabiting the body of
the main (or narrator) character. How much less? Well, E.A. games did a survey
to determine how many people “made themselves” as their avatars and how many
didn’t. About 33% of people made a completely new character. If we believe
there is a connection between who makes themselves in games, readers who
envision themselves as a character and writers who write from the protagonist’s
point of view, I’d say around two-thirds of authors are naturally inclined to write
in first-person or third-person limited. That makes the third-party perspective
the minority, which would explain why people balk at it as being an abnormal
error.
Why does this matter?
Third-party writers are
more inclined to make an inhuman P.O.V., trying to realistically and
objectively dictate the events with no room for personal opinion. I want to
preface this by saying that, artistically, there might be a reason to do this
and I’m not poo-pooing it in general.
But from my experience, it is an unintentional and inhibiting choice made often by new writers. The harder part is, because we denote pessimism and optimism as bad things, praising realism and objectivity, many of these authors have been, though unconsciously, striving to be a “realist” rather than a distinctive perspective.
The difference between
fiction and reality is that fiction can have
one true perspective: the author’s. Is
the chair blue or green? The writer knows. Is the protagonist going to get the
job? The writer knows. Who is right? The writer’s opinion is all that matters.
In real life, where some things can’t be answered, there is no “truth.” In
fiction, there is one.
Some of you have probably
heard advice not to take sides and be
biased, that a good author sees both sides of the argument, that the villain
has reasons to think his actions are good, that the hero isn’t always right. This
is all very true. But the point is the narrator is not the writer—unless you’re going to take it in that
direction—and while the writer may understand the villain’s actions, it doesn’t
mean the person describing them has to.
You may have also heard
people talk about the other senses, as in taste, smell, touch, rather than just
talking in sight or sound. Or having long sentences is bad. Or show, don’t
tell. All of this can be an attempt to encourage an emotional response rather
than a logical delivery of facts and events. A lot of new writers write
factually and clearly, and many use these above suggestions to help them
increase tension and voice.
The camera P.O.V.
encourages a dictation of imagery and visual details. It offers up a few
sounds, but not much, and tends to avoid other means in which we take in
information. This is partially because of what we consciously remember and our
dependence on vision, but it can also be noted that sight is more often
measurable while the other senses tend to be more subjective.
Two reasons a narration might
come off as cold and explanatory is because it 1) only discusses images and 2)
it uses numerical measurements.
Using specific numbers and
sizes can be effective depending on the circumstance, but there are moments in
which the measurement isn’t natural—it’s not the way a person in that situation
would see it.
You may describe a knife
as six inches when someone pulls it on you, especially if you happen to be a
knife aficionado, but it’s more likely, when telling the cops about your
experience, you’d say “big.”
Pointing out specific
details, like the fact that your attacker “pulled the six-inch knife with his
left hand from his backpack,” can detract from the emotion—fear—of the scene. It’s
the difference between reading a police report—meant to be unbiased and
professional—and listening to the victim tell his side of the story. One will
strike more empathy than the other.
Same goes for shorter sentences.
A shorter sentence, by nature, is less risky than a longer one—the more words
you have, the more possibility for mistakes and getting off on the wrong
path—so there’s plenty of reasons people push that shorter is better.
I don’t always agree less words are automatically better, but the main reason I usually take issue with a long sentence (on the rare occasion I do) is it ignores the duration of the moment in order to be perfectly clear about exactly what is happening, typically at the beginning of the story. When the writer tries to shove the exact image into the reader’s mind as fast as possible, especially when something action packed is going on in the background, it slows the scene down.
Is John angry? John doesn’t
feel the sensation of anger, but to Lenny he looks it. Would the character say
his face is “contorted in rage?” “snarling in disgust?” “Put out?” “Constipated?”
Would John’s wife agree with Lenny about the extent of the anger?
The writer says the
character is mad, so he is, but would the people involved in the scene agree?
Usually no. You’d be hard put to have every person with the same interpretation
of events.
It’s easier to make
telling objective (which sometimes you might want), while showing tends to
require opinions. I can say, “John was mad,” and that’s the end of it. He was
mad. Or I can say, “John’s lip rose, and he rolled his eyes.” The readers have
more room for interpretation, but are also more likely to trust that
interpretation and actually feel the tension.
John would say that he
just frowned. Lenny would say that he snarled. John’s wife—who had seen John in
real anger—would claim his lips thinned, that he looked like an angry man all
the time anyways. Who does the narrator agree with? The author might know the “truth,”
but the narrator will have an opinion.
The majority of adjectives
and verbs—strong ones especially—are
fairly subjective. Adjectives being descriptive words like “dark” or “long” or “purple.”
Verbs are actions like “walk,” “stroll,” amble,” “frown,” “snarl,” or “thinning.”
Not only can most colors’ labels be quibbled over, but size, magnitude, and
connotation must be considered as well. Did he slam, shove, or push that guy
into a wall? Depends on who is describing it.
We prioritize realism and
accuracy over perception in our everyday lives, but facts don’t make a story.
Understanding thoughts, exploring how different people see the world, and realizing
that in many cases there is no one reality is a big part of why we read. We
want to connect to characters, relate to them, and through them understand
ourselves better.
You may end up deciding
that your narrator is truly omniscient; he knows what everyone is thinking, he
can tell the readers the absolute truth of it, giving them no room for speculation
or interpretation, but make that a choice, not your default. By considering the
little factors that go into decision making, you will show your audience the
way you see life, depend less on their
willing trust of you, and learn true empathy.
Not only is seeing the
world through a lens natural, it is by far what makes humans interesting.
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