Dialog to Avoid: "As a ____, I . . ."

Here’s an irritating little phrase that we’ve all heard or read some variety of in a story: “As a _____, I . . .”

     “As a mortician, I can tell you that her description of the embalming process is accurate.”

     “As a psychologist, it is my expert opinion that this man is completely off his nutter.”

     “As your mother, I cannot allow you to meet with that girl anymore.”

     “As lord of these lands, it is my duty to care for the needs of the lesser beings under my rule.”

     “As someone who blogs about prose and grammar, I am constantly showered with praise and entirely deserved adoration.”

 

"And money. Don't forget all the money."

Nine times out of ten, this phrase and its variations are unrealistic, unnecessary, or unintentionally arrogant. Unrealistic, because they tend to be a form of maid-and-butler dialog, where a character tells people information they should already know. Take that third example above—whoever the woman’s child is, they already know that she was their mother. She didn’t need to say it. It feels like breaking the fourth wall; the woman isn’t identifying herself as the other character’s mother for the purpose of speaking to her child, she’s doing it because the author needed to let the audience know that she was the other character’s mother (and even then, it was probably already obvious to the readers).

That brings us to the second problem—such phrases are generally unnecessary. You’ll almost never encounter a situation where a character needs to explain who they are or what qualifications they possess before they speak. Usually, if you’ve done your job right, you’ll have explained all that far more smoothly in some other situation.

So often, when this phrase pops up, it is because the author wanted to remind the readers who this character is or what their qualifications are. Maybe the character hasn’t been around for a while, or you simply haven’t mentioned their profession in some time. In those situations, find a smoother way to work a reminder in. Or, better yet, trust your readers to remember what you told them before. If they don’t, maybe you need to make the character’s profession or position a stronger part of their character so that your audience won’t forget who they are.

But what about situations where the people around a character genuinely don’t know who a character is? That would justify them beginning a sentence in this way, right? Well, yes . . . but . . . that brings us to the final problem with this phrase: unintentionally arrogant.

Writers tend to be a loquacious bunch—we usually have respectably large vocabularies and a great fondness for words. We tend to read a lot, sometimes far more than we actually speak to other people. Being insulated into a group that so loves wordplay and a well-spoken turn of phrase can skew our perspective on how people actually speak. It can also blind us to how we ourselves sometimes sound when we speak.

So, that said, here is a variety of ways to express the thought “As a ____, I . . .”:

     “Oh, I can answer that—I’m a nursing student at the U. I think she actually got the details of the procedure pretty close to perfect.”

     “Hon, I know you don’t like it, but it’s a father’s job to look out for his daughter. I don’t think you should go out with that boy again.”

     “Well, if you want an engineer’s opinion, I’m happy to give mine. That whole design is completely infeasible.”

     “As an artist, I am frequently misunderstood by those around me.”

Which of those sounds the most arrogant? Now, this could just be me, but I generally feel like “As a ____, I . . .” is pretty much the most puffed-up way of expressing one’s qualifications.

Of course it’s possible to use this phrase in a way that doesn’t sound arrogant. But in those cases, the lack of arrogance is generally conveyed through tone and body language. When you’re writing, you can’t rely on those tools. So you have the distinct possibility that people will supply their own emphasis and tone to words which make them think of these sorts of people:

     “Well, as a vegan, I don’t believe in hurting any creatures in any way, especially for my own mere comforts.”

     “As a Christian, I would never let my daughter behave in that manner. It’s just not right.”

Now, sometimes you’ll have a character who is rather puffed-up with their own importance, or who is very loquacious and maybe a little oblivious to how they sound. If that’s the case, then it might be worth busting out the “As a ____, I . . .” phrase. Most of the time, however, people just don’t speak that way—it’s redundant, odd, and often viewed as an indication of self-importance.

Creating Distinct Character Voices

Creating unique voices for your characters can often be difficult. Each of us has our own voice, after all—our own habits and styles and mannerisms of speech—and it can be hard to set aside our own self and attempt to speak like someone else. Even when you manage that, you’re likely to need several different character voices for any given story, which just further complicates things.

So in an effort to help you create distinct and engaging voices for your characters, I’ve isolated some of the factors that make up a unique voice.

Vocabulary

What sort of words does this character use? Do they use the shortest, simplest word possible, or do they use large, grandiloquent words, or are they somewhere in between? Vocabulary will often be a reflection of how educated and well-read your character is, but it can also reflect their humility. Perhaps they have a very large vocabulary but prefer to speak simply. Or maybe they use large words to show off how intelligent they are (and maybe they’re not as well-read as they obviously think they are).

Talkativeness

How much does this character talk? Are they the strong silent type, the shy silent type, or the easily-cowed silent type? Are they fond of lecturing at length, of gossiping about anything and everything, or of being the center of attention? Talkativeness can be a useful tool for character building. If your character doesn’t talk much, what does get them to talk? What breaks through that shell? What do they enjoy discussing? On the other hand, if your character is self-absorbed and constantly talking, what would actually get them to shut up? What could leave them speechless?

Part of talkativeness is nervousness. How comfortable is this character with unexpected discussion? How about being asked to give a speech or simply tell a story? Do they stutter and lose their way when they are nervous? Or do they ramble and speak too much? If they are nervous speakers, what topics do they know well enough to always be comfortable with? If they’re not usually nervous, what topic does make them uncomfortable?

Seriousness

Some people are always serious, while others are almost always joking around. Most people are somewhere in between. Where does this character lie on that sliding scale? How do they compare to other characters in the story, and how does that affect their relationships with the other characters?  This can be used to show depth of character in much the same way as talkativeness: if your character is always serious, what can get them to loosen up and joke around? What don’t they take seriously, and why? If your character is irreverent and always joking, what actually gets them to sober up and be serious? What matters to them that much?

Formality

Some situations require greater formality than others. And some people do not speak or behave formally even in those situations. It might be because they don’t know how to behave in a formal, polite manner, or it might be because they refuse to. They might skip the “sirs” or “my lords” that other expect of them, or they might kick back and tell funny stories in a situation where no one else would.

Coarseness

How rough does this character’s language get? Some people never swear, and some people can’t seem to get through a complete sentence without cursing. If they swear, why do they swear? Are they perpetually angry? Or is it just how they grew up—a habit of speech with little to no emotion behind it? If they don’t swear, why not? Are they religious? Do they simply dislike it? Does it bother them when other people swear?

Beyond simple curse words, coarseness also encompasses subject matter—what topics does this character consider inappropriate for everyday conversation? Do they frequently make sexual and scatological jokes? Do they make dark, morbid jokes? Are they just flat-out immature? How do they react to people who would prefer that they reign in their coarseness? Do they tamp it down, or do they just get worse?

Focus

How easily does this character veer off of topic? Some people discuss one thing at a time without deviation. Other people will start discussing one topic, and then end up covering several other topics at length over the course of the conversation. Some people only do this in conversation—if they were lecturing or presenting to a group of people, they would have an easier time staying on topic. Other people would meander through various subjects no matter the situation.

Emotion/logic

What generally motivates this character’s speech? Are they highly emotional or very in control of their feelings? Are they more likely to appeal to logic in an argument or to emotion (possibly including threats, an appeal to fear)? Are they passionate and energetic or distant and thoughtful?

An excellent exercise is to take these various aspects and to rank some of your favorite characters in each—this way, you can see how their voice is built out of these traits. For example:

Firefly has one of the best arrays of unique character voices you’ll ever find in a story—creating character voices is one of Joss Whedon’s most impressive abilities. So let’s take a few of these characters and rank them in our categories:

Simon: High vocabulary, middle/low talkativeness (middle/high nervousness unless he is speaking on medical matters or defending his sister), high seriousness, high formality, low coarseness, middle/high focus, and mostly on the logical side of the scale (except on some occasions relating to his sister).

Kaylee: Middle/low vocabulary (unless she's discussing engines, in which case it spikes up high), middle/high talkativeness (low nervousness unless she’s trying to impress Simon), middle seriousness, low formality, middle/low coarseness, middle focus, and a little closer to emotion than logic.

Jayne: Low vocabulary, middle/low talkativeness (low nervousness most of the time), low seriousness, low formality, high coarseness, middle focus, and almost completely on the emotion side of the scale (made even more interesting by his low awareness of his emotions).

You can figure out the others on your own, or apply this scale to any other characters you love. Next time you’re stuck trying to create a distinct voice for a new (or old) character, pull out these scales. Figure out where each of your characters is on each scale, and then start sliding things around to create a little more variety.

You could probably come up with a few scales I haven't thought of—if you do, please let me know in the comments! I'd love to hear them. If we get enough, we may do another post on this.

Accents and Dialog: To Use, or Not To Use?

Accents and dialects—as in a manner of pronunciation peculiar to a particular person or group of people—can be difficult to convey in written prose. Usually, writers deliberately misspell words to reflect how they are actually pronounced with a certain accent. For example:

     “Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin’ en grab her up in my arms, en say, ‘Oh, de po’ little thing! De Lord God Amighty fogive po’ ole Jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as long’s he live!’ Oh, she was plumb deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb — en I’d ben atreat’n her so!” –Jim, from Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn.

     “Sorry to do anythin’ as may cause an interruption to such wery pleasant proceedin’s, as the king said wen he dissolved the parliament.”

–Sam Weller, from Charles Dickens’ The Pickwick Papers.

     “Could ye manage ta go ten minutes without perforating yer aorta? Just once?!?” –Durkon, from Rich Burlew’s The Order of the Stick.

Accents and dialects in print can range from heavy alterations to nearly every word (as in the case of Jim above) to minor alterations to just a few words (as in the case of Durkon).

On the one hand, accents are a prominent part of cultural identity and daily life. We would be remiss not to include them in our writing from time to time. Many characters just don’t come across as strongly without their accent. Characters from certain cultures or ethnicities can seem unrealistic, or even offensive, without the proper accent.

On the other hand, deliberately misspelling words to convey an accent can quickly render a passage of text difficult if not impossible to read. Many readers will find such passages irritating; and if there’s enough of them, those readers might just walk away from the story.

Here’s a few tips for incorporating accents and dialects into your writing:

Know the purpose of the accent: Why is this accent part of your story? Is it conveying important information about the character? Is it adding to the realism of the narrative? Or did you just feel like writing an accent? Accents aren't a gimmick to attract readers; they're actually more likely to drive readers away. Try to make sure that the benefits of the accent outweigh the potential negative reader response.

Try to keep words recognizable: In our examples above, many of the altered words are still immediately recognizable. De, fogive, hisself, anythin’, ye, yer—especially in context, none of these are difficult to interpret. Other words, such as kaze and gwyne, have gone so far afield from their actual spellings that they force the reader to pause and sound them out. It forces them, temporarily, out of the story.

Don’t count on people reading the passages out loud: Unless you’re writing a script, you’re not writing something that is intended to be read aloud. Your defense of the accent might be that “it’s perfectly understandable if you read it out loud.” But just remember—many people will be reading your work in situations where they cannot read it out loud. Many others simply won’t want to. Still others will attempt to read it out loud but will be unfamiliar enough with the accent that they still won’t understand it.

Focus on unusual words, diction, or idioms: Accents and dialects often come with unusual words or phrases, such as Jim’s “she was plumb deef.” If you take out the misspellings, you can still get a bit of an idea of his speech simply from his use of the word plumb. “She was plumb deaf.” If you use the word haver (to babble or ramble foolishly), many readers will understand that your character is Scottish. Since the Russian language doesn’t have the articles a or the, many Russians have trouble learning to use those words in English. This can result in sentences such as, “We must find bag and then quickly return to car.” There are all useful methods of conveying accent and dialect without actually having to phonetically misspell words.

Make sure you know the accent: If you get an accent wrong, then many people will notice and be bothered by it. For example:

Now, I applaud Walter Koenig and Anton Yelchin as actors. But every time that I have to listen to Ensign Chekov speak, I get irritated. Why? “Nuclear wessels.” “Wictor wictor two.” The problem with these phrases is that they don’t represent a Russian accent—in fact, they represent the exact opposite of a Russian accent. Russians don’t have trouble with the sound “V”; their language is packed full of Vs. However, their language does not have a “W” sound. Consequently, they often say “V” instead of “W”: "I'm on my vay," for instance. The makers of Star Trek got the accent backwards, making Chekov sound like he has a speech impediment. (Just on the Ws and Vs, though. The rest is pretty good, especially as portrayed by Yelchin.)

Why is this such a problem? Because I usually love Russian characters simply because they are Russian. Because of Chekov’s mixed-up accent, however, he irritates me. I am thrown out of the story by a character who should have been pulling me in. There are enormous amounts of people out there who understand any given accent or dialect you might choose. Find one of them and ask them to help you out with your character’s speech.

P.S.

A personal pet peeve: I mentioned above how many Russians omit a and the when speaking in English. They do not omit the words my, your, his, her, our, or other possessive articles. They have those words in Russian, and they know how to use them. It’s really just a and the.

Overview: Tone and Voice

Tone and voice are two different aspects of writing that are often confused.

Voice is a largely unconscious element in writing. It is the words you choose over others, the manner in which you build phrases—everything which makes your words identifiable as yours. It is something that will evolve over time as you write more and read new authors and genres.

A good example of authorial voice can be found in the works of Joss Whedon. Whedon has a certain style of writing dialog that carries over from story to story. Next time you have a few hours free, watch an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, an episode of Firefly, and then part or all of The Avengers. While the style (and tone) of each piece varies, you can still feel a similar voice in the snappy back-and-forth dialog of each one.

Because voice is largely unconscious, it’s not generally something that new writers need to focus on; it’s something that develops on its own as you progress.

(Note that we're speaking here about your voice as an author. Your characters can and should have voices of their own, which is a topic that we discuss in this post)

Tone, on the other hand, is an aspect of writing which is often approached unconsciously but which should always be given conscious attention. Tone in writing is much like tone in speaking—someone might speak in a sarcastic tone, a serious tone, or a silly tone. It is how something is said, as opposed to what is said. Some stories have a humorous tone; others have a serious and straightforward tone. Just like you have control of the tone you use when you speak, you have control of the tone you use when you write.

Consider the tone of this excerpt from Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister by Gregory MacGuire

     Hobbling home under a mackerel sky, I came upon a group of children. They were tossing their toys in the air, by turns telling a story and acting it too. A play about a pretty girl who was scorned by her two stepsisters. In distress, the child disguised herself to go to a ball. There, the great turnabout: She met a prince who adored her and romanced her. Her happiness eclipsed the plight of her stepsisters, whose ugliness was the cause of high merriment.

     I listened without being observed, for the aged are often invisible to the young.

     I thought: How like some ancient story this all sounds. Have these children overheard their grandparents revisiting some dusty gossip about me and my kin, and are the little ones turning it into a household tale of magic? Full of fanciful touches: glass slippers, a fairy godmother? Or are the children dressing themselves in some older gospel, which my family saga resembles only by accident?

The tone here is serious, pensive, and somewhat bitter, no? Now compare the tone of that example with the tone of this excerpt from Terry Pratchett’s Going Postal:

     They say that the prospect of being hanged in the morning concentrates a man's mind wonderfully; unfortunately, what the mind inevitably concentrates on is that, in the morning, it will be in a body that is going to be hanged.

     The man going to be hanged had been named Moist von Lipwig by doting if unwise parents, but he was not going to embarrass the name, insofar as that was still possible, by being hung under it. To the world in general, and particularly on that bit of it known as the death warrant, he was Alfred Spangler.

     And he took a more positive approach to the situation and had concentrated his mind on the prospect of not being hanged in the morning, and, most particularly, on the prospect of removing all the crumbling mortar from around a stone in his cell wall with a spoon. So far the work had taken him five weeks and reduced the spoon to something like a nail file. Fortunately, no one ever came to change the bedding here, or else they would have discovered the world's heaviest mattress.

While this second example focuses on a man in very serious circumstances, its tone is anything but serious. The tone here is clever and lighthearted, decidedly humorous. It could not be more different from the first example.

It is important for writers to be aware of what tone they are using in their stories. A tone that doesn’t fit the narrative or that is inconsistent, switching back and forth from one tone to another, can easily ruin an otherwise-solid story. We’ll delve more into tone problems in future posts.

Perspective Errors: Matching Description and Viewpoint

One of the most important aspects of writing is getting out of your own head and into the heads of your perspective characters. Some characters might be quite a lot like you, but many of them will view the world much differently—and it’s important that you keep your perspective (or the perspective of other characters) from bleeding into the heads of your protagonists, especially when you’re describing the world around them.

In this post, we discussed one way that such perspective bleed can happen—when an author is an expert on a certain topic, it can pop up in their writing even when it shouldn’t. For instance, I’m pretty well-trained in English grammar and editing. If I were writing from the point of view of a well-educated librarian, I might have her note that the text on a sign misused a present-continuous participle and left a modifier dangling. However, if I were writing from the perspective of a largely-illiterate street thug walking past the same sign, describing the sentence using those detailed terms would be completely out of place.

This problem—describing things in ways your perspective character wouldn’t—is probably most common when a perspective character is of a different nationality, race, or gender from the author. For instance, here is the single most common and jarring example that I have come across (and I have come across versions of it many, many times):

     Diana frowned at Detective Mullens. “My husband didn’t keep secrets from me, detective. If he had been involved in something illegal, he would have told me.”

     Detective Mullens raised his hands in a placating manner. “I’m not trying to cast aspersions on your husband, ma’am. I just have to follow every lead and possibility I come across. Do you recognize these ledgers?”

     The detective handed her a three-ring binder. She did recognize it—it held their family finances. It usually sat on a shelf in her and her husband’s bedroom. She hadn’t even realized it was missing. “Where did you find this?” she asked.

     Before the detective could answer, the front door opened and Diana’s twenty-three year old daughter Stefanie walked in. She’d clearly been jogging—her bronze skin was glistening with sweat, her body firm and lean but still curvy. Her dark hair was pulled up in a simple ponytail, though a few strands had fallen loose to dangle in front of her vivid brown eyes and her full, red lips. Her ample breasts were outlined clearly through the tight sports bra she wore, moving up and down as her heavy breathing slowed to normal. She bent down almost sensuously to brush some dirt from her tight red leggings, and Diana frowned when she noticed that Detective Mullens was watching appreciatively.

     Diana cleared her throat, and Stefanie looked up in surprise. “Oh, hi,” she said. “I didn’t see you there. What’s going on?”

Now, I sincerely hope that you all can see the problem in this passage. We’re in Diana’s head—that’s clear from the fact that we’ve been given her thoughts and no one else’s. Therefore, everything we see should come through the filter of Diana’s mind. Everything should be described as she would describe it—and if that is how she would describe her own daughter, there’s something seriously wrong with this family.

These particular scenes usually happen for one of two reasons. First, the (probably male) author is describing the daughter as he, the author, pictures her without any regard to viewpoint. This is poor writing—if your viewpoint doesn’t allow you to describe something in the way you’d like, either change your viewpoint to one compatible with your description or change your description to one compatible with the viewpoint.

The second possibility is that the author wants to convey how Detective Mullens sees Stefanie, because he’s the actual protagonist and we’ve only temporarily leapt to Diana’s perspective. If that’s the case, then why are we in Diana’s perspective? Very few stories are well served by multiple viewpoints—you might as well keep the point of view with Detective Mullens.

(By the way, this particular problem—sexualizing a character while in the viewpoint of a character who wouldn’t sexualize them—is much more common from male authors than female writers. But female writers are definitely not immune to this error, so be on guard!)

These two people should not describe things in the same way. Don't describe what he sees in a way she would describe it, or vice versa.

Always remember that description should match the perspective of the character—don’t let your personal viewpoint or the view of a non-viewpoint character influence description, unless you want to make some unfortunate implications about the perspective character!

For more on this topic, check out this post.

Description and Degrees of Familiarity, Part Two

In the last post, we discussed how detailed description can be used to demonstrate that a character is unfamiliar with an object; we also covered how to describe objects that are unfamiliar to the reader but familiar to the character. Today, we’ll discuss two other reasons to dwell longer on description than you otherwise might.

When the character is intensely familiar with a type of object

Compare these three examples:

     Xin looked out the window. There was a red car parked outside; she couldn’t see the driver. Strangely, a bone-mouth Shar-pei sat on the hood of the car, watching her window. Its fur was a deep blue-black, and it was taller than any other Shar-pei she’d ever seen, maybe as tall as seventy centimeters. Its ears and tail were also usually long; it couldn’t have been a pure-bred.

     The dog barked suddenly, and the door of the car opened. A pale man in a dark suit and sunglasses climbed out, turning his gaze on her window. Xin ducked out of sight.

     Xin looked out the window. There was a red car parked outside; she couldn’t see the driver. Strangely, a black dog sat on the hood of the car, watching her window. It barked.

     The door of the car opened, and a pale man climbed out. He wore a black silk tangzhuang coat with gold snakes embroidered along the cuffs up to the elbows and around the stiff collar. His eyes were hidden by a pair of dark metal-framed sunglasses; Xin couldn’t see what brand they were from here, but she could tell they were expensive—not the cheap knock-offs most people bought on the street. The man turned his gaze on her window, and she ducked out of sight.

     Xin looked out the window. A red Lamborghini was parked outside, a Gallardo LP 550 that looked like its suspension system had been upgraded. A pair of holes on the rear of the car indicated that the car had once had a heavy spoiler attached; based on the marred paint, it had been torn free violently.

     Strangely, a black dog sat on the hood of the Lamborghini, watching her window. It barked, and the door of the car opened. A pale man in a dark suit and sunglasses climbed out, turning his gaze on her window. Xin ducked out of sight.

Sorry, you'll have to settle for just the car. Can you believe that I couldn't find a single image of a red Lamborhini Gallardo LP 550 parked on the side of a Chinese street with a black bone-mouth Shar-pei sitting on top and a driver in a gold-embroidered black tangzhuang and dark sunglasses? The internet has failed me. 

In each of these examples, Xin is a slightly different person, isn’t she? The first Xin clearly knows a thing or two about dogs, the second has a trained eye for clothing, while the last really knows her way around a car. And yet the only thing that changed was what object in the scene the writer chose to describe in greater detail. A person who is an expert in something—be it cars, dogs, clothing, guns, spaceships, a certain culture, or whatever—will discuss and observe that thing with a level of specificity that someone who is unfamiliar with the topic cannot.

Here’s a few things to keep in mind when showing familiarity through description:

Use specific terms. The first major difference between unfamiliar description and expert description is terminology. Someone who is completely unfamiliar with cars would describe one in very basic terms—large, loud, wheeled, shiny, fast, and so on. Someone who is an expert on cars will have a command of specific terms gained through years of study and osmosis—brand names, car models, engine types, and so on.

Make comparisons. The second major difference between unfamiliar description and expert description is that someone who is an expert on a type of object has a vast mental catalog of similar objects to which they can compare the one you’re describing. For instance, when our first Xin was describing the dog, she immediately noted the ways that this Shar-pei was different from others and concluded that it wasn’t pure-bred.

Keep it understandable to the reader. Using extremely specific terms can often be confusing to the reader. For instance, how many of you know what a “bone-mouth” Shar-pei is? I didn’t, before I wrote that example. I certainly couldn’t have identified a Lamborghini Gallardo LP 550 from any other Lamborghini, either. These specific terms add to the sense that the character knows what she’s talking about, but they don’t necessarily help the reader picture the object. You need to strike a balance between specific, in-depth terms and description that will be useful to the reader. For instance, the tangzhuang coat from the second example. Technically, the word “coat” is redundant—a tangzhuang is a style of coat and wouldn’t refer to a different style of clothing—but I included the word to help readers better picture the clothing. I also used the description of the embroidery to sneak in the fact that the coat had long sleeves and a stiff collar, so that the readers could get an idea of what a tangzhuang looked like without my needing to break perspective.

Don’t let the description get out of control. Xin number three was familiar with cars, so it was natural for her to notice several details about the Lamborghini but few about the dog or the man. However, it would be very easy for that level of familiarity to swell to unnatural levels. For instance:

     “When was the last time you saw Li?” the man asked.

     Xin thought for a moment. She couldn’t remember seeing Li since she’d dropped him off at work the day before in her 2013 Volkswagen Santana.

That was a little ridiculous, don’t you agree? The line should have simply ended after the word before. “She couldn’t remember seeing Li since she’d dropped him off at work the day before.” Just because a character is familiar with something doesn’t mean you need to shoehorn that familiarity in at every opportunity. Keep it real.

This is particularly common when the character’s familiarity with a certain type of object is one that the author shares. An author who is an expert on horses, for instance, might want to show that off at every opportunity in a story. Tone it back—give the readers enough to realize that the character (and by extension, you) knows what she’s talking about. Don’t shove it down their throats.

Another version of this problem is when every single character is inexplicably familiar with something that the author knows well. It’s fine to have a lot of characters who can identify a hint of saffron or rosemary from just a whiff of the dinner they’re about to eat, but not every character should be able to. To some people, it will just be a nice-smelling dinner.

When you just want to describe something

Our final reason for including in-depth description for something is the simplest, but the easiest to let get out of control: you just want to. Maybe you have a really vivid image of what a certain boat looks like, or you really feel like dwelling on the battered-up appearance of a character’s trenchcoat. Sometimes, you’ll just want to describe something. And that’s fine—go for it. Just be sure to follow the advice from this post; write the description, ask a lot of people to read it and tell you if it’s too much, and then pare it back if most of them say it is. And sometimes, if you really love that description, well . . . you’ll just have to hope you can find an editor who loves it as much as you do. Good luck!

Overview: Third-Person Limited Perspective

Today we'll continue our series of discussions on common perspectives. We've already discussed what perspective and tense are and first-person perspective; today we'll delve into third-person limited perspective.

Third-person stories are told from the perspective of someone who is not part of the story; hence, all of the characters are referred to as "he," "she," or "it," rather than "I" or "we." In third-person limited perspective, your goal should generally be to not draw attention to the narrator—in a way, you're pretending that there isn't a narrator, that the audience is simply riding in a character's head and seeing what the character sees and thinks. Take a look at these examples from the first and second chapters of Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin:

     It was not until they were mounted and on their way that Bran allowed himself to taste the sweet air of victory. By then, his pup was snuggled inside his leathers, warm against him, safe for the long ride home. Bran was wondering what to name him.
     Halfway across the bridge, Jon pulled up suddenly.
     "What is it, Jon?" their lord father asked.
     "Can't you hear it?"
     Bran could hear the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves on the ironwood planks, the whimpering of his hungry pup, but Jon was listening to something else.
     "There," Jon said. He swung his horse around and galloped back across the bridge. They watched him dismount where the direwolf lay dead in the snow, watched him kneel. A moment later he was riding back to them, smiling.
     "He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said.
     "Or been driven away," their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind.
     "An albino," Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. "This one will die even faster than the others."
     Jon Snow gave his father's ward a long, chilling look. "I think not, Greyjoy," he said. "This one belongs to me."

     [Chapter Two]
     Catelyn

     Catelyn had never liked this godswood.
     She had been born a Tully, at Riverrun far to the south, on the Red Fork of the Trident. The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers.

In this example, there is no narrator to speak of—we don't know who is telling the story, because the narrator isn't a character. Instead, the narrator follows the thoughts and experiences of some perspective characters: Bran Stark in the first chapter and Catelyn Stark in the second. Even though Bran and Catelyn aren't personally telling the story, as they would be in a first-person narrative, we still see the world through their eyes. This is what limited perspective means—our view as an audience is limited to that of one character at a time. When the author wants to switch perspective characters, he begins a new section or chapter.

Advantages of Third-Person Limited Perspective

Reliable narrator: Because the narrative is not relayed by one of the characters, third-person stories tend to seem more trustworthy and objective. The audience feels like they're inside a character's head without a narrator, so what they are shown is probably true.

Character sympathy: While not usually quite as intimate as a first-person narrative, third-person limited stories can still feel very close to the characters—the story takes place in their heads, after all.

Multiple perspectives: As demonstrated by the example passage, third-person limited narrative makes it very easy to switch from one perspective character to another. Some books have two or three perspective characters, while others—like Game of Thrones—have dozens and dozens.

Eloquence: Not all characters are as intelligent or well-spoken as others. If you wanted to write a first-person story from the perspective of a thick-headed thug, it would be difficult to describe the action as well as you would like with the thug's limited vocabulary. In third person, however, you can write a scene from the thug's perspective without sacrificing eloquence or creativity.

Disadvantages of Third-Person Limited

Easy to over-do: Just because you can write from multiple perspectives does not mean that you can do so well. Many new authors attempt to branch their story out among too many perspective characters, resulting in a slow and confusing story that loses track of its own plot. Yes, George R.R. Martin did it—but you're not George R.R. Martin. (Unless you are, of course. Hi George! Thanks for stopping by.) Try to keep your novel to two or three perspectives until you've really got the hang of juggling all those characters.

Difficult to withhold information from the reader: Since the narrator is so reliable in third-person limited, and since the audience is inside the heads of various characters, the audience will often feel cheated if you don't tell them information that the main character should have known.

Perspective errors: It is very easy to make perspective errors when writing a third-person limited story; in fact, this perspective probably sees more mistakes than any other perspective. We'll cover the many errors that writers make in third-person limited in future updates.

Overview: First-Person Perspective

I discussed here the most common perspectives and tenses that are seen in fiction writing. Over the next few weeks, we'll delve into each of these modes of writing with a little more specificity and discuss some of the strengths and foibles of each.  Today we'll look at first-person perspective.

A story told in first-person perspective is being told by one of the characters in the story, usually the central protagonist. Here's an example:

     I closed my eyes and jumped off of the roof, silently praying that Dall was as good a pilot as he claimed. The duke shouted in alarm, screaming for his men to stop me, and then his voice was drowned out in an angry rush of wind.
     I had been determined to keep my eyes closed as I fell, in hopes that I would be less afraid if I couldn't see the ground approaching. But it turns out that not knowing how far away the ground is was far more frightening than knowing. My eyes popped open after only a few seconds of falling.
    The ground wasn't nearly as far away as I would have liked, and for a brief moment I panicked; then Dall's skimcar appeared from around the side of the building. Dall waved at me from the cockpit as he pulled up alongside me, matching my pace. I reached out and grabbed the top of the car, my fingers clenching so hard that I thought they might actually bend the di-steel.
     Dall slowly maneuvered the skimcar beneath me and then slowed our descent. He slowed more abruptly than I would have liked, and I thudded into the cockpit with a grunt, spread-eagled. It wasn't bad enough that it hurt, but it did knock the wind from me.
     "Sorry, Joan" Dall said with that irritating grin of his, his voice muffled by the glasstic between us.
     "Just let me in!" I shouted.
     He shook his head. "Not until we come to a complete stop. Too dangerous otherwise."
     "Too dangerous?" I shrieked. "I just jumped off a three-hundred story building without knowing for sure that you were down here, and you think that would be too dangerous?"
      I should take a moment to mention that I'd had a little problem with heights ever since I was six years old, and Dall knew that perfectly well. He was just being a jerk.
     "You'll be fine out there for a minute or two," Dall replied, still grinning.
     "Two minutes?"

In the case of this example, one of the characters—Joan—is telling the story, as though she were sitting in front of us speaking. She uses "I" to refer to herself, marking this as first-person perspective.

So, what are some of the advantages and disadvantages of first-person perspective?

Advantages

Intimate: Because the character is relating the story themselves, first-person perspective often creates a more close, intense, and intimate feel than other perspectives, and the action often feels more immediate.

Strong Personality: When a character is relating a story "in their own words," so to speak, it can often be much easier to get their personality across than it might have been in another perspective.

Unreliability: If you want to tell a story with an unreliable narrator, first-person perspective is often the way to go. Since the perspective character is telling the story, their opinions and prejudices can color the narrative, or they can even outright lie to the reader. This can make for some very interesting stories.

Info Dump: It's easier in first-person for your narrator to step away from the story for a moment to explain something that the reader needs to know; Joan did it near the end of our example.

Simplicity: First-person can often be one of the easiest perspectives to write without making perspective errors.

Disadvantages

Most limited perspective: Since one of the characters is telling the story, the author cannot relate anything that the main character cannot see. If you want your audience to know something, then your main character has to know. You can't just jump to someone else's head for a bit and then come back. (There are stories with multiple first-person perspectives, but these can be very tricky to write well.)
Difficult to explain character appearance:   After all, if I were sitting and telling you a story, I wouldn't need to explain what I look like, would I?  Look back over our example; there's not any information there on what Joan looks like, and it would be very awkward to try to fit in a description of her anywhere.
Difficult to make the audience worry for the character: Since first-person perspective requires the main character to be alive and well to tell the story, it is difficult to get your audience to worry about the safety of the narrator. How would the story be told, after all, if the main character weren't around to finish it?  This is particularly true of first-person stories told in the past tense.