The Writer’s Attic
Issue Thirteen
The Way We See It

Disclaimer: I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Any advice/opinions in this column come straight from my own experience which is not all-encompassing and may not necessarily apply to you. I do not guarantee success with my methods. Everyone's different, and everyone has their own writing styles, which may or may not apply only to them. With that in mind, I hope something I say is of use to you, and that you enjoy reading my column.

Note: I know I’m late—sorry. I had planned this issue around the “Intrusive author” for reasons I cannot currently remember . . . and decided to change topics at the last minute in order to make it a little more interesting. Hopefully, the delay was worthwhile . . .

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Quote of the Month:

“Dreams are postcards from our subconscious, inner self to outer self, right brain trying to cross that moat to the left. Too often they come back unread: "return to sender, addressee unknown." That's a shame because it's a whole other world out there--or in here depending on your point of view.”

--Dennis Koenig and Jordan Budde

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Book of the Month:

About a Boy, by Nick Hornby

- You’ve probably seen the movie, and if you’re like me, thought it was pretty damn good. Read the book. It’s even better.
Marcus Brewer is the oldest twelve year old in the world—he has a chronically depressed mother and a social life that’s closer to death, and not a clue what to do but accept both. Will Freeman, on the other hand, is thirty-six, has never had a job, and is totally out of touch with reality. Although, according to his magazines, he’s “sub-zero” in terms of cool. Not one for serious relationships, he has recently discovered single mothers, which leads him into the world of Fiona and Marcus, and may, eventually, teach him a few things about growing up. Assuming they all survive it.

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The Writer’s Workbench:

There are at least as many ways to tell a story as there are stories to be told. One of the most memorable things about a work of fiction is the way in which it is presented to the reader. This is not just a question of typesetting, blurbs, chaptering, etc—while important on some level, these things are merely aesthetic—but, perhaps most importantly, a question of who gets to tell the story. The obvious answer, of course, is the author—but even the author must take on a role, a character—a point of view.
And, of course, points of view (or POVs, in the much-loved slang of internet fiction) are what we’re going to talk about today.
To begin with, we have three main categories (yep, the ones you learned in high school)—first person, second person, and, logically, third person. We’ll deal with second person first, as it is almost never used.
The second person form uses only the pronoun ‘you’ (and, naturally, all related adjectives, etc). It therefore requires that the entire story be directed at someone. For example, second person might read: “You walked up the stairs, being careful to avoid the third one. You knew it creaked most awfully, and you did not want the dark shape at the top of the tower to have any warning of your approach.”
Clearly, this voice is a little awkward. It gives a reader the sense of amnesia—surely it is impossibly for you to have walked up these creaky stairs without knowing the story better yourself than this disembodied narrator? It is odd and to some extent disconcerting to be told that you have done things which you cannot at all recall. Admittedly, this voice works better in the present tense (“You walk up the stairs . . .”), and indeed, when it is used, it is generally used with said tense. This gives a story a sort of role-play effect. In fact, this is the form most used in the “Choose Your Own Adventure” type books that were so popular a few years ago. To my knowledge, no great literary gem has ever been written in the second person. Perhaps there is a reason for this. (If I am wrong, please let me know).
It would be easy to confuse the second person with one of the first person monologue forms. As an example, the narrator of Albert Camus’s The Fall speaks entirely to ‘you’. However, he also frequently refers to himself—and the usage of the pronouns ‘I’ and ‘me’ are, of course, the hallmarks of first person. While second person has no individual narrator (only you!), first person has the narrator as a character relating their own story, or possibly their role in someone else’s.
Within the first person category, there are several modes of expression that have grown out of a vast bulk of literature using the form. The first (and perhaps the one least suited to a novel-length work of fiction) is called ‘interior monologue’. In this form, only the protagonist speaks—at some length, to himself or herself. Other characters may be mentioned, but they do not speak—interior monologue, as the name suggests, takes place inside the narrator’s head and therefore follows their thought processes. In works of any significant size, interior monologue is often used briefly to get inside a character’s head. It rarely makes up the bulk of such a work. This form gets a reader closest to the true essence of the character the narrator is trying to portray—we do not just see their outward demeanor and language, but their innermost thoughts, their free association of ideas. We may also get a sense of their subconscious from the drift of their thoughts and learn things about them that they themselves would perhaps not be able to tell us.
Usually interspersed with interior monologue, although entirely able to stand alone in a long work is dramatic monologue. Again, the protagonist is the only speaker, but is likely speaking to someone—another character, or perhaps the reader (e.g. The Fall). Intervening speech from other characters may be implied, but it is presented through the narrator’s comments upon it or, as in The Fall, responses to it. In the latter case, dramatic monologue reads rather like one side of a telephone conversation, but I won’t elaborate on that since the telephone novel is almost a genre in itself these days. One of the most interesting aspects of dramatic monologue is that it is not necessary to be clear about to whom the protagonist is speaking. It can be implied that the narrator is imagining a companion, for instance, or talking to an inanimate object, and so on. A situation is imposed, and the readers becomes part of the story, but as a passive listener, rather than the active character of second person.
The third form of first person has been made famous through recent publications such as Bridget Jones’s Diary and Meg Cabot’s successful series. It is, somewhat obviously at this point, diary narration. It is effective because it is usually a record of the narrator’s most private and personal (to the point of embarrassment) thoughts and feelings, while at the same time remaining on topic, often unlike interior monologue. Since it is generally assumed that no one except the writer is meant to see what is written in a diary, diary narration also creates a feeling of secrecy which is appealing to many readers. Another feature of the form is that a reader can generally assume the narrator to be truthful. Unlike dramatic monologue, were the protagonist is putting on a face for the outside world, and may be lying to shield himself/herself or others from judgement, someone writing in a diary has absolutely no reason to tell anything but the truth. Unless, of course, there’s a psychological condition involved (such as chronic paranoia). An offshoot of diary narration is the letter novel, which, along with the aforementioned telephone novel, will be discussed at a later date.
The remaining forms of first person can be used in combination with the first three, or alone. A protagonist telling a story not long after the events have taken place is called a subjective narrator, as they may still be emotionally involved and thus lacking in objectivity. This may mean, as above, that the narrator is intentionally lying. It may also mean, however, that the narrator is giving a specific perception of events which may be faulty due to lack of information or misunderstanding.
In contrast to subjective narration, there is detached autobiography. In this form, the narrator is relating events long after they have taken place—for example, talking about his/her childhood as an adult. They are unlikely to be as involved as they were in the immediate aftermath, and may even be entirely objective and/or self-deprecating.
The final form of first person narration is memoir, which is similar in many ways to detached autobiography. In memoir, however, the narrator is usually an observer, or someone with a minor role in a major event. This form is not usually used with fiction, because it invokes what I call the “why?” reflex—why do we want this person’s story if they have such a small role? Why didn’t the author choose to tell us the major figure’s story instead? Memoir, therefore, is generally relegated to the realm of autobiographical prose.
Finally, there are a few forms of third person narration. Third person seems to be the most used mode for telling a story. It uses the pronouns ‘he,’ ‘she,’ ‘it,’ ‘they,’ and entirely omits the first person ‘I’ and the second person ‘you.’ Although some narrator is obviously implied—by the mere fact of the story’s existence—nothing in the story itself should provoke questions or pique interest as to who, exactly, the narrator is. Quite simply, this is irrelevant information.
The first form of third person is called limited. The narrator only records the thoughts of one character (usually the main character), although there may be a large cast. Occasionally, although not too often, limited is expanded to dual character point of view, such as in this month’s book, About a Boy. The benefit of this form is that we still get an ‘internal’ perspective on the action, as in first person, without being limited to events where the main character was present.
Third person omniscient expands this perspective by doing something I like to call “head hopping.” The narrator can enter the thoughts of all characters, which, although sometimes confusing, does add a certain objectivity to the telling of any event. It is used, for example, in Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time (and is, incidentally, one more touch I believe Mr. Jordan could have done without). Personally, I prefer limited as being more engaging and possibly more logical, but both forms are widely used.
The last form of third person is called neutral, or dramatic. The narrator acts like a cameraman—relating events as they happen, with no internal look at specific character’s thoughts and feelings. This is the least common form of third person, although I do believe it is used in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. Unless I am mistaken, it is the neutral narration that gives Lord of the Rings its epic feel. Thus, third person neutral, when used, is used for high fantasy. It is also an effective technique for a mystery novel, such as Agatha Christie’s Poirot series (although I believe she breaks neutrality occasionally).
For my own part, although you didn’t, it’s true, ask me, I am most partial to the first person forms. I enjoy getting to know one character thoroughly and find that it is easiest for me to develop a story when I can interject with my narrator’s comments (often sarcastic, unfortunately) from time to time. I do also use third person, but as mentioned, rarely in any other from than the limited one.
Picking a voice is not always easy, although I suspect you will find that some stories need to be written from the first person, while others (usually those with a larger cast of characters) have too much that happens outside the protagonist’s vision to be told well from his/her point of view. When in doubt, however, it is usually best to take a scene that you are very familiar with and tell it first in one voice and then another. One way will be more comfortable to write and, most likely, will read better to you.

My final advice: avoid the second person unless you’re writing an experimental novel, or are very, very good—or better yet, both.

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The Glossary/Social Commentary:

Democracy (not to be confused with hypocrisy) -
1. Government by the people, exercised either directly or through elected representatives.
2. A political or social unit that has such a government.
3. The common people, considered as the primary source of political power.
4. Majority rule.
5. The principles of social equality and respect for the individual within a community.

Incidentally, India is the largest democracy in the world. At least, numerically speaking.

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Insomniacs Central:

Just for the record, I do ask that you run a quick spell check on submissions if you think you’re prone to making typos. I’ve taken the liberty of cleaning up a couple of things this time around . . .

From: Nick Lee
In the world of Silent Guardian: True Blades, the power of a character is determined by the strength of one's Waves. Most characters would only have five Waves: Audio, Visual, Taction (touch), Sapidity (taste) and Redolence (smell), each representing the potency of a sense. With careful analysis, which the Divine Blades calls "Division", one could read into capability of the enemy, sometimes even anticipating certain offensive weapons within the opponent's arsenal. An example of that would be Sincrotius Rieva and his soul-crushing eyes.
Each life form has its unique Wave pattern, and it is mandatory for a member of the Divine Blade to memorize the Wave patterns of humans and to what degree they can vary. This training is required as demons can also take on the form of humans (through possession or other forms of fusion; these are known as Corrupted).
Individual techniques of Division would vary, and the skill itself could be applied as a deadly weapon. However, a subject with powerful Redolence, Sapidity or Taction Waves can reject the mental invasion.
Regarding the use of Waves in battle: as the combatant grows weary, or as damage is dealt, Waves are weakened, thus leaving fewer options available. However, this doesn't apply to demons, especially some that heal during battle. The ultimate form of Wave usage was discovered by the Divine Blades, and involves committing suicide to unleash all the energy buried one's body, eliminating any alien presence (life forms with irregular Wave patterns) within a certain radius. This is a must for one to become Guardian.
Some characters have a sixth Wave, which is known as Spirit. This is the sensitivity to the spiritual world, how in tune one is to the underworld. Once potent enough, the character can then unleash some hell-raising devastation; this comes at the heavy price of sacrificing certain senses. Alfimi and her shadows is an obvious example.
Practical magic (spells, healing, and anything that can be used on the spot) has very limited use, for humans anyway, as their Waves are usually limited to a certain range. To overcome this some have learnt the technique of adjusting their Waves. Characters like Quinton Kinevan had mastered such a skill and therefore was able to give the most powerful demons a run for their money.
Sorcery, compared to practical magic, is far more potent. It is an art that prefers preparation over reaction, however, and thus, can rarely be used in direct battle. The capability of this field far outstrips practical magic, ranging from creating clones to animating statues. The process of creating such enchantments, however, is often very tedious and some spells can take up to years to prepare. Due to complexity and a desire for speed, modern society has shunned the art.

From: Joshua Wui
My system of "magic” is known as aurica. It is not really magic so much as a direct control over the elements around us (periodic table elements, not the primeval version of the elements). This means that, using a part of the mind that is not normally used (which is activated once the subject has learned aurica), one can focus and detect the individual atoms of select elements, move them, force interactions between them and others, etc. Thus, one can bind certain elements together to create a fireball, normally seen as a form of magic, and use his/her mind to force the fireball in a certain direction at a certain speed. As a sort of fantasy bit, I have made it so that anyone who learns to use aurica becomes immortal, not impervious to death (they can be killed in a variety of ways), but impervious to age.
More skilled aurica users can focus on more elements in a wider range at a time. Dagon Urik, the most skilled in aurica before he was slain by Dethorn, could perform a variety of feats that have been unrepeated in history. Dagon could create what are commonly called enchantments, which are really only a series of prearranged spells activated upon a certain prearranged command or moment. He could control the bodies of the dead as long as their bodies could still function (so long as they weren't missing limbs or blown into tiny little bits), though he could do nothing himself during the spell.The drawback of aurica is that it requires the elements to be used. If the elements are not there, the spell cannot be cast. And using aurica may use up all the elements in the area, which could be quite dangerous. Combining the wrong elements could be dangerous as well. This makes aurica a very difficult type of magic to learn, one left only to the very best to use.
Here is a list of common "spells" and how they work.
1. Commonly used in battle, the user can focus on his enemies weapon and break it apart, literally causing it to disappear. Or they can take out critical elements that cause the weapon to weaken so that it shatters upon impact. This requires good concentration, and a beginner might get chopped apart before he can complete the spell.
2. Another common attack spell is the fireball. The world of the Norjick is made up of elements far different from our own. While there are similar elements, there are different elements as well. And their world is filled with objects and plants that constantly supply the world with these elements. Drawing a certain element from the air around them and binding them together to create a controlled explosion, and then sending the ball forward at whatever speed (dependant upon your skill), is a mediocre spell, one that every apprentice looks forward to learning, but, unfortunately, one that causes the death of many over-eager apprentices.
3. There are several simpler spells that can be used in every day situations, such as breaking a lock, moving a small object such as a rock, etc. One must only concentrate on the object and perform whatever action is required: breaking it, moving it, etc. Quite simple. Easy to learn.

This month’s challenge should be pretty easy to do, and could be a lot of fun. Pick your favourite scene from any work of literature (preferably something that a lot of people are familiar with), identify (roughly) the point of view it is written in . . . and redo it in a new one from those discussed in this issue. Feel free to add things—character’s thoughts, etc.

See you in a bit!

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The Microphone:

From: Muffers
A very familiar topic you presented here. I love to see it pop up every now and then, just because the reaction from authors is both amusing and gratifying. A few years ago magic realism was a "say what?" issue to me, but I've gotten better. Hurrah for grueling practice. Putting together a functional world with realistic restrictions for magic is difficult and time consuming, but it's so worth it in the end. Very beneficial indeed.
This article brought to me a musing of sorts, as I was thinking that perhaps magic could be all powerful in a rare circumstance and still be realistic. Of course, that would mean that every single individual in the story (including the antagonists) would have this godlike magic. Then of course, logically they would have to be the only ones existing on the planet in that story, because any normal human would eventually be caught in a crossfire between the good and bad side. And then still, the world would have a hard time keeping its appearance, as the opposite sides would be shoving their magic against one another to compare the strength, resulting in obvious and inevitable damage to the earth around them.
Heh, a bit of a ridiculous concept, but it may work if done properly. I guess we could all stick to the easier stuff, though, and stick with magic realism. You never realise how much of a friend it is to you until you start pondering about what I did. Well, excellent article. It really got my thoughts going, although after this you probably don't doubt that.

I agree . . . magic realism is kind of a “say what?” concept to many . . . including me up until I got into Milan Kundera’s works. I figure it’s something intruiging, and perhaps fun to play around with . . . and since I had an issue on magic in any case, why not?
I certainly agree that it’s possible to have story where everyone has magic. I would contend that in that case, the author has one of two options: a) to turn the whole thing into a sort of power contest (e.g. who can use it better/who is stronger) or b) to take the focus off magic completely, and have the story center around something else. Magic can and will be used by all, but it does not give them an advantage towards achieving the end goal.
I suppose Shade’s Children is, to some extent, like that. Everyone has a “Change Talent”—it is only the fact that each talent is a little different that allows some to succeed where others do not.Thanks for your time,
Autumndark