Fine Tuning POV through Choosing a Perspective
One way to increase the power of your fiction is to limit the point of view (POV) by adopting a specific perspective. Seeing the action through the lens of a particular character can add emotional depth and immediacy that might otherwise be lacking. Or it can increase the distance between the reader and the action. Choosing a perspective can alter the theme of a story, turning tragedy into comedy or the commonplace into mythology.
Perspective is technically a slightly different concept than point of view. POV is about choosing first person, second person, third person limited, or third person omniscient. Skilled authors can play with these, say by switching between these points of view in alternate chapters. But if you choose anything other than the omniscient POV another choice immediately presents itself: to whom do we limit the perspective?
Try to imagine To Kill a Mockingbird told by Atticus Finch. It would be exceedingly difficult to achieve Harper Lee’s objectives from Atticus’ perspective. For one thing, it would be difficult for him to adequately portray his own heroism and nobility without seeming to be vainglorious. The novel’s satirical and critical examinations of the systemic racism, injustice, and seemingly arbitrary customs of a tradition-bound Southern town works best from the perspective of six-year-old Scout who questions everything.
Often the central character of a story is complex, mysterious, driven by atypical and powerful forces. He is as different from the common reader as possible. Even partially unravelling the central character’s mystery and personality will take an entire book of observations made by a far less complex everyman character with whom the reader can identify. To understand Sherlock Holmes, we need the bridge character of Watson. To understand Doctor Who we need his Companions. To come to grips with the grand movements and machinations of Middle Earth—the awesome battles, the mystical plots, and the ironic twists of fate—we need witnesses who are closer to our own level. We need Hobbits. And if a Hobbit like Frodo becomes heroic and larger than life, we need a further step away to the perspective of the pragmatic Samwise Gamgee. Mythopoeic writing needs a surrogate for the reader who can bear witness to the awesome. The bridge identifier perspective becomes the paper and pinhole by which we can “see” the too bright Sun.
Tragedy is a particular form of mythopoeic writing that benefits from the offset perspective of a bridging identifier. We need Nick Carraway, the narrator of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, to witness for us the unfolding tragedy. Nick gives us an objectifying distance. We who are incapable of being participants in the tragedy, being too cynical or too dispassionate, or just not capable of loving so strongly, have our function: to bear witness and to be appalled. Jay and Daisy are too swept up in the forces leading them to disaster to evaluate what is going on.
But perspective is a versatile tool. Sometimes we want the opposite effect, to bring us closer to what was originally myth, to make it more personal, as with John Gardner’s Grendel. The Beowulf myth told from the monster’s point of view allows Gardner to explore the nature of myth and storytelling from the inside out. In Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal, Christopher Moore tells the missing thirty years of Jesus’ life through the caustic wit of Jesus’ horny, pragmatic, but fiercely loyal friend, Biff. Humanizing the myth allows Moore to humorously explore the nature of our relationship with the divine while making issues of sacrifice, friendship, and loyalty all the more poignant.
Another good example of choosing perspective for comedic effect is Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard. It is Shakespeare’s Hamlet as seen through the perspective of two minor characters. As the main characters of Hamlet leave the stage, our characters emerge to give their unique take on the drama they inhabit, a drama they come to suspect is designed for their destruction. Just as Hamlet uses metatheatre to further his quest for vengeance, Stoppard uses metatheatre to comment on how everyday folk become disposable pawns in the arbitrary and senseless conflicts of their “betters,” in just the way that writers invent and cruelly use characters for their own artistic purposes.
Perspective can be used to allow us into the minds of characters very different from ourselves so that we can gain insight into their own unique forms of despair, triumph, and heroism. In The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night, Mark Haddon allows us to vicariously identify with an autistic narrator trying to cope with a mystery despite a vastly different way of perceiving and interacting with the world around him. In Flowers for Algernon, Daniel Keyes allows us to experience the world from the perspective of a mentally challenged man who is given an experimental procedure that vastly boosts his IQ. He then makes us feel the tragedy of realizing that the effects are only temporary.
As a writer we must choose the POV and perspective that allows us to convey what we want as effectively as possible. Sometimes this means shifting the perspective away from the center of our tale to someone more peripheral and with whom the reader may more easily identify. Sometimes it means thrusting the reader into a perspective that he is uncomfortable occupying or that stretches his imagination around different ways of thinking and perceiving. If the story you are trying to tell is not working, consider a change of perspective. There may be some character at the edges of your story who will bring the whole drama into just the right focus.
An editorial in the Houston Chronicle on March 23, 2018 described the conditions that female (and only female) firefighters in Houston have endured over the years. Career professionals are being harassed like this: male firefighters have taped fireworks on the inside of a toilet in the women’s bathroom; they have spit tobacco juice in the drawers of women’s desks; they have disconnected the speakers in the women’s dorm so that the woman on duty misses emergency runs; they have sprayed urine around the dormitory on the walls, sinks, mirrors, carpeting, and countertops.
This set of facts could be the background for an interview of the aggrieved or the HFD, or both, if a journalist wanted to get at the truth. (Though these behaviors seem so juvenile, they wouldn’t warrant much attention from journalists until the reaction of higher-ups and multiple lawsuits made the news.)
To a writer of fiction, as repulsive as this behavior is, it brings up several interesting questions: How bad is your villain? Can he or she carry the story? Does this story have emotional strength and compelling action because the hero has no choice but to deal with the villain? Have you created a worthy opponent for your hero?
The villain you choose for your story may be one evil individual or a group of people who act in common with evil intent. That character gives your readers the opportunity to observe and experience transformation as the story moves through conflict to resolution.
Villains sometimes exhibit unusual attributes that mask their intentions, so that a murderer may sing while he stalks, and a kidnapper may pat the hand of the child he snatches and may even try to amuse her. This does not diminish the reality that the villain is evil through and through, even if positive attributes show up and the villain takes pains to seem charming and benign. Inferences about a person’s motives are usually based on observed behavior, but with an evil character, the observations of others can be manipulated to hide malevolence if the villain is very clever.
From one culture to another, what is “bad” can change in type and degree. “Evil” behavior in one religion is acceptable in others. Context is important: who is making the judgment, against whom, can be determinative of the degree of “bad” the audience expects. For example, in the thriller Se7en the villain will never feel shame or remorse; he thinks he’s doing the world a service.
What is called “bad” also depends on the time and place. In modern countries of the Far East, it’s still forbidden to leave home without wearing underwear. One who does so is hardly a monster that will hold the attention of the audience, though; readers want to be taken on a journey with real challenges. In the U.S. in the ‘40s and ‘50s, women who smoked, wore pants, or spoke their minds were considered scandalous, but today they aren’t out of the ordinary at all.
There are plenty of examples in literature of men (not usually women) who lead a life without moral sensibilities, not restrained by even the most basic rules of society if a rule gets in their way. Shakespeare’s villains have set the standard, and we easily think of Richard III, Cornwall, Cassius, and Iago as being utterly without scruples. Their perspectives and arguments are sometimes slow to emerge but they are prize roles for actors and beloved of audiences everywhere for the evil they try to do and the tension their actions create.
Contemporary villains whose context is part of what makes them distinctive include Norman Bates, Hannibal Lecter, Lord Voldemort, Annie Wilkes, and Nurse Ratched, all of whom come across as profoundly malevolent. A reader can predict bad behavior from such characters, but when their intent is revealed, the depths of degradation associated with them may still surprise. They usually attempt to live a life that looks ordinary to outsiders, keeping their real feelings and plans secret except to their victims, but they are completely aware of the immoral choices they make. They find them justifiable, if not commendable.
These short lists of exceptionally bad people offer clues on how to construct the villains in our work. First, writers can have confidence that they need not restrain themselves: audiences everywhere love to see the schemes and plots and murders and betrayals that villains bring to the story; so while the evil-doer may not be the character with whom the audience identifies, he or she could be the most intriguing person in the story—morbidly fascinating.
TV audiences of a certain age may not remember all the beautiful women who breezed through South Fork, but they will never forget J.R. Ewing. “Who shot J.R.?” was an icebreaker for months, and the mystery brought in an even bigger audience to Dallas at the start of the next season, to see what the answer was.
J.R. is also an example of a second observation: it’s clear that these characters are evil, through and through, and always. If they smile, they are calculating how to defeat others who stand in the way of their objectives. If they show a weaker, more vulnerable side, it’s more likely to be a play for time or a trap than a sincere invitation to relate. They see other people only as obstacles to their success or as tools to be used. To survive them, others must never let their guard down or get in their debt.
There’s a third similarity among the best-known villains in literature: they positively enjoy their status in life. They plan to win at all costs, especially if it means destroying order and structure and predictability.
So how do we pick what kind of villain we want for our story? First, we analyze the primary conflict. What is the basic story we want to tell? If there’s already a theme, an argument to examine that the characters will debate among themselves, then the protagonist may take one side and the antagonist the other. But one antagonist may not be enough to show all the ways a belief or value will fail. To satisfy the reader’s rational engagement with the story, it’s important to show the reason every plan won’t work, by coming up against people who are not the main, evil one. If these issues are not addressed, the reader may go off on a rabbit trail wondering why the hero didn’t try X, when it seems so obvious. A plan’s failure is frequently because the hero underestimated the villain or the opposition from others, or had bad information that was taken as true. It’s only after every conceivable ploy has been considered and tried, but failed, that the main character will have to confront the source of evil in his world and come up with something new (to him or her), or die.
Finally, a villain may lie within the main character himself. That Shadow may be what prevents the character from maturing, and what slows or stops the hero’s progress along the story arc. One such character is Hamlet, endlessly debating what to do and finding excuses not to murder the King after deciding he should.
A writer’s own Shadow side sometimes emerges in retrospect, if all his stories seem to expose the same private struggle, coming at it repeatedly and from all sides. A character’s internal conflict can be the central problem in the story, or in a subplot, and sometimes both.
A story that features monsters, demons, and seductive evil can get readers to explore and redeem the darkness inside themselves. It may actually protect an individual if taken as a defense mechanism. Deathbed conversions are familiar, where an evil character finally asks for forgiveness. Evil can also trigger destruction, which can have a positive effect in the long run. Struggles over conflicting ideas can be the most injurious to a society; and an embodiment of evil can be used to illustrate the superior power of a belief and the futility of hoping to eradicate it.
A balance of inner and outer obstacles can create a fascinating story, helping readers and audiences see that our natural impulses toward indulgence of Self can justify sacrifice or demands.
A last thought in passing: it’s important to align your characters’ outer obstacles with their inner flaws. Use a sliding scale with extremes at each end, then work your characters along it, from evil to good, or from wounded to healing. If a character clearly finds evil attractive, it often begins with very small steps, starting with curiosity, moving to fascination, then to endorsement, and ultimately to happiness or sorrow at carrying out evil acts.
I worked in an art studio for almost a decade, a haven for creativity, wisdom, and expression. We exchanged profound words over coffee as we took a moment to distance ourselves from the canvas. And now, with some modification, I apply my teacher’s wisdom to writing.
- “Learn what you love to paint write, because if you create it and others love it, you will be painting writing the same style for the rest of your life.”
- “Paint Write every day. There is no day off when you choose an artistic field.”
- “Even if the brush isn’t on the canvas you aren’t writing, everything you view will become to be broken down into shapes and color story fodder.”
- “A child, when taught piano, is given old masters to learn from before s/he is expected to understand techniques and compose on his/her own. A painter writer is given a brush and a canvas pencil and paper. Their teachers fear squashing their creativity, and end up hobbling them.”
I learned my painting had no voice. I could recreate others’ ideas, but composition lay beyond my grasp. Then I found writing. And my voice.
When you go to a gallery and see a Renoir, you can identify it, as easily as Sinatra on the radio. Likewise, you expect a certain language, genre, and tone when you pick up a book by Shakespeare or Agatha Christie. In the arts, most beginners are given basic rules and tools with little instruction on how to create outcomes in a misguided attempt to prevent crippling creativity that often becomes a shackle to growth.
We have a voice. Our goal as writers is to uncover our best voice and share it with others through our writing.
Other art fields are good examples of how to hone our own unique voice. Music education stands out from the others on how musicians and composers are trained to find their voice. They have a process to follow in order to compose, however there are exceptions. Teachers do not expect 5-year-olds to sit down and create masterworks (though many may dream of finding Mozart). They show their students how to evoke emotions with techniques and tools.
Voice, piano, or oboe, all musicians must be familiar with their tools and aware of when they need to be maintained or updated. The same holds true for artists, who should stay knowledgeable regarding their canvases, brushes, and mediums available.
Writing tools are in an era of transition. We no longer sit and write by candlelight with a sharpened quill pen and inkwell. Vocal software allows you to speak your words onto the page. Scrivener is one of many new writing software programs that help format your words for certain sales venues and can help organize your books by scenes. There is an ever-expanding need for knowledge of social media for a writer’s platform, and methods of honing your craft. There are blogs devoted to writers’ tools. A few posts to get you started:
Like a clarinet player with a cracked reed, don’t focus on the search for a new tool. Know where to look, fix the issue, and then move on. Educate yourself, but don’t let it take time away from creation or creativity.
The devil is in the details. Those little dots and lines of black tell the musician when to play what note, for how long, and how loudly. The notations tell us what the music is supposed to evoke and separate the choppy from languid.
Writers have their own theories. We call them grammar and the rules of writing. Two of the most famous references for these are The Elements of Style and The Chicago Manual of Style. Of course, we can play with and push these boundaries – after we understand what we are breaking, why, and to what effect, just as music students can push the boundaries at competitions. They may play beautifully, but how they push those boundaries will determine if the audience and judges think they are masters making the music their own – or just sloppy. It’s a tricky dance, in rhythm or grammar. If your critique group thinks it’s a typo, your audience probably will as well.
Play the Masters
Teachers make musicians play Beethoven, Chopin, Bach. They slip them some Gershwin, John Williams, and Guns N’ Roses. They expose their students to composers, to learn and expand their repertoire. As writers, we do this through reading. Read quality literature often.
As an exploration, I challenge you to write practice sentences, paragraphs, or short stories in the style of your favorite greats. Then review.
- Who was the easiest to mimic? Tolkien? Twain? Woolf? Dickens? Hemingway?
- Who was the most comfortable? Why?
- What made you uncomfortable?
- Was a specific genre and voice painfully hard to write?
- Is there a genre you are drawn to read?
- What were the most powerful moments in your favorite books?
- Did your writing bring those same feelings to the fore? Why or why not?
- What image and style do you want to pass on to your audience?
- What kind of word, grammar, plot, and character choices will make that happen?
Short exercises show how, why, and when the Masters used the words they did to evoke images and emotion and may lead to the style that will define you to your readers.
Write frequently, strive for improvement, and you will find your voice along the journey.
The credit for the terms pantser and plotter traditionally goes to NaNoWriMo or National Novel Writing Month (which, incidentally, can be pronounced either Na-No-Wree-Mo, or Na-No-Rye-Mo). Pantsers write by the seat of their pants, as if by magic, while Plotters plan every detail and can’t write a word without an outline. Serious writers usually know who they are—pantser or plotter. It’s like knowing which political party you belong to. Well, the Snowflake Method is for undecideds, who kinda/sorta do a little of both and usually end up with a mess.
Donald Maass in The Fire in Fiction says “a method that’s mysterious cannot be repeated.” He agrees that every novel can be inspired, but he draws the line at a brilliant flash of insight that last four hundred pages. If he’s right, then, being a dedicated pantser, I’m in big trouble.
All of which leads me to How to Write a Novel Using the Snowflake Method. I reached an impasse with Book Two of a trilogy, which does NOT lend itself to my usual freefall, come-what-may style of writing. Plotting an outline was out of the question—I equate it to writing with manacles on my wrists. Then I heard about an alternative method of writing proposed by Randy Ingermanson. Aside from being one hysterically funny read, his book offers a step-by-step guide to truly rev up writers who find themselves in between styles and generally stuck. It came highly recommended by a close friend who exhausted nearly every method out there, over a period of two years, and swears this one works.
The book begins in third person, with Goldilocks searching for a way to write her novel. She attends Papa Bear’s conference for pantsers and Mama Bear’s workshop for plotters, and finds true happiness at Baby Bear’s class for other-thans. Trust me, it’s the only how-to-write book that made me laugh out loud the whole way through. But, I digress.
Since Goldilocks already has an idea for her novel, Baby Bear begins with the basics, like what the story’s about, what genre it’s in, and who’s the target audience. From these three questions, Baby Bear helps Goldilocks develop a marketing plan with her target audience already in mind—before she starts to write.
Then, with the help of the rest of the class—can you say Three Little Pigs?—Goldilocks learns how to summarize her book, with concrete description and plot, into one 35-word sentence: “This is a romantic suspense novel about a woman in Nazi-occupied France who falls in love with an injured American saboteur who wants to blow up a key ammunition depot at Normandy just before D-Day.” By forcing Goldilocks to think it through aloud, Baby Bear leaves her with a focused plot for her novel.
By now, you probably want to know why it’s called The Snowflake Method, how the paradigm works, and what it looks like, right? The shape begins with two triangles superimposed on each other and ends up like…a snowflake. It can be as simple or as elaborate as you need, adding layer on top of layer, a paragraph at a time, until so much of your novel is laid out, it’s no longer a daunting task. Baby Bear leads Goldilocks through settings, disasters, characters, decisions, names, goals, and more, all interwoven into the pattern until the paragraphs equal a page, and you’re on your way. Each step is explained in detail, all while Goldilocks helps solve a classroom mystery concerning Big Bad Wolf. Have I mentioned it’s one hysterically funny read?
Time doesn’t permit more than I’ve already divulged, but if you think this method might be the one for you, check out https://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/articles/snowflake-method for more in-depth information. Ingermanson calls his Snowflake Method “a battle-tested series of ten steps that jumpstart your creativity and help you quickly map out your story.” Like me, you may find that, as in all things Baby-Bear, it’s just right.
Note: Caden St. Claire will present “The Snowflake Method of Writing” at our April 7th meeting! For details, please refer to the Meetings page.
When they’re old enough.
Spring is here, and birds will soon fill the skies, just as manuscripts will soon fill the internet. But are your little darlings ready to push off that metaphoric tree limb? Ready to lift their wings up, up, and back, exposing their hearts to the arrows? Yes. Arrows. Let’s do a pre-flight checklist.
- Are all systems GO? Many years ago, I wrote a sci-fi novella that was read and praised by friends and family, but not by a brutally honest critique group or a non-biased person who would have asked the right questions, the hard questions I needed to answer. It passed the scrutiny of a Beta Reader, but not one well-read in sci-fi/fantasy. Finally, it had not been exposed to a line-edit or a developmental edit. I discovered, after the fact, there were places where the feathers hadn’t quite grown out just yet – basic things like adequate research, POV, consistency in character development. For instance, I tended to head-hop and didn’t realize it! Since I prefer omniscient points of view, I wasn’t as careful as I should have been when it came to whose head I was in!
- Do you have a FLIGHT PLAN? Being in a hurry to see one of my fledglings airborne, I put it out on Amazon prematurely. Had I researched the company that charged me a great deal of money for the privilege of doing so, I would have chosen differently. This was several years before I discovered like-minded birds of a feather who flocked together every Thursday night—not only to critique one another’s work, but to exchange information on publishing options and articles/books/webinars to hone our craft. When I pushed my novella off the branch, I had no idea where it would go. I remember laughingly calling it “a learning experience.” It turned out to be not so funny when, years later, I swallowed my pride and called it back home again. Lesson? Know where you’re going and how to get there.
- Can your fledgling make it back to the nest? Now that we’ve survived the rise of the self-publishing robots versus traditional publishers and are accustomed to being buffeted about by the winds of change, we are told to have a platform. Imagine. Introverted artists being told to “put yourself out there,” like it’s the most natural thing there is. Duh. Like the majority of writers, I have great difficulty in that area, and tend to stay away from social media. However, I have left the safety of the nest—when forced to forage for food—and now have two websites and a presence on Facebook. I even blog. Been there, done that. Whew.
- It’s a cold, cold world. And in order to survive, we have to stick together. Sometimes I hum the first three lines of an old Leonard Cohen song, “Bird On The Wire” (like a bird on the wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried…in my way…to be free). This brings me to my saving graces, my critique group and other writers’ groups. Have you ever watched birds flying south for the winter, how they’ll lift off individually from tree after tree to join the others and form a perfect pattern? Writers need other like-minded writers so we don’t get stranded for the winter. If you haven’t already, find a group. If the first one doesn’t click, find another. Form your own. Go online for groups in your area. Sure, it looks good on a bio, but more importantly, you’ll hone your craft. And that’s what it’s all about.
How do you know when they’re old enough? When you’ve done all you can do to prepare them for what’s out there. One morning you just know, when you watch them pick their way to the end of the tree limb, teeter a little, then lift their wings and look to the skies.
Leif Behmer, MFA
“But the true secret of being a hero lies in knowing the order of things…Things must happen when it is time for them to happen. Quests may not simply be abandoned; prophecies may not be left to rot like unpicked fruit; unicorns may go unrescued for a long time, but not forever. The happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story.” – Prince Lir, The Last Unicorn
It’s interesting to me how this sentiment applies not only to, obviously, the structure of a fairy tale, but also to real life relationships. We often seek happiness within the comfort of a significant other, perhaps someone for whom we find an almost fatal attraction towards. Perhaps there is palpable intimacy, a genuine care and mutual affection. Even assuming the best of intentions, meaningful relationships always come at some significant risk, and how we choose to address that risk is what defines our character.
A fatal attraction does not have to mean anything like the tired and floppy trope of the femme fatale. Peter Beagle shares a unique twist in The Last Unicorn that illustrates genuine complexity in human interactions between lovers. Representing the classic chivalric hero, Prince Lir attempts to woo the Lady Amalthea by performing great deeds: slaying dragons, solving deadly riddles, and writing bad poetry. Nothing works because, as Molly Grue points out, Amalthea is not a maiden to be won over by great deeds. Lir learns later that her situation is quite complicated. Her feelings about herself are as nebulous as her feelings towards others. Eventually, Amalthea decides that she wants nothing more than to grow old and die with Lir, but he comes to understand that their relationship would defeat the happily ever after, because it would come at the cost of Amalthea’s mission to rescue all the unicorns in the world from the Red Bull. Only as a unicorn does she have a chance to defeat the Red Bull, and as a hero, Lir chooses to respect her integrity and not let his personal wishes get in the way of something more important than either of them. Lir understands that they will never truly be happy if Amalthea does not finish her own journey, though doing so would mean that they would never be together.
But sometimes couples can work out their differences, even when doing so creates some degree of peril. I’m reminded of two childhood sweethearts, Alex and Luna, from the JRPG Lunar: Silver Star Story. The young lovers go off on an adventure together to save the world from the Magic Emperor. But by the time Alex realizes his dream of becoming the legendary Dragonmaster, Luna has become a very different person and decides instead to join the dark forces of the Magic Emperor to rule the world.
Like any boyfriend who’d just been dumped, Alex becomes deeply forlorn and almost abandons his quest. But in typical fantasy fashion, his friends come together to help Alex realize that much more is at stake than just his personal desires, and through much trial and adversity, the team finally arrives at the Goddess Tower to fight the Magic Emperor.
The final boss battle of the game ensues, and with strategic planning and resourcefulness, the heroes defeat the resident dark lord…and yet, the game is not over. There is one final task left that makes this title’s love story stand out. Typical RPGs would make another boss fight to illustrate Luna’s conversion back to her normal self. However, Luna has become so powerful that even a Dragonmaster has no hope of winning such an encounter. If the player attempts to approach her, despite her warnings to stay away, she will in fact will kill Alex where he stands, with an immediate Game Over.
This uncommon twist provides a more than significant consequence to the player, who now has to redo the grueling fight with the Magic Emperor again and rethink how to engage Luna. This prompts the player to consider that fighting will not change her back. In order for the player to see the happily ever after, Alex must appeal to Luna with a gesture of endearment to help remind her of her feelings for Alex. He has to play their song. Only then will Luna allow Alex to ascend the steps of the Goddess Tower and help her change back to her normal self.
Each of these stories teaches lovers to be more considerate of their significant other beyond the shallow portrayal of romances in typical commercial storytelling. The best relationships in fiction acknowledge that relationships are often complex and do the hard work of exploring the most sensitive matters of the heart.
We must part now, my life goes on.
But my heart won’t give you up.
Ere I walk away, let me hear you say
I meant as much to you….
So gently, you touched my heart.
I will be forever yours.
Come what may, I won’t age a day,
I’ll wait for you, always…
– Aria di Mezzo Carattere, Final Fantasy VI
“Final Fantasy VI” Wikiquote.org. https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Final_Fantasy_VI
“Lunar Silver Stat Story: Complete”
Peter S. Beagle. The Last Unicorn. New York, NY: Roc, 1968/2008.
It’s early February and romance is in the air… or at least plastered all over store shelves. When it comes to mysteries the idea of a mystery-romance isn’t a new concept. Romance can add a certain spice to your writing, giving your reader another angle for targeting the “what if?” scenario while attempting to piece together the culprit and motive. However, there is a limit to how much some people can stand when the going gets sappy.
When you first write a mystery-romance, it may seem ideal to have your characters’ interpersonal relations be as detailed as possible. After all, you want to make sure the reader is fully aware and involved with the attraction between those characters. What doesn’t make sense is playing the romance up and forgetting about the mystery. Romances can contain elements of mystery, and mysteries can contain romance, but the tone of the book should make clear which of the two you are concentrating on.
If you want to write a romance, the relationships between the main characters should be your focus. The emotions, physical interactions, and interpersonal conflicts experienced should be more prevalent than any mystery that might cause a conflict or barrier to the relationship between those characters.
When writing a mystery, the plot should concentrate more on the details of the mystery. More of the romantic elements can be relegated to off-scene byplay. This leaves the reader more room for imaginative creativity. The puzzle, and its solution, should be the focus of the story.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying a steamy scene in your mystery should be deleted or never written. Romance can be used to create conflicts such as the main character having to protect a love-interest from, or reveal as, an element of the villainous machinations behind the evil deed that he/she is trying to uncover. The romantic interest can also be a source of comfort or inspiration for the main character. The main interactions between these characters can be used to generate reader sympathy and deepen our understanding of the emotional forces driving those characters, but should not be so in-depth that we spend an entire chapter just working through their “feelings” for each other without any reference to the mystery at hand.
My final advice is this: If you do find yourself writing a mystery that is more romance than mystery, don’t stop! There are places in this world for both kinds of writing. If you want to concentrate more on the mystery, then write what you will, edit the extraneous romance out, and keep it for another book that may concentrate more on romance than mystery. It’s not bad to be romantically detailed. Just keep it in mind while you create your passionate scenes during this “season of love” that your significant other may become annoyed if you only write the romance.