Critical Thinking: It all depends on your...

Kersley Fitzgerald

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Point of View, too

It is a tradition, borne from the very creation of the universe, that science fiction shalt be written in consistent third person and woe to he who strays. Maybe because the setting is so out-there, readers feel better being inside the mind of the main character as he battles Morgonians and faulty anti-gravity rays and the tragically beautiful, yet exquisitely dangerous Evangelisteria. Whatever the reason, science fiction is generally written in one POV per scene, and that POV is only changed if separated by a section break (double space) or a new chapter.

And almost every author I’ve heard or book on writing I’ve read pushes this. It is the writer’s sacred duty to determine by whose eyes the reader is experiencing the action taking place. If the feelings and motivations of another character cannot be seen or understood by that representative POV, the scene must break. That is the only way to write, and anything else is sloppy writing that will not be accepted.

Yeah, that’s pretty much bunk. I’m not saying this because I’m a better writing guru than all those people who get paid. Or because writing is a subjective art form that people attempt to put rules on in order to get other people to pay them to hear their rules and give them a guilt complex when they find that all along, they’ve been doing it wrong. I say this because a lot of the stories and books out there, submitted, paid for, and published by editors and professional book-type people, walk all over this “hard and fast rule.” Forget about idealized qualities; I’m talking about reality.

At the same time, in general, I think it’s a good rule. If you’re writing a historical thesis, it’s good to divulge the motivations of the different generals in the war, and maybe one paragraph is the place for that. But that’s a book that knows it’s being read by someone—and it’s written in omniscient POV. In a story, you want to draw the reader in, give them a little escapism, and develop sympathy for your characters. That’s hard to do when you switch back and forth, willy-nilly, between different characters’ heads. I’m not saying it isn’t done out there, because it is. But you have to think about what serves your story the best. Very often, you can ditch the interior monologue of that secondary character without losing anything terribly important. And, if you can’t, put in a section break and deal with it.

At this point, I wish I could copy and paste the entire chapter on POV from Self-Editing for Fiction Writers by Renni Browne and Dave King. They explain how Big Fat Authors Who Know What They’re Doing can go a different route. In Big Fat Literary Novels, third-person POV can shift. Authors zoom in on one character’s thoughts, zoom out to give a few paragraphs in a wider view, then zoom back in on another character’s perception. It’s one of those “don’t try this at home, we’re professionals” things and not very commonly done well in sci fi.


As an exercise, see how many POV errors you can find in the following:

Dr. Opthalmop padded into the infirmary on his frog-like feet. It had been a long season, and not likely to get any easier. This year’s serpent flu outbreak had run him ragged.

He pulled away the curtain separating a small examination room. Cranjellywart, the Dwarf archivist, sat on the bed, his thick, black beard flowing over a white hospital gown. The muffin that Keoni had snuck in from the hospital coffee shop hid under the sheet. He bent over his lap, engrossed in the open Biggun novel sitting there. Next to him, a tiny Leprechaun sat on a chair.

Opthalmop pulled up the Dwarf’s chart on his PDA. “Feeling any better? Your temperature’s dropping.”

Sinead rose from the chair, a silent moue for the doctor’s electronic device. Didn’t he know all Biggun tech would be obsolete in a mere year and a half? Why become reliant on something that wasn’t going to last? But he was a good doctor, and the Deputy Director of Wee Folk/Biggun Relations did appreciate all the personal attention he’d given Cran. “When can he come home, doctor?”

The Gnome doctor stuck out his lower lip and consulted the charts. “Oh, tomorrow, I’d say.” How had a Dwarf scored a Leprechaun? Not that he wasn’t happily married. He squeezed Cranjellywart’s toes. “Ready to go home?”

The Dwarf raised red-rimmed eyes and sniffed mightily. “If Edward loves Bella, why did he leave?”

Sinead took her boyfriend’s hand and patted it as Cranjellywart dissolved into tears. She sure hoped he’d get over this soon.


Besides the dizzying back and forth between Dr. Opthalmop’s and Sinead’s POVs, there are two other POV faux pas. One is information relayed when the POV character has no way of knowing that information. It’s true that the doctor could have seen Cranjellywart hide the muffin, but unlikely. The other is information relayed when the POV character would be unlikely to think about it. Why would the doctor think about his frog-like feet or his Gnome ethnicity? Why would Sinead refer to herself by her job title in this setting? If you want to relate the information to the reader, you have to be more creative about it.


Dr. Opthalmop strode into the infirmary. It had been a long season, and not likely to get any easier. This year’s serpent flu outbreak had run him ragged.

A Brownie nurse glared at his bare feet padding on the flagstone floor. The doctor sighed. It wasn’t his fault the cobbler Elves still couldn’t make shoes that properly fit Gnomes’ frog-like paddles. He’d been on his feet for twelve hours, and the cool stone relieved the aching caused by the tight leather.

He pulled away the curtain separating a small examination room. Cranjellywart, the Dwarf archivist, sat on the bed, his thick, black beard flowing over a white hospital gown, engrossed in the open Biggun novel sitting on his lap. Next to him, a tiny Leprechaun sat on a chair. Opthalmop pulled up the Dwarf’s chart on his PDA.

“Feeling any better? Your temperature’s dropping.”

The Leprechaun rose from the chair, a silent moue directed at the PDA. Dr. Opthalmop recognized her—Sinead O’Riordan, Deputy Director for Wee Folk/Biggun Relations. Surely she of all people wouldn’t mind him using Biggun technology. She must be concerned about what was written on the screen.

“When can he come home, doctor?”

He smiled inwardly. She really was worried. How had a Dwarf scored a Leprechaun? Not that he wasn’t a happily married Gnome.

He consulted the charts. “Oh, tomorrow, I’d say.” He squeezed Cranjellywart’s toes. “Ready to go home?”

The Dwarf raised red-rimmed eyes and sniffed mightily. “If Edward loves Bella, why did he leave?”

The doctor chuckled, patted Cranjellywart’s feet, and padded on to his next patient.

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Glowfeather jingled from her perch on the curtain rod.

“You noticed his PDA, too?” Sinead shook her head. “Downwhiffenspit sent out the notice—Biggun communication devices will be obsolete in less than two years. But Folk think they know best. I’d be afraid to get too reliant on something that won’t last.” She felt Cran’s forehead. It was a bit cooler. “But he is a good doctor. He’s been in three times just today.”

The Dwarf reached under the sheet and pulled out the muffin Keoni had smuggled into his room. He took a bite and flipped the page in his book. He read a few lines and burst into tears, spitting muffin crumbs all over his book.

Sinead took her boyfriend’s hand and patted it. She sure hoped he’d get over this soon.

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If Kersley Fitzgerald ever dresses in heels, bleaches her hair, and moves to California, please take her to the nearest Gnome doctor and ask him about serpent flu.