Castle Walls Editing

Tag: DPchallenge

  • Epistolaries at Dawn; or, POV Carousel

    You enter the tavern. Beyond a smattering of tables—some occupied, some not—a boy in grubby attire kneels by a hearth and pokes at a well-stoked fire. You feel the warmth of the blaze on your face and rub your hands together, glad to have found shelter from the night’s chill winds. You are led to a table by a serving girl whose fluttering hands distract you from the suspicious, even threatening, glances of those seated around you. You take your seat and are handed an envelope. The serving girl fixes you with her eyes but hurries off before you can question her. You open the envelope, remove a letter from it, and begin to read.

    ******

    Dear _____,

    I apologize for the manipulation, for having second-personed you. But I had to sit you in this room. Would you feel more comfortable in the third person? I’ll even render you in third-person objective, to be less intrusive.

    ******

    The individual at the table by the fire held the letter with trembling hands and cast furtive glances about the room, then continued reading the letter.

    ******

    Ah, I’m afraid that objective view just won’t satisfy. Let me try limited.

    ******

    The individual began to fear those seated about the tavern but couldn’t remember anything of life outside the tavern or even a reason for being there.

    ******

    Do I make you uncomfortable? Do you not enjoy being written of, or, should I say, being written? I can do third-person omniscient, too, but I don’t think you’ll like that at all.

    ******

    The serving girl cursed the new arrival, knowing that person wasn’t wanted there. The boy by the fire harbored thoughts of thievery. A heavyset man well into his cups thought of something far darker. Two women whispered hateful gossip, and in a dark corner, mostly unnoticed, the author smiled, thinking that everything, having fallen into place, was just as it should be.

    ******

    Ah, you don’t care for talk of the author, do you? You, the “individual,” must have thought yourself the center of the narrative. But it’s always been about me. Look around you. Behind every face are my thoughts. Cast your gaze into a mirror and see my thoughts behind your eyes as well. It seems you’re not an individual at all. You’re me, and I am you.

    CAST:

    First-Person Narrative:

    In this narrative mode, the story is told from the point of view of a person within the story. This narrative mode is marked by the use of “I” and lends itself well to a favorite of mine: the unreliable narrator. The laudanum-quaffing Wilkie Collins of Dan Simmons’s Drood is a good example of a first-person (and unreliable) narrator.

    Second-Person Narrative:

    Second-person narratives employ “you”: You enter the room. You fly into a rage. These are difficult to pull off and have a tendency to feel gimmicky. (Putting it that way makes one want to give it a go, though, doesn’t it?)

    Third-Person Narrative:

    This narrative mode is the real workhorse of literature, and readers will readily recognize its “he/she” style. Third-person objective relates actions but not the thoughts of the characters, while third-person limited relates the thoughts of one character and third-person omniscient floats among characters. War and Peace is a good example of third-person omniscient.

    In third-person narrative, the narrator is usually invisible, but my favorite stories are those in which the narrator seems invisible but gradually bleeds his or her way into the tale—this produces a wonderfully creepy effect.

  • I’m in the (Subjunctive) Mood for a Melody

    I wish I were the subjunctive mood. So mysterious. So misunderstood. If I were the subjunctive mood, only the cool crowd would get me, man. People would want to plumb my depths, find what lurks beneath these still waters. But my innermost nature would remain an eternal mystery, because I’d be like the wind, baby.

    The subjunctive mood has been referred to as a linguistic fossil, and as fewer and fewer people understand it, it falls farther and farther out of use and someday could conceivably disappear entirely. What a pity that would be.

    Of the people who do use it, one has to imagine that a good portion of those don’t know why they use it beyond recognizing that it “sounds right.” Someone might sing, “If I were a rich man,” but if pressed on why he or she sang “I were” instead of “I was,” the person would likely have no real idea—and might even fear that an error had been committed.

    The Merriam-Webster definition of mood is the “distinction of form or a particular set of inflectional forms of a verb to express whether the action or state it denotes is conceived as fact or in some other manner (as command, possibility, or wish).” (I could have paraphrased the definition right off, but this way I can recommend Harm∙less Drudg∙ery, an informative and entertaining blog from Merriam-Webster lexicographer Kory Stamper.)

    To put it more simply, mood shows the mode or manner that thoughts are expressed. Most people are much more familiar with the indicative mood, used to express facts and opinions and to make inquiries, and the imperative mood, used to give orders and make requests.

    The subjunctive mood, marked by seemingly odd verb forms and sometimes known as the malady-sounding conjunctive mood, is used to express statements that are contrary to fact or conditions that are doubtful or unreal, such as wishes and possibilities. Clauses beginning with if are a frequent hideout for subjunctive verbs.

    The following are a few examples of subjunctive verbs:

    • If I were taller, it would be you looking up to me.
    • I wish it were a sunnier day.
    • Her command was that we all be on our toes.

    Unreal states, wishing, longing even: yes, the subjunctive mood is a dreamer, and what a beautiful thing to be.

  • Mommy and Daddy Still Love You

    Commas are often like confused children who have to learn different sets of rules for each of their divorced parents’ homes. At Mom’s house, it’s perfectly acceptable—in fact, it’s mandatory—to jump into place before the word and in a series.

    “You need to do your homework, eat your dinner, and get to bed!” insisted Mom.

    But at Dad’s place, things are different. Dad, at his grumpiest, recently told the comma, “Quit fooling around with that and! Do your homework, eat your dinner and get to bed!”

    The comma does his best to do the right thing, but even when he knows he’s in the right place, Mom and Dad still give him trouble. At Mom’s house, he took his rightful place behind the state name in this sentence: “Solomons, Maryland, is a wonderful place to live.”

    “What in tarnation are you doing there? You don’t belong there!” chided Mom.

    At Dad’s, he rightfully slipped in behind the year: “January 1, 2013, is going to be the best New Year’s Day ever!”

    “Get out of there, boy. You being there just ain’t natural,” cried Dad, horrified.

    And the poor comma certainly never meant to come between Mom and Da—er, the subject and its verb.

    The comma Mom favors in our first example is referred to as the series (or Oxford) comma. It is considered more exact and it helps to avoid confusion. This, however, is a style choice, and Associated Press style, favored by most newspapers, allows this comma to be dropped.

    So neither Mom nor Dad is more correct than the other, though Mom has plenty of friends who support her point of view and Dad has his own pals who think he’s absolutely right. It’s all very confusing for a young comma struggling to find his place in this upside-down world.

    At least there’s one thing Mom and Dad can agree on: It would be nothing but trouble if their little comma started hanging out with semicolons.

    Reading update: I’m currently enjoying James Newman’s The Wicked, his spin on a 1980s-style horror novel, and Ian McEwan’s debut collection, First Love, Last Rites.