Cheryll
03-30-2006, 11:58 PM
Greetings, everyone. :)
Like a lot of writers, I find that one of my biggest challenges is keeping POV straight in a scene. I prefer to write in third person limited, but I find myself head-hopping if I'm not careful.
I recently discovered Elizabeth George, and I'm devouring her novels at a rapid rate! She also writes in third person limited style and is, in my opinion, a master at keeping POV straight, even in a dramatic scene with multiple characters present.
Here is an excerpt from her novel For the Sake of Elena. The scene: A young deaf college student, Elena Weaver, has been found murdered at Cambridge. Inspector Thomas Lynley is assigned to the case. While at a college jazz concert with his love interest, Lady Helen, he sees a potential suspect and decides to question him.
(Note: highlighted sections are my emphasis and I've skipped over some parts for brevity)
Lynley eyed the older man, (POV FOR THIS SCENE IS LYNLEY) taking his measure as the potential lover of a twenty-year-old girl. Although Troughton had a youthful, pixie-like face, he was otherwise perfectly nondescript, an ordinary man no more than five feet eight inches tall whose toast-coloured hair looked soft and was curly but was also decidedly thinning on the top. He appeared to be somewhere in his late forties, and aside from the width of his shoulders and the depth of his chest - both of which suggested that he was a rower - Lynley had to admit that he didn't look at all the type of man to have attracted and seduced someone like Elena Weaver.
As the other man began to pass by them on his way to the door, Lynley said, "Dr. Troughton?"
Troughton paused, looked surprised to have a stranger addressing him by name. "Yes?"
"Thomas Lynley," he said and introduced Lady Helen. He reached into his pocket and produced his police identification. "May we go somewhere to talk?"
Troughton didn't appear the least bewildered by the request. Instead, he looked both resigned and relieved. "Yes. This way," he said and led them out into the night.
He took them to his rooms in the building that comprised the north range of the college garden, two courtyards away from the JCR. On the second floor, they overlooked the River Cam on one side and the garden on the other. They consisted of a small bedroom and a study, the former furnished only with an unmade single bed and the latter crowded with ancient, overstuffed furniture and a vast and undisciplined number of books.
Troughton picked up a sheaf of essays from one of the chairs and put it on his desk. He said, "May I offer you a brandy?" and when Lynley and Lady Helen accepted, he went to a glass-fronted cabinet to one side of the fireplace where he took out three plain balloon glasses and held each one up to the light before pouring. He didn't say anything until he had taken a seat in one of the heavy, overstuffed chairs.
"You've come about Elena Weaver, haven't you?" He spoke quietly, calmly. (No distinction needed here. We're not in Troughton's head.) "I've been expecting you since yesterday afternoon. Did Justine give you my name?"
"No. Elena herself did, after a fashion. She'd been making a curious mark on her calendar ever since last January," Lynley said. "A small line drawing of a fish."
"Yes. I see." Troughton gave his attention to his balloon glass. His eyes filled, and he pressed his fingers to them before he raised his head. "Of course, she didn't call me Trout," he said. "She called me Victor."
"But it was her shorthand method of noting when you'd meet, I should guess. And, no doubt, a way to keep the knowledge from her father shoudl he ever happen to glance at her calendar on a visit to her room. Because, I imagine, you know her father quite well."
Troughton nodded. He took a swallow of his brandy and set his glass on the table that separated his chair from Lady Helen's. He patted the breast pocket of his grey tweed jacket and brought out a cigarette case. He offered it round and then lit up, the match flickering in his fingers like an uneasy beacon. He had large hands, Lynley noted, strong-looking with smooth, oval nails. They were his best feature. (Lynley's POV)
Troughton kept his eyes on his cigarette as he said, "The hardest part these last three days has been the pretence of it all. Coming to the college, seeing to my supervisions, taking my meals with the others. Making small talk while all the time I wanted to throw my head back and howl." When his voice wavered on the last word, Lady Helen leaned forward in her chair as if she would offer him sympathy, but she stopped herself when Lynley lifted his hand in quick admonition. Troughton steadied himself and went on.
"But what right have I to any one of the externals of grief? I have duties, after all. I have responsibilities. A wife. Three children. I'm supposed to think of them. I ought to be thankful that my marriage and my career didn't come crashing down round me because I've spent the last eleven months screwing a deaf girl twenty-seven years my junior. In fact, inside my ugly little soul, I ought to be secretly thankful Elena's out of the way. No mess now, no scandal, no titters and whispers behind my back. That's what men my age do, isn't it, when they've puffed themselves up with a successful seduction that, over time, grows a bit tedious."
"It wasn't like that for you?"
"I love her. I can't even say loved because if I put it in the past tense, I'm going to have to face the fact that she's gone and I can't stand the thought of it."
"She was pregnant. Did you know that?"
Troughton closed his eyes. The weak overhead light cast shadows from his eyelashes onto his skin. He appeared to be willing himself not to cry. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. He said, "I knew."
"I should think that offered the possibility of serious difficulties for you, Dr. Troughton."
"The scandal, you mean? The loss of life-long friendships? The damage to my career? None of that mattered. I reached the conclusion that connection to another person is the only item of real value in life. And I found that connection with Elena. I would have done anything to keep her. Elena."
The saying of her name seemed a necessity to Troughton, a subtle form of release that he had not allowed himself since her death. But still he didn't cry, as if he believed that to give in to sorrow was to lose control over the few aspects of his life that remained unshattered by the girl's murder. (keeps the reader in Lynley's head and not Troughton's)
Lady Helen went to the cabinet by the fireplace and found the bottle of brandy. She poured a bit more into Troughton's glass. Her own face, Lynley saw, was grave and composed.
"When did you see Elena last?" Lynley asked him.
"Sunday night. Here."
"But she didn't spend the night, did she? The porter saw her leaving St. Stephens to go running in the morning."
"She left me... it must have been just before one."
"And you? Did you go home as well?"
"I stayed. I do that most weeknights, and have done for some two years now."
"I see. Your home isn't in the city, then?"
"It's in Trumpington." Troughton read the expression on Lynley's face, adding, "Yes, I know, Inspector. Trumpington's hardly such a distance from the college to warrant having to spend the night here. Obviously, my reasons for dossing here had to do with a distance of a very different sort."
Troughton's cigarette had burnt itself to nothing in the ashtray. He lit another and took more of the brandy. He appeared to have himself once more under control.
Lynley asked, "Dr. Troughton, did you assume she was using a contraceptive of some sort? Did she tell you she was?"
"No. She never said a word one way or another. And she didn't need to, Inspector. I wouldn't have made any difference to me if she had." He picked up his brandy glass and turned it in his palm. It seemed a largely meditative gesture. (again - keeps the POV with Lynley)
Lynley watched the play of uncertainty on his face. He felt irritated at the delicacy with which the circumstances suggested he probe for the truth. He said, "Perhaps you'd care to tell me what you're holding back."
Victor Troghton raised his head and said, "I was going to marry Elena. Frankly, I welcomed the opportunity to do so. But her baby wasn't mine."
"Wasn't--"
"She didn't know that. She thought I was the father. And I let her believe it. But I wasn't, I'm afraid."
"You sound certain of that."
"I am, Inspector." Troughton offered a smile of infinate sadness. "I had a vasectomy nearly three years ago. Elena didn't know. And I didn't tell her. I've never told anyone."
*********
Comments or observations? Anyone disagree or suggest another/better way of doing this?
Cheryll
Like a lot of writers, I find that one of my biggest challenges is keeping POV straight in a scene. I prefer to write in third person limited, but I find myself head-hopping if I'm not careful.
I recently discovered Elizabeth George, and I'm devouring her novels at a rapid rate! She also writes in third person limited style and is, in my opinion, a master at keeping POV straight, even in a dramatic scene with multiple characters present.
Here is an excerpt from her novel For the Sake of Elena. The scene: A young deaf college student, Elena Weaver, has been found murdered at Cambridge. Inspector Thomas Lynley is assigned to the case. While at a college jazz concert with his love interest, Lady Helen, he sees a potential suspect and decides to question him.
(Note: highlighted sections are my emphasis and I've skipped over some parts for brevity)
Lynley eyed the older man, (POV FOR THIS SCENE IS LYNLEY) taking his measure as the potential lover of a twenty-year-old girl. Although Troughton had a youthful, pixie-like face, he was otherwise perfectly nondescript, an ordinary man no more than five feet eight inches tall whose toast-coloured hair looked soft and was curly but was also decidedly thinning on the top. He appeared to be somewhere in his late forties, and aside from the width of his shoulders and the depth of his chest - both of which suggested that he was a rower - Lynley had to admit that he didn't look at all the type of man to have attracted and seduced someone like Elena Weaver.
As the other man began to pass by them on his way to the door, Lynley said, "Dr. Troughton?"
Troughton paused, looked surprised to have a stranger addressing him by name. "Yes?"
"Thomas Lynley," he said and introduced Lady Helen. He reached into his pocket and produced his police identification. "May we go somewhere to talk?"
Troughton didn't appear the least bewildered by the request. Instead, he looked both resigned and relieved. "Yes. This way," he said and led them out into the night.
He took them to his rooms in the building that comprised the north range of the college garden, two courtyards away from the JCR. On the second floor, they overlooked the River Cam on one side and the garden on the other. They consisted of a small bedroom and a study, the former furnished only with an unmade single bed and the latter crowded with ancient, overstuffed furniture and a vast and undisciplined number of books.
Troughton picked up a sheaf of essays from one of the chairs and put it on his desk. He said, "May I offer you a brandy?" and when Lynley and Lady Helen accepted, he went to a glass-fronted cabinet to one side of the fireplace where he took out three plain balloon glasses and held each one up to the light before pouring. He didn't say anything until he had taken a seat in one of the heavy, overstuffed chairs.
"You've come about Elena Weaver, haven't you?" He spoke quietly, calmly. (No distinction needed here. We're not in Troughton's head.) "I've been expecting you since yesterday afternoon. Did Justine give you my name?"
"No. Elena herself did, after a fashion. She'd been making a curious mark on her calendar ever since last January," Lynley said. "A small line drawing of a fish."
"Yes. I see." Troughton gave his attention to his balloon glass. His eyes filled, and he pressed his fingers to them before he raised his head. "Of course, she didn't call me Trout," he said. "She called me Victor."
"But it was her shorthand method of noting when you'd meet, I should guess. And, no doubt, a way to keep the knowledge from her father shoudl he ever happen to glance at her calendar on a visit to her room. Because, I imagine, you know her father quite well."
Troughton nodded. He took a swallow of his brandy and set his glass on the table that separated his chair from Lady Helen's. He patted the breast pocket of his grey tweed jacket and brought out a cigarette case. He offered it round and then lit up, the match flickering in his fingers like an uneasy beacon. He had large hands, Lynley noted, strong-looking with smooth, oval nails. They were his best feature. (Lynley's POV)
Troughton kept his eyes on his cigarette as he said, "The hardest part these last three days has been the pretence of it all. Coming to the college, seeing to my supervisions, taking my meals with the others. Making small talk while all the time I wanted to throw my head back and howl." When his voice wavered on the last word, Lady Helen leaned forward in her chair as if she would offer him sympathy, but she stopped herself when Lynley lifted his hand in quick admonition. Troughton steadied himself and went on.
"But what right have I to any one of the externals of grief? I have duties, after all. I have responsibilities. A wife. Three children. I'm supposed to think of them. I ought to be thankful that my marriage and my career didn't come crashing down round me because I've spent the last eleven months screwing a deaf girl twenty-seven years my junior. In fact, inside my ugly little soul, I ought to be secretly thankful Elena's out of the way. No mess now, no scandal, no titters and whispers behind my back. That's what men my age do, isn't it, when they've puffed themselves up with a successful seduction that, over time, grows a bit tedious."
"It wasn't like that for you?"
"I love her. I can't even say loved because if I put it in the past tense, I'm going to have to face the fact that she's gone and I can't stand the thought of it."
"She was pregnant. Did you know that?"
Troughton closed his eyes. The weak overhead light cast shadows from his eyelashes onto his skin. He appeared to be willing himself not to cry. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. He said, "I knew."
"I should think that offered the possibility of serious difficulties for you, Dr. Troughton."
"The scandal, you mean? The loss of life-long friendships? The damage to my career? None of that mattered. I reached the conclusion that connection to another person is the only item of real value in life. And I found that connection with Elena. I would have done anything to keep her. Elena."
The saying of her name seemed a necessity to Troughton, a subtle form of release that he had not allowed himself since her death. But still he didn't cry, as if he believed that to give in to sorrow was to lose control over the few aspects of his life that remained unshattered by the girl's murder. (keeps the reader in Lynley's head and not Troughton's)
Lady Helen went to the cabinet by the fireplace and found the bottle of brandy. She poured a bit more into Troughton's glass. Her own face, Lynley saw, was grave and composed.
"When did you see Elena last?" Lynley asked him.
"Sunday night. Here."
"But she didn't spend the night, did she? The porter saw her leaving St. Stephens to go running in the morning."
"She left me... it must have been just before one."
"And you? Did you go home as well?"
"I stayed. I do that most weeknights, and have done for some two years now."
"I see. Your home isn't in the city, then?"
"It's in Trumpington." Troughton read the expression on Lynley's face, adding, "Yes, I know, Inspector. Trumpington's hardly such a distance from the college to warrant having to spend the night here. Obviously, my reasons for dossing here had to do with a distance of a very different sort."
Troughton's cigarette had burnt itself to nothing in the ashtray. He lit another and took more of the brandy. He appeared to have himself once more under control.
Lynley asked, "Dr. Troughton, did you assume she was using a contraceptive of some sort? Did she tell you she was?"
"No. She never said a word one way or another. And she didn't need to, Inspector. I wouldn't have made any difference to me if she had." He picked up his brandy glass and turned it in his palm. It seemed a largely meditative gesture. (again - keeps the POV with Lynley)
Lynley watched the play of uncertainty on his face. He felt irritated at the delicacy with which the circumstances suggested he probe for the truth. He said, "Perhaps you'd care to tell me what you're holding back."
Victor Troghton raised his head and said, "I was going to marry Elena. Frankly, I welcomed the opportunity to do so. But her baby wasn't mine."
"Wasn't--"
"She didn't know that. She thought I was the father. And I let her believe it. But I wasn't, I'm afraid."
"You sound certain of that."
"I am, Inspector." Troughton offered a smile of infinate sadness. "I had a vasectomy nearly three years ago. Elena didn't know. And I didn't tell her. I've never told anyone."
*********
Comments or observations? Anyone disagree or suggest another/better way of doing this?
Cheryll