The types of viewpoint correlate roughly with the pronouns used in conjugating verbs: I did, you do, he does. There are, however, a number of variations on the most common types of viewpoint.
First person: “I did.”
First person viewpoint is narrated by the central viewpoint figure, who can describe his own actions, thoughts, and reactions, but can only tell what he thinks other people are thinking. Because the narrator can often be presumed to be telling the story after-the-fact, and because the whole story is his voice and his narration, he can judge other characters and give his opinions more freely than is possible in most of the third person viewpoints.
I hate the prince’s birthday. I’ve always hated it. Prince Conrad is a brat; he changes his mind twenty times and always has a batch of last-minute “requests” that make things hell for servants like me.
At least this year all he wanted was cream cakes. Last year, it was fresh peaches—in the middle of winter!—and the year before that it was some delicacy from the Far East that he’d read about in a book. Turned out to be a special kind of raw fish, and after all the trouble we went to to get hold of it, he took one bite and decided he didn’t like it and pitched a tantrum. Brat is the only word for it.
Cook had the cream cakes waiting on the big silver tray. Normally it takes two people to carry that tray, but we were short handed, what with Roger being sick, so I took it in myself. That was my first mistake; my second was stopping right in front of the door to steady the thing. And then Duke Gregory cannoned into me from behind. Cream cakes all over everything, and him cursing and glaring and trying to pretend it hadn’t been his fault.
“Damn it, watch where you’re going!” he shouted. I, of course, was properly dignified despite the green icing in my hair, as a good footman should be—though I confess that the Duke made it hard to keep my temper. But “Sorry, sir,” and “Very good, my lord,” was all I replied. It’s professional touches like that that are important when you work in a palace.
The butler told me later that that was when she got in, that Jililt woman who made all the trouble. I think I even remember seeing her on the far side of the hall—tall and blonde and not half amused, if you know what I mean. I can’t say for certain that it was her I noticed, though, because I was too busy mopping up cream cakes.
Comments:
In a good first-person viewpoint, every sentence is in the “voice” of the narrator—you want to use his particular turns of phrase in the narration, as well as the dialog, because he’s the one telling the story. Everything comes through his personal filter; if he dislikes dogs intensely, for instance, you can’t ever describe a toy poodle as “cute,” because your narrator wouldn’t ever do that—the most he’d ever do is concede that maybe this little dog isn’t quite as bad as most of them. The author can’t provide information the viewpoint character doesn’t know or show scenes the viewpoint character doesn’t experience.
Many people like first-person because they think it provides a more in-depth identification between the reader and the narrator; some horror writers have deliberately chosen to write psychopathic serial killers in the first person in order to force more of an identification from the reader for an unsympathetic character. Some readers detest this form, because they can’t see any excuse for the main character writing all this stuff down (or remembering it, for that matter.) Other readers prefer it.
First person has a couple of variations, including:
Epistolary first person:
April 3
Dear Mother:
Well, the Prince’s birthday has come and gone, and what a relief that is! It’s always hectic beforehand, with him changing his mind every few days about what he wants served and how many people he wants to come, and us trying to keep up. You earn your wages in this palace, let me tell you!
This year, he wanted cream cakes. I took the first tray out of the kitchen, and just outside the door Duke Gregory backed into me. Of course the tray wobbled and the cakes went all over everything. The Duke looked pretty funny with green icing in his hair, though that didn’t occur to me at the time. He was swearing and making a scene, probably because he knew it was his fault and he didn’t want to admit it. The Duke is like that. I remembered all your lessons and just said, “Sorry, my lord,” and cleaned up the cream cakes. There was a blonde woman watching from the other side of the room, not half amused, but I figured she was another one of the prince’s last-minute guests.
Comments:
This is an easy form for most people, because everybody has some idea of how to write a personal letter. It is harder to get dialog in, but the author can work in any number of personal opinions and speculations and quite a lot of background. A lot depends on the personal style of the viewpoint character/letter writer.
Journal style:
April 1
Prince’s birthday tomorrow. I ache already from carting tables around; he decided this morning to add 150 people to the guest list. It’s nearly midnight, and I’ll have to be up at six, so I write no more this evening.
April 2
The prince’s birthday party was more eventful than I expected. Roger sprained an ankle, (memo: remember to check on when he’ll be able to come back to work again) so we were shorthanded. Then the prince disrupted everything (as usual) by demanding cream cakes, which nobody had planned for. I suppose it’s better than that weird fish thing he wanted three years ago—thank goodness I wasn’t here then!
Got picked to take in the first tray of cream cakes—cook really did a splendid job on them. Right outside the kitchen door, Duke Gregory bumped into me. Cream cakes everywhere. [Note: have maids rewax floor tomorrow.] Naturally, the pompous old windbag blamed me, and I couldn’t say a thing without making an even bigger scene than it was already and probably getting fired. Should have shoved one of those cream cakes right in his face. I was in disgrace for the rest of the evening.
Comments:
Again, this is a fairly easy form for many people to begin with, because most people have some idea of how to write a personal diary or journal. Sentence fragments and disconnected bits or parenthetical remarks are more acceptable, because this is assumed to be private, informal writing—but this, too, depends on the style and personality of the journal writer, and too much can easily become irritating.
Stream-of-consciousness style:
I hate the prince’s birthday what a brat like to tell him what I think of him changing his mind all the time treating us like slaves not servants ought to stage a revolt cream cakes are revolting I can’t see why he’d want them I just want some time off no I have to carry that tray that takes two people usually am I a weight lifter or a footman they should pay extra for weights if I had extra pay I could get married maybe to someone like that cute blonde at the party but not her too snooty-looking and anyway she caused all that trouble I don’t want a troublesome wife I have trouble enough I won’t get extra pay now anyway after Duke Gregory spilled the whole tray did he look funny slipping and sliding with icing all down he blamed me and she got in and now I’ll never get out…
Comments:
The idea is to give the POV character’s thoughts directly, imitating the rather disjointed thought processes of a real-life interior monologue. This version left out the punctuation (how many people think in proper, organized sentences?), though it’s perfectly acceptable to do something like:
I hate the prince’s birthday. He’s such a brat. I’d like to tell him what I think of him, changing his mind all the time and treating us like slaves instead of servants. I ought to stage a revolt…revolting is hard work…cream cakes are revolting, I can’t see why he’d want them. I just want some time off, but noooo, I had to carry that tray that usually takes two people. Am I a weight lifter or a footman? They should pay extra for weight lifting. If I had extra pay, I could get married, maybe to someone like that cute blonde I saw at the party. Not to her, though—too snooty-looking and anyway, she caused all that trouble. I don’t want a troublesome wife. I have trouble enough already. I won’t get extra pay now, not after Duke Gregory spilled the tray of cream cakes. Boy, did he look funny slipping and sliding in the icing. It’s not funny that he blamed me, though, and that was when that awful woman got in, and now I’ll never get out…
The punctuation (and a little rephrasing) makes this more readable, but less like true stream-of-consciousness; dividing it up into paragraphs would make it even more readable, but even less stream-like, until you work your way back around to plain old first-person. Consequently, small blocks of this kind of intermediate POV get dropped into plain old first-person narratives sometimes, when the POV needs to think intensely about something.
In both varieties of stream-of-consciousness, there’s no actual stage business or action, only what filters into the character’s interior monologue (“I have to carry that tray”). There’s also an illusion of the kind of mental connections people make in real life, as with moving from “staging a revolt” to “cream cakes are revolting,” with the author making sure that the character’s interior monologue doesn’t wander off into mumbles about how revolting his muddy old shoes are, instead of circling back to the events of the story the author is interested in telling.
Stream-of-consciousness is a lot harder than it looks, and a lot of folks find it difficult to read. Consequently, you tend to see it either in experimental or literary fiction, or in short stories, or in short sections that are part of a longer work told in a more conventional POV (such as when a character has a decision to make or is pondering something). Interestingly, it also gets used sometimes in action sequences, where the author wants a sort of slow-motion or surreal feel to the fight or the fever dreams or the hero getting shot or whatever. Too much SoC in one place can destroy any tension the narrative has, because of the way it meanders; this is part of what makes it hard to do in long sections.
Second person: “You did.”
Second person also assumes a single central narrator, but the narrator is being described by someone else, as “you.” The author is still stuck with what the viewpoint character sees, hears, knows, and feels.
You enter the kitchen. Everything is laid out ready for the prince’s birthday. The cook hands you a heavy tray of iced cream cakes, and you stagger out into the main room.
As you pause outside the kitchen door to get a better grip on the tray, someone bumps into you from behind, hard. You stagger, trying desperately to keep control of the tray, but it is no use. Cream cakes fly everywhere, smearing you and the bystanders and the floor with sticky green icing. You turn and see Duke Gregory wiping frosting from his face.
“Damn it, man, watch where you’re going!” shouts the Duke.
Fury fills you; he bumped into you, after all! But you are only a footman, and he is a Duke. You swallow your anger and force yourself to reply, “Sorry, my lord” as you begin cleaning up.
Comments:
Second-person fiction is uncommon and somewhat “gimmicky.” It is difficult to pull off, because it requires the reader to identify closely with the viewpoint “you” character, and unless the reader does identify very strongly, there is a good chance that at some point the author will say “You swallow your anger…” and the reader will respond internally, “The hell I do! I pick up a cream cake and shove it in the jerk’s face!” and close the book in disgust.
Second-person viewpoint is nearly always told in present tense. It has a lot of the same limitations as first-person: the narrative really needs to sound like the viewpoint character, and the writer is limited to scene where the viewpoint character is present and information the viewpoint character sees and knows.
Third person: “He/she/it did.”
Third person, taken as a whole, is probably the most commonly used viewpoint. There are a number of different ways of writing a third person viewpoint, including:
Intimate third-person:
Also known as “tight third person,” “third person personal,” “limited third person,” and “third person subjective.” Like first and second person, third-person-intimate sticks to a single viewpoint character and tells the story as he/she would experience it. The narrative doesn’t have to be in the character’s “voice” the way it should be for a first-person viewpoint.
Gods, but I hate the prince’s birthday, Jon thought as he hurried toward the kitchen. If the little twerp isn’t adding forty more people to the guest list at the last minute, he’s demanding fresh peaches out of season. I wonder what it is this year?
“Cream cakes,” the cook informed him when he arrived. “This year, he wants cream cakes. They’re all ready, on the tray by the door. Careful, it’s heavy.”
“Right.” Even forewarned, lifting the tray was more of an effort than he expected. “I hope he eats himself sick.”
The cook’s laugh followed him out into the hall. He paused for a moment, getting the tray balanced just so, and someone bumped him heavily from behind.
Desperately, Jon tried to recover, but despite his efforts the tray teetered, showering cream cakes in all directions. There was an angry roar behind him, and he turned to find the portly Duke Gregory brushing green icing from his cloak and glaring daggers at him.
“Damn it, man! Look where you’re going,” the Duke said.
The injustice of it held Jon speechless just long enough for him to remember his duties. Pompous braggart! he thought angrily. It was your fault, not mine! But all he said aloud was, “Sorry, my lord.” Then, as he began to clean up the mess, he noticed that the Duke was avoiding his eyes. He knows, Jon realized, but he can’t admit it without looking foolish. Jon’s stomach clenched, and he felt his lips twist in a bitter smile. When a Duke didn’t want to look foolish, it usually meant that a servant got fired. It wasn’t fair, but that was how things worked.
As he straightened, he saw an unfamiliar blonde woman on the far side of the room watching them. Their eyes met, and her lip curled disdainfully before she turned away. Wonderful. Everyone in the kingdom is going to think I’m a klutz.
Comments:
Intimate third person sticks, obviously, with the inside of one person’s head and nobody else’s. Other people’s reactions must be given as observations or intuitions of the viewpoint character, some of which may be correct (“He knows …but he can’t admit it without looking foolish…”) and some of which may not be (“Everyone…is going to think I’m a klutz.”) Background has to be filled in through dialog or action, for the most part.
You can’t give information the viewpoint character doesn’t know or show a scene where he’s not present. Advantages are that it gives the reader an immediate strong identification, and allows the author to get deeply into the thoughts and feelings of the viewpoint character. Third-person-intimate is the most common form of the third-person viewpoints. You can give the character’s direct thoughts either as italics (“Pompous braggart!”), as normal text with a “speech tag” labeling it as a thought (“He knows, Jon realized…”), or as plain text that isn’t labeled, but that is clearly the thoughts of the viewpoint character (“It wasn’t fair, but that was how things worked.” [This last requires great care, or you end up writing sloppy omniscient; see below.]) Normally, you wouldn’t use all three varieties this close together, though. You can also give the viewpoint character’s internal physical sensations (“Jon’s stomach clenched”), but it’s harder to show external cues (“he felt his lips twist…”).
Advantages are that it gives the reader an immediate strong identification, and allows the author to get deeply into the thoughts and feelings of the viewpoint character, while allowing a bit more flexibility in narrative style (unlike first and second person viewpoints, the narrative doesn’t have to sound like the viewpoint character, though it can if you want it to do so).
Multiple viewpoint
Multiple viewpoint is not really the same kind of thing as first-second-third-person viewpoint. Multiple viewpoint refers to how many viewpoint characters there are (more than one), not to what POV the book is actually written in. In a multiple-viewpoint book, each scene or each chapter is from a single viewpoint, but the viewpoint character changes from scene to scene or chapter to chapter. A book can be either single viewpoint (one viewpoint character) or multiple-viewpoint (many viewpoint characters), regardless of whether it is first-person, second-person, third-person, or some mixture.
Third-person-intimate is usually the viewpoint that is used for individual scenes in a multiple-viewpoint story or novel, though sometimes authors will use first-person, or alternate between first and third. Multiple viewpoint is, therefore, really more of a structure than a different viewpoint. It’s in here, in this place, because people get confused about it, because it’s termed “multiple viewpoint,” and because third-person is most common for the sections of a multiple-viewpoint piece.
Gods, but I hate the prince’s birthday, Jon thought as he hurried toward the kitchen. If the little twerp isn’t adding forty more people to the guest list at the last minute, he’s demanding fresh peaches out of season. I wonder what it is this year?
“Cream cakes,” the cook informed him when he arrived. “This year, he wants cream cakes. They’re all ready, on the tray by the door. Careful, it’s heavy.”
“Right.” Even forewarned, lifting the tray was more of an effort than he expected. “I hope he eats himself sick.”
The cook’s laugh followed him out into the hall. He paused for a moment, getting the tray balanced just so, and someone bumped him heavily from behind.
#
Duke Gregory saw Lady Dorington before she saw him. Instantly, he ducked behind a pillar. The last thing he wanted was to spend half an hour hearing about the woman’s latest imaginary illness. Of all the bores at court, she’s the greatest. Cautiously, he peered around the pillar to see where she was now.
She was coming in his direction. The Duke backed away, keeping his eyes on her, and bumped into someone. He turned to apologize, and found himself facing a wide silver tray half full of little cakes with green frosting. Looking down, he realized what had happened to the other half of the cakes; his ermine cloak was streaked with green frosting, and when he took an involuntary step backward, something squished unpleasantly under his boot.
The apology died on his lips. “Damn it, man! Look where you’re going,” he burst out, knowing even as he spoke that it was unjust. The accident had been his fault, not the servant’s, but it was too late to admit it now.
The footman who had been carrying the tray looked at the Duke and his lips thinned, but all he said was, “Yes, your grace.”
The servant’s reaction made the Duke feel even guiltier about his unfortunate outburst. He’d have to see that the man got some compensation later; in fact, he’d speak to the steward at once…well, right after he got someone to take his cloak away to be cleaned.
Comments:
The first half of the scene is third-person-intimate from Jon’s viewpoint; the second is third-person-intimate from the Duke’s viewpoint. Normally, one would not switch viewpoints quite so quickly (the scenes would be longer) and the viewpoint characters would be central to the story being told. If this were the opening of a story about the development of an unlikely friendship between the Duke and the footman, both viewpoints would be very appropriate; if it were the opening of a story about the Duke’s dealings with the prince, in which Jon plays no part, I would cut or rewrite the section that’s told from Jon’s viewpoint; if it were about a servants-eye view of palace intrigue, I would probably rewrite or cut the Duke’s viewpoint.
Multiple viewpoint is sometimes confused with omniscient viewpoint, because in the course of the story the reader sees into the thoughts and feelings of a number of different viewpoint characters. In both multiple viewpoint and omniscient viewpoint, the reader knows more about what is going on than any of the individual characters do. The difference is that in omniscient viewpoint, there is a single invisible narrator who knows what everyone is thinking and feeling, while in multiple viewpoint, there are a number of different narrators, each of whom knows only what he himself is thinking and feeling. Again, it is perfectly possible to use multiple first-person viewpoints, or to use first person in some scenes and third in others, so long as it is not confusing for the reader and so long as each type of viewpoint is maintained consistently within its scene. This is, however, not terribly easy to pull off.
Camera eye:
Also known as “third person objective,” “fly-on-the-wall,” or “observer-in-the-corner.” Everything is told from outside the characters’ heads; only their actions and appearance may be reported, not their thoughts or feelings.
“Got the cream cakes ready yet, Mrs. Fuster?” Jon asked. “Prince Conrad has been asking.”
“I bet he has, the little pest,” Mrs. Fuster said, her arm moving constantly as she stirred the contents of a large iron pot that hung over the kitchen fire. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t changed his mind again about what he wants for his birthday party. Watch that roast!” she called to a kitchen maid. “You’ll have it burned in another minute, and you know what the prince will say about that! Yes, Jon, they’re on the tray by the door.”
Jon looked, and groaned. “Why that one? It weighs twenty pounds if it weighs an ounce, even without anything on it!”
“It’s all we had left. Get on with you.”
Picking up the tray, Jon staggered out into the great hall. He was barely two steps in when a large, portly man in an ermine cloak backed into him. The tray teetered, sending cream cakes showering over the ermine cloak and skidding across the floor. “Duke Gregory!” Jon gasped.
“Damn it, man, watch where you’re going!” Duke Gregory said. He brushed ineffectually at the green icing covering his cloak, his eyes carefully avoiding Jon’s.
Jon’s lips tightened to a thin line. After the briefest of hesitations, he said in a wooden tone, “Sorry, sir,” and began cleaning up the mess.
Around them, the courtiers snickered and went back to their conversations. On the far side of the hall, a tall blonde woman eyed them a moment longer. Then her lip curled slightly and she turned away, scanning the crowd as if in search of something…or someone.
Comments:
Because it’s camera eye third person, i.e. we don’t get to know anyone’s thoughts or see or hear about anything that isn’t actually happening in the scene, the backfill about the party being “hell on servants” has to be done by implication through a new dialog section between two of the servants. No thoughts are shown, just actions and dialog, and no interpretations or judgments are given. Only action, physical description, and dialog is given. In a longer piece, “physical description” could easily include more description of the place (the hall, the kitchen), including sensory details like the smell of the stew (OK, so it’s a spiffy futuristic camera that does more than sight-and-sound, all right?). Camera eye is more distancing than intimate-third, because you don’t get to see individual characters’ thoughts and feelings, but in compensation, the scope is greater—the author can show anything that is happening in the area, whether the main character notices it or not, and can point out that the main character isn’t noticing it.
Camera-eye often gets used in multiple-viewpoint novels where the writer wants to give the reader a taste of what the villain is doing, without actually going into the villain’s head as a tight-third POV character (and thus giving away the villain’s whole plot). The villain’s scenes get written in camera-eye, while all the hero’s scenes are in tight-third.
Omniscient:
In omniscient, the narrator is an invisible character who knows everything that is happening and everything that anyone is thinking and feeling, and who can report any of this as seems appropriate.
Every year, the castle servants spent weeks preparing for Prince Conrad’s birthday party. They cleaned, they decorated, and they prepared hundreds of special treats—only to have the prince change his mind at the last minute (sometimes three or four times) and call for some new and different delicacy. The sushi he’d demanded three years earlier had been a particularly memorable disaster, and the tale was still used by the senior servants to terrify newcomers to the palace staff.
This year, the last-minute addition to the menu was a tray of cream cakes with fluffy green frosting that had taken the cook two hours to get just right. Jon, the footman, took the heavy tray with a combination of appreciation and irritation, then staggered directly out to the great hall. Unfortunately, he didn’t see Duke Gregory backing away from Lady Dorington. The Duke didn’t notice Jon, either; he was too busy trying to avoid hearing about Lady Dorington’s latest illnesses, and in his haste and inattention, he collided with the overburdened footman.
Cream cakes slid and squashed, leaving green trails of icing behind them as they glided down the Duke’s ermine cloak to the floor. “Damn it, man, look where you’re going!” the Duke roared, trying to cover his embarrassment with a show of anger—he knew the accident had been his fault, but how could he admit it to a servant, and in front of so many other nobles? Jon, though internally seething with annoyance and frustration, responded with the bland, self-effacing control of the perfect footman, and set about cleaning up the mess at once.
The minor accident had one further effect: while the crowd watched the two principles with varying degrees of amusement, a tall blonde woman slipped unnoticed into the hall. The woman, Jililt, glanced briefly at the disorder and turned away in disdain to pursue her own dark purposes.
Comments:
Omniscient viewpoint doesn’t always give the reader a clear character to identify with. It is thus more distancing than intimate-third-person or camera eye third, and partly for these reasons is uncommon in modern fiction. Omniscient viewpoint is, generally speaking, the easiest viewpoint to do badly and the most difficult to do well for most authors. It’s easy to do badly because it’s easy to do accidentally—the minute a sentence like “Meanwhile, back at the ranch…” or “If he had only known…” or “She didn’t realize that her sister was a crook…” or “Like the rest of us, they got confused by…” goes into a scene, the viewpoint becomes slippery. However, it is extremely easy for someone who has been steeped in the “rules” to mistake perfectly fine omniscient for sloppy tight-third-person, and flag it as “bad writing” inappropriately.
Omniscient is really hard for a lot of folks to get a handle on, because it can look a bit like pretty much any of the other third-person viewpoints if the author tries hard enough. Also, lots of folks who write omniscient tend to go for an omniscient that slants a bit toward either camera-eye or tight-third-person. Many people also confuse multiple viewpoint and omniscient viewpoint, because in multiple viewpoint one gets to know the thoughts of more than one character. The difference is that in omniscient viewpoint, you can get the thoughts of more than one character in the same scene. In multiple viewpoint, each scene is limited to one viewpoint character, and that viewpoint character changes from scene to scene.
The above example is one variety of omniscient; there are others (such as that used in Lonesome Dove or John M. Ford’s Growing up Weightless) that are easily mistaken for tight-third if you miss the transition bits where the viewpoint is handed off from one character to another. The extreme flexibility of omniscient is one of the things that makes it so difficult to do effectively.
What Not to do: Really Bad Omniscient:
Prince Conrad’s birthday is always hell on servants, Jon thought as he hefted a tray of cream-cakes. Of course, Jon had never liked being a servant. If he had had more resolution, he would have been a revolutionary, but he didn’t. He was a footman. Mrs. Fuster agreed with him, though of course neither of them said anything aloud. They were right, though. The prince was a real brat. He always demanded something special at the last minute. This year, it was the very tray of cream-cakes that Jon was staggering through the crowd with. If Jon had only realized that, he’d have been more careful, though it still wouldn’t have helped. Duke Gregory would have cannoned into him just the same, but Jon would have felt better about it afterward. The Duke was avoiding Lady Dorington, the biggest bore at court, and he didn’t notice Jon until he had upset the cream-cakes all over both of them.
“Damn it!” the Duke roared as cream cakes slid from the polished silver and smeared green icing softly across the back of his ermine cape. Everyone nearby laughed at him. They thought he was a pompous windbag and deserved to be covered in green icing. Jon thought so, too. “Watch where you’re going!” Damned careless servants these days, not like when I was a boy. He should have avoided me.
It was his fault, not mine! Jon had never liked the Duke. What a stuck up, pompous braggart. “Sorry sir,” he said aloud, brushing ineffectively at the Duke’s cloak. Buffoons, the pair of them. Jililt glided through the doorway on the other side of the room. This may be easier than I thought. She was disgusted with the whole business. Had she only known it, the little accident and the widening circles of attention it had attracted were the sole reason she had been able to slip into the hall unnoticed.
Problems with the above:
The section starts off looking as if it’s third-person intimate, then turns into omniscient in the second sentence. Narrator makes judgments about characters’ actions and reactions (“They were right.” “If Jon had realized…he’d have been more careful.”) which has the effect of trying to force the reader’s reaction. Narrator also makes judgments about characters (“The prince was a real brat”), which has the same effect (forcing reader’s interpretation). The narrator makes obtrusive predictions (“it still wouldn’t have helped…he’d have felt better about it afterward.”) and inserts irrelevant information (“Everybody thought he was a pompous windbag…”). Jumping from head to head so abruptly makes things choppy and awkward; sometimes it is confusing as well (does Mrs. Fuster agree with Jon’s revolutionary views, or with his opinion of the prince’s birthday? Is it Jililt or Jon who thinks “Buffoons”?). The reader has to keep switching between an intimate and a distant viewpoint with very little transition, or between different intimate viewpoints ditto ditto. And the “Had he/she only known…” construction and its variations are clumsy and dated. Omniscient also makes it much easier to “tell” what people are feeling (“she was disgusted”) instead of “showing” it (“Her lip curled in disgust.”)
