Day 35 – Poetry

…

The Paradox of Poetry: Unpacking Elizabeth Bishop’s Insight

Elizabeth Bishop, a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, once astutely observed, “Writing poetry is an unnatural act. It takes great skill to make it seem natural.” This statement may seem counterintuitive, as poetry is often associated with spontaneity and emotional expression. However, Bishop’s words reveal a profound truth about the craft of poetry, one that warrants closer examination. In this blog post, we’ll delve into the complexities of writing poetry, exploring why it can be considered an unnatural act, and what it takes to make it seem natural.

The Unnatural Act of Writing Poetry

On the surface, poetry appears to be a natural extension of human language, a way to express thoughts, emotions, and experiences through words. However, the process of crafting a poem is often a deliberate and calculated one. Poets must carefully select and arrange words, considering factors like meter, rhyme, imagery, and syntax, to convey their intended meaning. This self-conscious process can feel unnatural, as it requires a level of manipulation and control that doesn’t always come easily.

Furthermore, poetry often involves distilling complex emotions and ideas into concise, precise language, which can be a challenging and artificial process. Poets must navigate the tension between authenticity and artifice, striving to capture the essence of their subject matter while also shaping it into a cohesive, aesthetically pleasing form. This balancing act can make writing poetry feel like an unnatural act, as it demands a high degree of craftsmanship and attention to detail.

The Skill of Making it Seem Natural

So, how do poets overcome the unnatural aspects of writing poetry and make it seem natural? According to Bishop, it takes great skill. This skill encompasses a range of abilities, including:

1. Mastering form and technique: Poets must develop a deep understanding of poetic forms, such as sonnets, free verse, or haikus, and learn to wield them effectively. This involves experimenting with different structures, rhythms, and language patterns to find the right fit for their message.
2. Developing a unique voice: A poet’s voice is the distinctive tone, style, and perspective they bring to their work. Cultivating a unique voice requires a deep understanding of one’s own experiences, emotions, and observations, as well as the ability to express them in a way that feels authentic and relatable.
3. Using language effectively: Poets must be skilled in the use of language, able to select words, images, and metaphors that evoke the desired response in the reader. This involves a keen sense of observation, a rich vocabulary, and a willingness to experiment with language.
4. Editing and revision: The process of writing poetry is often iterative, with poets refining their work through multiple drafts and revisions. This involves being willing to cut, reshape, and rework lines, stanzas, and entire poems to achieve the desired effect.

By honing these skills, poets can create poetry that seems natural, effortless, and spontaneous, even when it’s the result of careful crafting and revision. The best poetry appears to flow from the poet’s heart and mind with ease, concealing the hard work and dedication that went into its creation.

Conclusion

Elizabeth Bishop’s observation that “writing poetry is an unnatural act” may seem paradoxical, but it highlights the complex, nuanced nature of the craft. While poetry is often associated with natural expression and spontaneity, the process of writing it can be deliberate, calculated, and artificial. However, with great skill and dedication, poets can overcome these challenges and create work that seems natural, authentic, and beautiful. By embracing the unnatural aspects of writing poetry and developing the skills necessary to master the craft, poets can produce poetry that resonates with readers and leaves a lasting impression.

Day 34 – Writing exercise – The day she left me was the day I found myself.

…

Josephine was one of those people who could appear in your life and make it feel like you had known them forever.

Not that many appeared in my life because I was one of those kids who had that background created by bad experiences practically from the day I was born.

My mother was a reasonable person, herself scarred by the suicide of her father, leaving a gaping hole in her suddenly shattered world.

My father was, before the war, an odd but likeable chap who suffered from the war with undiagnosed 5 and slowly went mad with paranoia and battle scars.

How they met, how they got along, and what eventually happened was always going to happen.  I just wish that I wasn’t the one to find them, not when I was 12, battling middle school and everything entailed with pre-teens.

Two things happened when I moved the high school.  My grandmother took over my care after a battle with the authorities and the child welfare system.  Josephine McAndrews arrived without fanfare and suddenly became the focal point of teachers and students alike.

Especially the boys, which I thought was odd because the previous year all the boys universally agreed girls were ‘yuck’.

I didn’t have time to notice.  Or more to the point, I didn’t care.  I spent the time between schools, not trying to figure out what I was going to do, but helping my grandfather on his small farm.

Then I had to switch from herding cows, getting the milking done, tending the chickens, and maintaining the fruit trees and vegetable patch.

Then go to school.

It took a month before I realised that Josephine MacAndrews had arrived, and that she was in the same grade.  Even if I had known she was there, she would not have been a priority to welcome her or even talk to her.

There were plenty of other boys throwing themselves at her feet.

…

Lunch time was my quiet time, a seat in the back of the cafeteria.  Because of the farm’s physical tasks, I was not one of the weaker kids; the ones the sport types made life hell.  They tried, but my grandfather taught me self-defence, and I only had to use it once.

I also declined the invitation to play football, which some believed was stupid, but I didn’t see the point of it.  It didn’t mean the coach would stop asking, so I was learning quickly how to dodge him.

That was the back of the cafeteria, behind a row of plants acting as a divider.

That didn’t deter the intermediate Miss McAndrews, recently self appointed reporters for the school newspaper.

Looking for a place to sit, ignoring a half dozen clear invitations, she decided to sit opposite me.  I knew who she was; everyone seemed to know her life story, and then some.

I tried to ignore her, but when I looked up, hoping she was gone, she was still there.

“You seem preoccupied,” she said.

“I was minding my own business.”  I tried not to make it sound like she was annoying me.

My grandmother had told me at the start of the school year that it was time for me to be more sociable, and that girls did exist and I could talk to them.  It wasn’t, she said, going to kill me.

I begged to differ.

“Do you know who I am?”

It wasn’t spoken haughtily, but it wasn’t a good line to use.  Not on me anyway.

“That’s a line I’d expect from a self-entitled brat trying to sound like they’re better than me.  You might be, but you could try breaking it differently.”

“Is that as a self-entitled brat, or that I am better than you, though I’m not sure in what way.”

If I was expecting her to get up and leave in disgust, it didn’t work.  It in fact caused her to smile, not the fake smile most of the girls had suddenly acquired, moving from fifteen to sixteen, but something that resembled amiable.

“You’ll make a good lawyer.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It is what it is.”

She looked me up and down.  “You’re not like the rest of them here, are you?”

“I am.  Same age, same insecurities, same daft behaviour that everyone else gets up to.  I just choose not to play the games involved with being friends at the expense of others.  I hate everyone equally.”

She gave me another measured look, then said, “I hate to say it, but I’m beginning to like you.  You’re not going to lie to my face because you want something.”

Yes, that was another lesson my grandfather taught me.  Everyone wants something, and every little piece of you you give away is one less piece of yourself you have in your armoury.

I didn’t understand what it meant until recently.  People could be nice or horrible.  It was a choice.  Most people choose not to embrace nice.

“You have nothing I want.”

“Good to know.  Now, if you have a specific and compelling reason why I can’t sit here, I’ll be happy to leave.  If you don’t…”

“I don’t own this table, nor do I have the right to tell you what or what not to do.  If you like peace and quiet, this will be the place.”

“Then I shall stay.  Peace and quiet will be a change.”

…

I did have acquaintances, as distinct from friends.  Friends were people who ended up betraying you; acquaintances could be discarded when necessary.

Jack was borderline between the two because his company was tolerable, and his philosophy was the same as mine.  Get through school and work on his parents’ farm.  He was not a scholar, not that I was much better, but I helped him where I could.

Josephine didn’t turn up at my table every day, just now and then, and when Jack thought I had her on a string, he’d join us.  He developed an affection for her, but it was clear she was not interested.

As the weeks and months passed, I could see she was not sure how to survive such a provincial school, considering the implied prestige of the last school she attended.  She was not bitter about the change in circumstances, but it was a thing.

I wasn’t interested in her romantically, but there was a nagging interest in what her story was.  I wasn’t buying the cover story, the one everyone quoted, that economic circumstances had caused her father’s company to collapse and they were left with nothing but a mountain of debt and a bad reputation.

It was also believed her mother came from our patch and had a piece of land and a house bequeathed to her, and it would have to do until her father could turn things around.

It was a plausible story, but though the basics might be true, that they had no money and they had a house and land out this way, the question was why they were here, when all people who lived here wanted to do was get out and go somewhere, anywhere else.

Or it was just my imagination.

We were back after Christmas, and the snow was feet thick, and the cold was intense enough to keep us at home for a few days.

It was clearly not what she was used to.

I asked a question, and for once she answered truthfully.  How did I know?  She had tells, and one was what happened to her expression just before she told a lie, or perhaps a white lie.  Often, she would think before she answered.  That told me she was working on an answer that most people would accept.

She had said she came from New York.  I could tell that she had come from California because of her attitude towards and experience with snow and freezing temperatures.

Her last name wasn’t McAndrews either, another little hesitation in a moment when her mind was somewhere else.  Liars needed to have good memories.

That little gem I learned from my mother, who was, of course, referring to my father.  He could never get his story straight.

My best guess?  Witness protection. The only negative is why draw attention to yourself, because clearly, they had been quite wealthy.

Or again, too much television and a wild imagination.  Whatever the truth, I would keep it to myself.

…

Lunch was quiet, with some of the students still unable to get out of their properties, so the cafeteria was not its usual hubbub of activity.

Jack was hovering, speaking to other members of the athletic squad, having just joined it to widen his circle of acquaintances.  The fact that he could throw a discus a long way helped.  He took the crown for the longest throw ever at the school, and that was with very little training.

Josephine came in with a group of girls known as the pom poms, the cheerleaders.  It was elitist, and getting in was to survive a ritual of humiliations.  Josephine so far had declined to join them.

It was odd, though, because girls had to beg them to join; it was exactly the opposite for Josephine; they were chasing her.

A few minutes later, she’d abandoned them and wandered over to annoy me.   Well, not exactly annoy me, but I preferred to eat alone.

I looked up as she sat down.  “Their latest offer not tempting you?”

She looked puzzled for a moment.  “Oh, the try-hards?  Why would anyone want to put themselves through that?”

“First dibs on the good-looking guys?”

She smiled, a curious expression.  “Do you think I’m that shallow?”

“You’re sixteen going on twenty-five, a teenager, and a girl.”

“And the boy equivalent is sixteen going on five and a one-track mind.  It’s the same everywhere, I guess.  Growing up is just horrible.”

“Pretty much.  Bit different here to there?”

“Not really.  Less snooty bitches, perhaps more attitude.  I’ll survive.  What’s it like at your place?  We have been shovelling snow just to get out the front door.”

“It wasn’t like that in New York?”

There it was, the hesitation, that moment where she was running scenarios, what would I believe?

“Not exactly.  There was snow, just not as much.  And not as cold.”

Hovering Jack had taken a little longer to wind up his conversation, then come over.  She had been watching him out of the corner of her eye, and her demeanour changed.

He sat next to me

I saw a look pass between them, and it made me shiver, and not in a good way.  I gathered up my things and stood.

“I have a school thing I want to ask you, can you walk with me?” I said to her.

She waited for just the right amount of time before saying, “Of course, anything I can do to help.”  She took a few seconds longer to organise and put things in her bag, then stood, not wanting to look like she was in a hurry.

She smiled at Jack, then joined me, walking slowly out of the room.

Neither of us spoke until we were some distance from the block.

“Is he annoying you?” I finally asked.  It was not my business, but there was something not right.

“Not exactly, but it’s a vibe I get when he’s around.  I don’t feel safe.”

It was not the first time I’d heard it, but I thought nothing of it.  Jack was just being Jack

“He and I are much alike.”

“No.  I feel safe with you, the big brother I never had.”

“Even through the disdain you perceived that?”

“Disdain.  I thought it was a self-protection thing in case you got to like me.”

Interesting assessment.  With a grain of truth.  Perhaps it’s why I did it with everyone, just to keep them at arm’s length.

“You’re not going to be around long enough for that to happen. Falling in love is a process that takes time, getting to know each other.”

“How do you know?”

“The thing about someone like me is that I’m not distracted by all the chatter around me.  I listen. I analyse.  I wonder, and sometimes jump to conclusions.  Living in a violent situation where most of the time it was just the expectation rather than the beatings, I retreated into many different imaginary worlds.  This one, here, with my grandparents is the best so far.”

“Am I in any one of those imaginary worlds?”

“Rapunzel some days, Guinevere others.”

“Rescuing a damsel in distress, or partaking in forbidden love.  Interesting.”

It wasn’t quite how I saw it. She had long plaited blonde hair, though it was not her natural colour, and she acted like she was the queen of everything.

“I needed rescuing, thanks.  And you’re right.  My parents hate this place.”

“And you?”

“I don’t belong here.  You know that, as I suspect you know more about me than anyone in this place.  If you have been listening, as you say, then you will have noticed the little slips.  I can’t be on my guard the whole time, and I can’t relax.”

She wasn’t going to say any more, but it was an admission, one no one else would ever hear.  But even so, it didn’t make me feel special.

“Then perhaps for the rest of your sojourn we shall just be acquaintances.  I’m surprised by the number of kids who seem to want more at this age.  My grandmother said back in her time, girls and boys had to be chaperoned, but there wasn’t social media or cable television back then, throwing morality to the wind.  I guess not all progress is good.”

“For the record, I don’t have social media at all.  I have a burner phone with two numbers in it.  I can’t give it to you, so no late-night phone calls.”

We reached the block where the next class was. “Thanks again for the rescue.  I appreciate it more than you can know.”

“Do you want me to deal with him?”

“No.  I have to fight my own battles.  But thanks for the offer.”

…

It was something I was thinking about, some months later, as we were rolling into summer, and for the first time, thinking about a girl.

Just one.  And ironically, the one I would never get a chance with.  She had said as much, and I heard her.  She was leaving.

She told me over lunch.  Matter of fact.  Except for one catch in her voice at the end.  Had she practised it so many times, only to be brought undone in the final delivery?

My imagination again, I thought.

And staring at the roof, I was surprised that anyone could have penetrated the walls that I had carefully built around me.

It hurt, like that first love should.

I was just dropping off when my cell phone buzzed.  An unknown number.  Normally, I wouldn’t answer, but a sixth sense told me it was trouble.

I pressed the green answer button, and a voice exploded, “Come and get me, please, now, hurry.”  Two gunshots, then nothing.

Josephine.

I knew where she lived.  Not everyone did.  Anderson’s Lane, about 800 years across the paddocks.  Half a mile, two and a half minutes, less if I could run like the wind.

But I had to stop for the rifle in the barn.  A full minute; fumbles included, and hoped like hell it didn’t cost her her life.

I loaded it on the run, just like I was trained.  I didn’t think I’d ever need to.

Three minutes.  I could see headlights way off in the distance; someone had rung the sheriff’s office, and it would take time for the deputy to get organised.

I approached carefully and could see a man in the doorway, gun in hand, aimed and ready to shoot.  I shot his gun hand and then his leg.  He would be too busy stemming the bleeding.

I ran past him, looking blankly at me.

“A fucking kid,” I heard him mutter, then put loud, “incoming.”

I felt the presence at the top of the stairs before I saw the shadow and shot twice, and then watched the body fall down the stairs.

Then, “behind you,” and I turned, saw the man going for his gun, and shot him just as he got it into his hand.

Josephine had literally come out of the wall and then collapsed into my arms, sobbing.  “They’re dead, they’re dead.”

I put the gun on the sideboard just as the deputy’s car slid to a stop across the gravel and the door opened.

A glance into the living room showed her two parents shot dead in their chairs, the television on a John Wayne western.

The rest was a blur.

…

The sheriff arrived at the same time as my grandparents.  Despite her testimony, I spent about an hour in handcuffs, the deputy perhaps rightly or wrongly believing I was the assassin, but it was all cleared up in an instant when the forensic team, who arrived by helicopter, cleared me of any wrongdoing.

Josephine refused to leave me the whole time, on that very fine line between sanity and hysteria.  Had I not got there, she swore she would have died.  I wasn’t going to tell her she should have remained hidden.

We were lucky.

She was taken to a secret location, and I was sent home.  No one told us anything, except that we were never to talk about what just happened.  Ever.

I didn’t think I’d see her again.

Two days later, having been told to stay home, the sheriff came.  He gave us the official story that her father had a mental breakdown, killed his wife, daughter and then himself.  There was no mention of the two assassins.

It was a tragedy that could not have been prevented.

Then the sheriff took me to see Josephine.  She had not wanted to leave without seeing me.  I was surprised.

It was at another house, closer to town, which I presumed to be an FBI safe house.  The guys there looked like agents, the suits, the dark glasses, the serious demeanour.  So much for anonymity.

She was in a room out the back, a clear view to the river, a mile of pristine snow, with a light fall adding to the pile.  She came over as soon as the door shut and hugged me very tightly, and I could feel her tears as she cried.  Tears of relief, tears of loss.

I knew what that felt like.

All I could do was hold her tightly like I needed to when it happened to me, and I never got the chance.  At least she would not end up in the welfare system.  For her, at my age, it would have been horrific.

It took a while for her recover.  The whole process would take a lot longer.

“Thank you.”

“No need.  Anyone would do the same.”

“But they didn’t.  You did.  It was brave.  I owe you my life.”

“Is this going to be a thing?”

She glared at me.  “I’m trying to be serious.”

“You need to take a breath, revel in the fact you are alive, and believe me, old enough not to finish up in hell.”

“Your parents?”

“The story they are putting about you.  It happened.  I found them.  I may have despised them, but it was still a very profound shock.  You will feel it for a long time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  Time for you to concentrate on the new you, again.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“A distant memory in a few weeks, like the town, the school and the try-hards.”

“I won’t forget you.”

“I hope not.  For someone I tried very hard not to like, you have a way of getting under people’s skin.”

“So you did like me?”

“A little, maybe.  But it was always going to be a trap shoot in the end.  I was right about you.  Witness protection.”

“Without the protection, but yes.  Now I get to disappear.  But I have your cell number, and one day, when you least expect it, I will call.  Maybe not quite so dramatically, but I will call.  We have a bond that will never be broken.”

She reached up and kissed me on my cheek, and then looked into my eyes.  I should have averted mine, but I didn’t.

They say you always remember that first kiss.

A few minutes later, I watched her leave.  Knowing her had changed my life.  Falling in love with her, that was the day I found myself.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 34 – Writing exercise – The day she left me was the day I found myself.

…

Josephine was one of those people who could appear in your life and make it feel like you had known them forever.

Not that many appeared in my life because I was one of those kids who had that background created by bad experiences practically from the day I was born.

My mother was a reasonable person, herself scarred by the suicide of her father, leaving a gaping hole in her suddenly shattered world.

My father was, before the war, an odd but likeable chap who suffered from the war with undiagnosed 5 and slowly went mad with paranoia and battle scars.

How they met, how they got along, and what eventually happened was always going to happen.  I just wish that I wasn’t the one to find them, not when I was 12, battling middle school and everything entailed with pre-teens.

Two things happened when I moved the high school.  My grandmother took over my care after a battle with the authorities and the child welfare system.  Josephine McAndrews arrived without fanfare and suddenly became the focal point of teachers and students alike.

Especially the boys, which I thought was odd because the previous year all the boys universally agreed girls were ‘yuck’.

I didn’t have time to notice.  Or more to the point, I didn’t care.  I spent the time between schools, not trying to figure out what I was going to do, but helping my grandfather on his small farm.

Then I had to switch from herding cows, getting the milking done, tending the chickens, and maintaining the fruit trees and vegetable patch.

Then go to school.

It took a month before I realised that Josephine MacAndrews had arrived, and that she was in the same grade.  Even if I had known she was there, she would not have been a priority to welcome her or even talk to her.

There were plenty of other boys throwing themselves at her feet.

…

Lunch time was my quiet time, a seat in the back of the cafeteria.  Because of the farm’s physical tasks, I was not one of the weaker kids; the ones the sport types made life hell.  They tried, but my grandfather taught me self-defence, and I only had to use it once.

I also declined the invitation to play football, which some believed was stupid, but I didn’t see the point of it.  It didn’t mean the coach would stop asking, so I was learning quickly how to dodge him.

That was the back of the cafeteria, behind a row of plants acting as a divider.

That didn’t deter the intermediate Miss McAndrews, recently self appointed reporters for the school newspaper.

Looking for a place to sit, ignoring a half dozen clear invitations, she decided to sit opposite me.  I knew who she was; everyone seemed to know her life story, and then some.

I tried to ignore her, but when I looked up, hoping she was gone, she was still there.

“You seem preoccupied,” she said.

“I was minding my own business.”  I tried not to make it sound like she was annoying me.

My grandmother had told me at the start of the school year that it was time for me to be more sociable, and that girls did exist and I could talk to them.  It wasn’t, she said, going to kill me.

I begged to differ.

“Do you know who I am?”

It wasn’t spoken haughtily, but it wasn’t a good line to use.  Not on me anyway.

“That’s a line I’d expect from a self-entitled brat trying to sound like they’re better than me.  You might be, but you could try breaking it differently.”

“Is that as a self-entitled brat, or that I am better than you, though I’m not sure in what way.”

If I was expecting her to get up and leave in disgust, it didn’t work.  It in fact caused her to smile, not the fake smile most of the girls had suddenly acquired, moving from fifteen to sixteen, but something that resembled amiable.

“You’ll make a good lawyer.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It is what it is.”

She looked me up and down.  “You’re not like the rest of them here, are you?”

“I am.  Same age, same insecurities, same daft behaviour that everyone else gets up to.  I just choose not to play the games involved with being friends at the expense of others.  I hate everyone equally.”

She gave me another measured look, then said, “I hate to say it, but I’m beginning to like you.  You’re not going to lie to my face because you want something.”

Yes, that was another lesson my grandfather taught me.  Everyone wants something, and every little piece of you you give away is one less piece of yourself you have in your armoury.

I didn’t understand what it meant until recently.  People could be nice or horrible.  It was a choice.  Most people choose not to embrace nice.

“You have nothing I want.”

“Good to know.  Now, if you have a specific and compelling reason why I can’t sit here, I’ll be happy to leave.  If you don’t…”

“I don’t own this table, nor do I have the right to tell you what or what not to do.  If you like peace and quiet, this will be the place.”

“Then I shall stay.  Peace and quiet will be a change.”

…

I did have acquaintances, as distinct from friends.  Friends were people who ended up betraying you; acquaintances could be discarded when necessary.

Jack was borderline between the two because his company was tolerable, and his philosophy was the same as mine.  Get through school and work on his parents’ farm.  He was not a scholar, not that I was much better, but I helped him where I could.

Josephine didn’t turn up at my table every day, just now and then, and when Jack thought I had her on a string, he’d join us.  He developed an affection for her, but it was clear she was not interested.

As the weeks and months passed, I could see she was not sure how to survive such a provincial school, considering the implied prestige of the last school she attended.  She was not bitter about the change in circumstances, but it was a thing.

I wasn’t interested in her romantically, but there was a nagging interest in what her story was.  I wasn’t buying the cover story, the one everyone quoted, that economic circumstances had caused her father’s company to collapse and they were left with nothing but a mountain of debt and a bad reputation.

It was also believed her mother came from our patch and had a piece of land and a house bequeathed to her, and it would have to do until her father could turn things around.

It was a plausible story, but though the basics might be true, that they had no money and they had a house and land out this way, the question was why they were here, when all people who lived here wanted to do was get out and go somewhere, anywhere else.

Or it was just my imagination.

We were back after Christmas, and the snow was feet thick, and the cold was intense enough to keep us at home for a few days.

It was clearly not what she was used to.

I asked a question, and for once she answered truthfully.  How did I know?  She had tells, and one was what happened to her expression just before she told a lie, or perhaps a white lie.  Often, she would think before she answered.  That told me she was working on an answer that most people would accept.

She had said she came from New York.  I could tell that she had come from California because of her attitude towards and experience with snow and freezing temperatures.

Her last name wasn’t McAndrews either, another little hesitation in a moment when her mind was somewhere else.  Liars needed to have good memories.

That little gem I learned from my mother, who was, of course, referring to my father.  He could never get his story straight.

My best guess?  Witness protection. The only negative is why draw attention to yourself, because clearly, they had been quite wealthy.

Or again, too much television and a wild imagination.  Whatever the truth, I would keep it to myself.

…

Lunch was quiet, with some of the students still unable to get out of their properties, so the cafeteria was not its usual hubbub of activity.

Jack was hovering, speaking to other members of the athletic squad, having just joined it to widen his circle of acquaintances.  The fact that he could throw a discus a long way helped.  He took the crown for the longest throw ever at the school, and that was with very little training.

Josephine came in with a group of girls known as the pom poms, the cheerleaders.  It was elitist, and getting in was to survive a ritual of humiliations.  Josephine so far had declined to join them.

It was odd, though, because girls had to beg them to join; it was exactly the opposite for Josephine; they were chasing her.

A few minutes later, she’d abandoned them and wandered over to annoy me.   Well, not exactly annoy me, but I preferred to eat alone.

I looked up as she sat down.  “Their latest offer not tempting you?”

She looked puzzled for a moment.  “Oh, the try-hards?  Why would anyone want to put themselves through that?”

“First dibs on the good-looking guys?”

She smiled, a curious expression.  “Do you think I’m that shallow?”

“You’re sixteen going on twenty-five, a teenager, and a girl.”

“And the boy equivalent is sixteen going on five and a one-track mind.  It’s the same everywhere, I guess.  Growing up is just horrible.”

“Pretty much.  Bit different here to there?”

“Not really.  Less snooty bitches, perhaps more attitude.  I’ll survive.  What’s it like at your place?  We have been shovelling snow just to get out the front door.”

“It wasn’t like that in New York?”

There it was, the hesitation, that moment where she was running scenarios, what would I believe?

“Not exactly.  There was snow, just not as much.  And not as cold.”

Hovering Jack had taken a little longer to wind up his conversation, then come over.  She had been watching him out of the corner of her eye, and her demeanour changed.

He sat next to me

I saw a look pass between them, and it made me shiver, and not in a good way.  I gathered up my things and stood.

“I have a school thing I want to ask you, can you walk with me?” I said to her.

She waited for just the right amount of time before saying, “Of course, anything I can do to help.”  She took a few seconds longer to organise and put things in her bag, then stood, not wanting to look like she was in a hurry.

She smiled at Jack, then joined me, walking slowly out of the room.

Neither of us spoke until we were some distance from the block.

“Is he annoying you?” I finally asked.  It was not my business, but there was something not right.

“Not exactly, but it’s a vibe I get when he’s around.  I don’t feel safe.”

It was not the first time I’d heard it, but I thought nothing of it.  Jack was just being Jack

“He and I are much alike.”

“No.  I feel safe with you, the big brother I never had.”

“Even through the disdain you perceived that?”

“Disdain.  I thought it was a self-protection thing in case you got to like me.”

Interesting assessment.  With a grain of truth.  Perhaps it’s why I did it with everyone, just to keep them at arm’s length.

“You’re not going to be around long enough for that to happen. Falling in love is a process that takes time, getting to know each other.”

“How do you know?”

“The thing about someone like me is that I’m not distracted by all the chatter around me.  I listen. I analyse.  I wonder, and sometimes jump to conclusions.  Living in a violent situation where most of the time it was just the expectation rather than the beatings, I retreated into many different imaginary worlds.  This one, here, with my grandparents is the best so far.”

“Am I in any one of those imaginary worlds?”

“Rapunzel some days, Guinevere others.”

“Rescuing a damsel in distress, or partaking in forbidden love.  Interesting.”

It wasn’t quite how I saw it. She had long plaited blonde hair, though it was not her natural colour, and she acted like she was the queen of everything.

“I needed rescuing, thanks.  And you’re right.  My parents hate this place.”

“And you?”

“I don’t belong here.  You know that, as I suspect you know more about me than anyone in this place.  If you have been listening, as you say, then you will have noticed the little slips.  I can’t be on my guard the whole time, and I can’t relax.”

She wasn’t going to say any more, but it was an admission, one no one else would ever hear.  But even so, it didn’t make me feel special.

“Then perhaps for the rest of your sojourn we shall just be acquaintances.  I’m surprised by the number of kids who seem to want more at this age.  My grandmother said back in her time, girls and boys had to be chaperoned, but there wasn’t social media or cable television back then, throwing morality to the wind.  I guess not all progress is good.”

“For the record, I don’t have social media at all.  I have a burner phone with two numbers in it.  I can’t give it to you, so no late-night phone calls.”

We reached the block where the next class was. “Thanks again for the rescue.  I appreciate it more than you can know.”

“Do you want me to deal with him?”

“No.  I have to fight my own battles.  But thanks for the offer.”

…

It was something I was thinking about, some months later, as we were rolling into summer, and for the first time, thinking about a girl.

Just one.  And ironically, the one I would never get a chance with.  She had said as much, and I heard her.  She was leaving.

She told me over lunch.  Matter of fact.  Except for one catch in her voice at the end.  Had she practised it so many times, only to be brought undone in the final delivery?

My imagination again, I thought.

And staring at the roof, I was surprised that anyone could have penetrated the walls that I had carefully built around me.

It hurt, like that first love should.

I was just dropping off when my cell phone buzzed.  An unknown number.  Normally, I wouldn’t answer, but a sixth sense told me it was trouble.

I pressed the green answer button, and a voice exploded, “Come and get me, please, now, hurry.”  Two gunshots, then nothing.

Josephine.

I knew where she lived.  Not everyone did.  Anderson’s Lane, about 800 years across the paddocks.  Half a mile, two and a half minutes, less if I could run like the wind.

But I had to stop for the rifle in the barn.  A full minute; fumbles included, and hoped like hell it didn’t cost her her life.

I loaded it on the run, just like I was trained.  I didn’t think I’d ever need to.

Three minutes.  I could see headlights way off in the distance; someone had rung the sheriff’s office, and it would take time for the deputy to get organised.

I approached carefully and could see a man in the doorway, gun in hand, aimed and ready to shoot.  I shot his gun hand and then his leg.  He would be too busy stemming the bleeding.

I ran past him, looking blankly at me.

“A fucking kid,” I heard him mutter, then put loud, “incoming.”

I felt the presence at the top of the stairs before I saw the shadow and shot twice, and then watched the body fall down the stairs.

Then, “behind you,” and I turned, saw the man going for his gun, and shot him just as he got it into his hand.

Josephine had literally come out of the wall and then collapsed into my arms, sobbing.  “They’re dead, they’re dead.”

I put the gun on the sideboard just as the deputy’s car slid to a stop across the gravel and the door opened.

A glance into the living room showed her two parents shot dead in their chairs, the television on a John Wayne western.

The rest was a blur.

…

The sheriff arrived at the same time as my grandparents.  Despite her testimony, I spent about an hour in handcuffs, the deputy perhaps rightly or wrongly believing I was the assassin, but it was all cleared up in an instant when the forensic team, who arrived by helicopter, cleared me of any wrongdoing.

Josephine refused to leave me the whole time, on that very fine line between sanity and hysteria.  Had I not got there, she swore she would have died.  I wasn’t going to tell her she should have remained hidden.

We were lucky.

She was taken to a secret location, and I was sent home.  No one told us anything, except that we were never to talk about what just happened.  Ever.

I didn’t think I’d see her again.

Two days later, having been told to stay home, the sheriff came.  He gave us the official story that her father had a mental breakdown, killed his wife, daughter and then himself.  There was no mention of the two assassins.

It was a tragedy that could not have been prevented.

Then the sheriff took me to see Josephine.  She had not wanted to leave without seeing me.  I was surprised.

It was at another house, closer to town, which I presumed to be an FBI safe house.  The guys there looked like agents, the suits, the dark glasses, the serious demeanour.  So much for anonymity.

She was in a room out the back, a clear view to the river, a mile of pristine snow, with a light fall adding to the pile.  She came over as soon as the door shut and hugged me very tightly, and I could feel her tears as she cried.  Tears of relief, tears of loss.

I knew what that felt like.

All I could do was hold her tightly like I needed to when it happened to me, and I never got the chance.  At least she would not end up in the welfare system.  For her, at my age, it would have been horrific.

It took a while for her recover.  The whole process would take a lot longer.

“Thank you.”

“No need.  Anyone would do the same.”

“But they didn’t.  You did.  It was brave.  I owe you my life.”

“Is this going to be a thing?”

She glared at me.  “I’m trying to be serious.”

“You need to take a breath, revel in the fact you are alive, and believe me, old enough not to finish up in hell.”

“Your parents?”

“The story they are putting about you.  It happened.  I found them.  I may have despised them, but it was still a very profound shock.  You will feel it for a long time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  Time for you to concentrate on the new you, again.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“A distant memory in a few weeks, like the town, the school and the try-hards.”

“I won’t forget you.”

“I hope not.  For someone I tried very hard not to like, you have a way of getting under people’s skin.”

“So you did like me?”

“A little, maybe.  But it was always going to be a trap shoot in the end.  I was right about you.  Witness protection.”

“Without the protection, but yes.  Now I get to disappear.  But I have your cell number, and one day, when you least expect it, I will call.  Maybe not quite so dramatically, but I will call.  We have a bond that will never be broken.”

She reached up and kissed me on my cheek, and then looked into my eyes.  I should have averted mine, but I didn’t.

They say you always remember that first kiss.

A few minutes later, I watched her leave.  Knowing her had changed my life.  Falling in love with her, that was the day I found myself.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 33 – Point of view

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Point of View: A Simple Lens or a Complex Prism?

When you pick up a novel, a short story, or even a piece of creative nonfiction, the very first thing you notice (even before you meet the characters) is who is telling the story. That “who” is what writers call point of view (POV), and it’s the invisible scaffolding that shapes everything you read—from the smallest visual detail to the deepest emotional undercurrent.

At first glance, POV might look as straightforward as this: “Find a spot in the story, look around, and write what you see.” In other words, the narrator is just a neutral observer, jotting down facts like a journalist on a beat. But seasoned writers and literary scholars will tell you that POV is far more complicated—a multi‑layered, often deliberately ambiguous choice that can turn a bland recount into an unforgettable experience.

In this post, we’ll peel back the layers of point of view, explore why it matters, and give you concrete tools to decide which “lens” best serves your story. By the end, you’ll see that POV is both a place to stand and a set of choices that shape perception, meaning, and emotional resonance.

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1. The Classic Taxonomy: “Finding a Spot” in the Narrative Landscape

Before we dive into the nuances, let’s recap the textbook categories most writing courses teach. Think of them as the basic “views” you can take from a hilltop:

POV Category	What It Looks Like	Typical “Spot” on the Hill
First‑person (I/We)	“I walked into the kitchen, and the smell of cinnamon hit me.”	The narrator is inside the story, a character who sees, feels, and thinks.
Second‑person (You)	“You step onto the cracked sidewalk, and the rain catches you off guard.”	A rarely‑used “you” that drags the reader directly into the action.
Third‑person limited	“She stared at the clock, wishing she could turn back time.”	An external observer who knows only what one character thinks/feels.
Third‑person omniscient	“While Amelia worried about the presentation, James was already rehearsing his jokes.”	An all‑seeing bird’s‑eye view that can dip into any mind at any moment.
Objective (camera‑eye)	“The rain fell. The bus pulled away. A man waited.”	The narrator records only what could be observed externally—no thoughts, no internal commentary.

These categories are useful starting points. They give you a practical way to “find a place” and describe what you see (or don’t see). But they also hide the richness that makes POV a literary weapon, not just a grammatical label.

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2. Beyond the Labels: Why POV Is More Than “What You See”

A. Narrative Voice ≠ Narrative Knowledge

A narrator can have a distinct voice—the way they phrase sentences, their rhythm, their humor—while having limited knowledge. A first‑person narrator can be witty, cynical, or poetic, yet still only know what they personally experience. Conversely, an omniscient narrator can adopt a neutral, detached tone yet peek into any mind.

Example: In The Great Gatsby, Nick Carraway narrates in first person with a reflective, almost scholarly voice, yet he admits he only knows Gatsby through “the rumors and gossip that swirled.” His voice and his knowledge are deliberately mismatched, creating an unreliable yet compelling narrator.

B. Reliability (or Its Absence)

A narrative can be reliable (you trust the narrator’s version of events) or unreliable (the narrator misinterprets, lies, or omits). Unreliability isn’t limited to first person. An omniscient narrator can be unreliable if the story is framed as a historical account that may have been distorted, or if the narrator is a fictional editor who chooses which facts to present.

Example: Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl is famous for its dual first‑person narrators. Each chapter forces readers to reconsider the truth, showing that POV shapes not just what we see but whether we trust what we see.

C. Subjectivity of Perception

Even “objective” camera‑eye descriptions are filtered through a selection process. Deciding to mention the rain, the bus, and the waiting man—and to omit a stray cat—already tells you something about the narrator’s focus, bias, or thematic agenda.

Example: Ernest Hemingway’s Hills Like White Snow is told in a third‑person objective style, but the choice of dialogue and sparseness makes us feel the tension between the couple without ever stating it directly. The POV is “objective,” yet the narrative’s emotional weight is built upon what’s left unsaid.

D. Temporal Manipulation

POV can also dictate when the story is told. A first‑person narrator might recount events years later, inserting hindsight and revision. An omniscient narrator can hop forward in time to show consequences before cause. The temporal horizon—how far back or ahead the narrator can see—adds further complexity.

Example: In One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez uses an omniscient narrator who jumps across centuries, giving readers a panoramic view of a family’s destiny while also sprinkling in foreknowledge that creates a sense of inevitable tragedy.

E. Cultural and Social Lens

Point of view is rarely neutral; it carries the narrator’s social position, cultural background, and worldview. By choosing a narrator from a specific demographic, the writer implicitly (or explicitly) comments on issues of power, privilege, marginalisation, and representation.

Example: The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Kid uses a teenage narrator from a low‑income, biracial background. His first‑person voice is peppered with humor and self‑deprecation, which provides an authentic lens on the challenges of poverty and identity.

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3. How to Choose the “Right” POV for Your Story

If POV were just “find a spot and write what you see,” you could pick any perspective at random. In reality, the decision should be strategic, aligning with the story’s goals, themes, and emotional arc.

Decision Point	Questions to Ask	Possible POV Choice
What does the reader need to know?	Do they need intimate access to a character’s thoughts? Or a broader social context?	First‑person / limited for intimacy; omniscient for breadth.
Who is the story about?	Is the protagonist also the narrator, or is the story about a group?	First‑person if central; third‑person limited if following a protagonist but keeping a slight distance.
Do you want to play with reliability?	Will you use twists that hinge on reader deception?	Unreliable first‑person or biased omniscient (e.g., a “historian” narrator).
What tone do you aim for?	Formal, humorous, lyrical, gritty?	Voice can be independent of POV, but certain combos feel natural (e.g., second‑person for immersive, experimental tone).
Is the narrative temporal?	Do you need flashbacks, foreshadowing, or a non‑linear structure?	First‑person with retrospective narration; omniscient for free‑wheeling time jumps.
Who is missing?	Whose perspective is absent but could add depth?	Consider multiple POVs (alternating chapters) or a chorus of narrators.

Tip: Write a short scene in two or three different POVs. You’ll instantly see how the emotional texture changes. If you feel a version “locks the door” on certain revelations, that’s a clue about what the rest of your story should (or should not) reveal.

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4. Experimenting with Hybrid and Unconventional POVs

Modern literature is full of hybrid approaches that blur the textbook categories:

Hybrid Technique	How It Works	Why It Can Be Powerful
Multiple first‑person narrators	Alternating chapters narrated by different characters, each in “I”.	Creates a kaleidoscopic view; readers assemble a fuller truth.
Epistolary POV	Story told through letters, diary entries, emails.	Gives a sense of authenticity and immediacy; the gaps between messages become narrative tension.
Narrator as character + editor	A narrator claims to be retelling someone else’s story, adding footnotes or commentary.	Allows meta‑commentary and questions about storytelling itself.
Unreliable omniscient	An all‑knowing narrator who admits to gaps or errors.	Subverts the expectation that omniscience equals truth; adds a layer of mystery.
Second‑person immersion	“You hear the rustle of leaves…” invites the reader to become the protagonist.	Engages readers directly; works well in interactive fiction or “choose‑your‑own‑adventure” style stories.
Collective or “We” narrators	“We walked the streets of the old town…”	Evokes community, shared experience, or cultural memory.

These forms demonstrate that point of view can be a narrative experiment, not just a grammatical decision. They also illustrate how POV can reveal or conceal information in creative ways, affecting pacing, suspense, and thematic depth.

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5. Common Mistakes (and How to Fix Them)

Mistake	Why It Happens	Fix
“Head‑hopping” without signals	Switching characters’ inner thoughts mid‑paragraph confuses readers.	Keep POV switches clear—new paragraph, chapter break, or explicit cue (“Meanwhile,…”).
Using first‑person for a story that needs broad scope	“I” feels intimate but can’t naturally convey events far from the narrator.	Either expand the narrator’s reach (e.g., through letters, news reports) or switch to limited/omniscient.
Writing an “objective” camera‑eye that still slips into thoughts	The urge to explain motives leads to hidden omniscience.	Stay strictly to observable actions, dialogue, and sensory detail—or choose limited POV.
Forgetting the narrator’s voice	Treating POV as a mechanical label without developing its tone.	Give the narrator distinct diction, rhythm, and worldview—treat them as a character.
Using unreliable POV without payoff	Unreliable narrators intrigue but must reveal the unreliability eventually.	Plant clues (contradictions, missing details) and deliver a reveal that reshapes the story’s meaning.

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6. A Mini‑Exercise: From “What You See” to “What You Feel”

Step 1 – Pick a Scene
Write a brief description of a coffee shop: the clatter of cups, the barista’s smile, the rain outside.

Step 2 – Choose Three POVs

1. First‑person (intimate) – “I tugged my coat tighter as the rain splashed against the window. The scent of espresso wrapped around me like a warm blanket, but my stomach knotted with the interview I’d just missed.”
2. Third‑person limited (focused) – “Mara watched the rain slide down the glass, feeling the tremor of nerves that made her fingers tremble as she lifted the coffee cup.”
3. Third‑person omniscient (panoramic) – “The rain hammered the city, flooding streets and pooling in the coffee shop’s doorframe. Inside, the barista rehearsed his smile while the regulars whispered about the storm’s arrival, each lost in their own thoughts.”

Step 3 – Reflect
Notice how each version does more than describe; it filters reality through feelings, backstory, and scope. The “place” you found in the story is now a gateway into a particular emotional world.

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7. Bottom Line: POV Is Both a Spot and a Strategy

• Yes, point of view does involve physically locating yourself in the story—deciding whether you’re a participant, a bystander, or an all‑seeing bird.
• But it also encompasses voice, knowledge, reliability, temporal reach, cultural lens, and narrative intent. Those layers turn a simple “what you see” into a complex prism that refracts meaning.

When you write, ask not only “Where am I standing?” but also “What do I want the reader to feel, know, or question because of where I’m standing?” The answer will guide you to a POV that does more than report; it creates the story’s emotional architecture.

Takeaway Checklist

• ☐ Identify the core emotional aim of your piece.
• ☐ Choose a POV that naturally grants the right amount of knowledge.
• ☐ Develop the narrator’s voice as a character in its own right.
• ☐ Decide on reliability—and plant clues if you’re going unreliable.
• ☐ Keep POV switches clear and purposeful.
• ☐ Remember that even an “objective” narrator is a selection—be intentional about what you include and exclude.

By treating point of view as both geography (the spot you occupy) and architecture (the design of perception), you’ll transform your storytelling from a simple walk‑through into a richly layered journey that readers can see, feel, and ultimately never quite forget. Happy writing!