The Unreliable Narrator

A literary device that fascinates me is the Unreliable Narrator. The unreliable narrator is one whose credibility has been compromised, so that the story filtering through his or her perception is untrustworthy. At some point, the reader realizes this. The success of the device hinges on whether the reader believes the narrator is incapable of figuring out that which the reader can deduce.

An unreliable narrator can be first person or third person limited POV. (I’m going to call the narrator “he” from here on out, because “s/he” and “his/her” gets annoying for me to type, and you to read!) Something in the narrator's personality or psyche severely hinders his awareness as the story unfolds around him. His prejudice by race, class or gender may skew his observations. His perception could be distorted because his age differs greatly from that of the other characters, as in the case of a child interpreting an adult’s world. He could suffer from drug addiction or dementia. He may be a person of low intelligence or with mental impediments. The unreliable narrator may also be consciously deceiving, as in the case of a pathological liar or a narcissist.

Like all literary devices, the writer must craft an unreliable narrator with authenticity, presenting the narrator’s point of view in a way that convinces the reader to believe and to feel sympathetic. Technical writer, poet and blogger John Hewitt says:

“When done badly, a story written from [the unreliable narrator’s] point-of-view can be viewed as manipulative, misleading, confusing and pretentious. When successful, however, the results can be powerful and fascinating.” (Read Hewitt’s article here.)


Here are some celebrated books that use unreliable narrators:


To Kill a Mockingbird (child narrator)
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (child narrator)
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (dementia)
The Tell Tale Heart (deranged, paranoid narrator)
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (drug-fueled hallucinations)
The Native Son (skewed societal views)
A Clockwork Orange (skewed societal views)
The Catcher in the Rye (narrator personality flaws)
Flowers for Algernon (mental impediments)
Fight Club (multiple personality disorder)


I experimented with the unreliable narrator when competing in a writing contest prompted by a picture. The digital image had obviously been photo-manipulated, because it depicted a man at the wheel of a car that had just missed a hairpin turn in the narrow road along the edge of a cliff. It was as if the photo had been snapped moments after the car had burst through the guard rails, as it hung suspended in the air seconds before plummeting. I’m not a big fan of stories that end with, “…and then the world went black,” so I decided to go with an unreliable narrator. It’s short, under a 1000 words. I’d love to know what you think!

After The Ice

Grady had one goal. Catch that car. It made him fearless, one-tracked, stupid. A mud crusted boot rammed the accelerator impelling his car forward, closing the gap. He could make out the silhouette of the driver ahead, inanimate and lifeless as a mannequin. Unlike Grady, who hunched and shifted his shoulders in a full-body attempt to steer the car with more than just the white knuckled hands gripping the wheel. The cars raced up the winding cliffside road following the precipice that skirted the edge of the world. Far below, unseen waves crashed against the base of the rocky shoreline. Almost gotcha. Grady's crazed grin cracked his face in half. He flicked his head sending a boomerang shaped lock of greasy hair into the air only to have it return and obscure again half of his field of vision.

Brake lights lit up the back end of the lead car. Grady didn't comprehend the car's slight deceleration. All he saw were two fiery eyes glaring at him. Blood red eyes that mocked him; dared him to continue the chase; threatened him with unspeakable agony if he gave it up. Grady punched the gas pedal to the floor at the same instant the car ahead sharply negotiated a hairpin turn. He never had a chance to change direction. Grady's car tore through the guard rails and left the earth, taking flight over the ocean.

He had the sensation of being on a rollercoaster, enduring the excruciating climb toward the track's zenith just before the breathtaking plummet into the abyss. Those last seconds before the fall hung suspended in time; his mind was bombarded with flashing thoughts and images.

... He saw himself as a nine year old boy, smashing the game winning homerun out of the park. His heart swelled with pride as he rounded the bases, soaking in the warm glow of success as the crowd cheered. His future was so full of promise....

... Next, he sat slouched on the back seat of his old man's Pontiac. Clad in high school graduation robes, he watched in humiliation through the front windshield as police handcuffed his father for driving while intoxicated. His father's slurred protests wafted through the open window, "Come on. A coupla drinks never hurt anyone."...

... There was his devoted Laura wearing her mother's oversize, lace wedding gown. Smiling, she floated down the aisle toward a lifetime with him...

... In the delivery room, sweet precious Hannah was born perfect in every way. He promised to try and do right by her; to buckle down at the factory and spend less time with the guys. Laura said she still believed in him...

... On Hannah's fifth birthday, he would have given her the world. Shame pierced his heart as she wrapped her tiny arms around his neck even though he hadn't been able to afford the dolly she really wanted...

... Moving into their first house together, a small clapboard that had suffered years of neglect but still had good ‘bones'. A fixer-upper to be sure, Grady had high hopes for the place. He scoffed when his friends said it'd cost a fortune to bring her up to code. Hell, he would rewire the place himself and save some money...

... Coming home late, (the guys insisted on buying one more round), to flashing lights and emergency vehicles. The house was engulfed in flames. He pushed through the crowd, frantically shouting for Laura and Hannah. A firefighter stopped him from going too close to the conflagration, not realizing he was the homeowner. Grady grabbed the man below the collar, pleading for news of his wife and daughter. His eyes told the truth, no victims were known to have left the house. Fear gave way to dread. Oh my God, oh my God!...

... Relentless rain fell the day of the double funeral, driving cold daggers through his heart forever. Afterward, when the guys drove him home, his buddies tried to help. "Here, take this. It'll ease your pain for a while."...........

Bleep.....Bleep.....Bleep.....

Grady's eyes fluttered open. A far-away, resonant voice said, "He's coming around, Doctor."

Another voice, closer. "Sir, can you hear me? What is your name?"

He couldn't move his arms or legs. Even his head seemed locked in place. Grady's dilated eyes darted around. Bright lights. Tile. Unmistakable smell. Hospital.

The doctor's disjointed face floated into view above him. "Sir? What did you take? Can you tell me what you're on?"

"Accident," Grady whispered hoarsely. The doctor's face loomed closer, straining to hear. Grady mumbled, "Car.. off.. cliff.."

"Does anyone know what's he talking about?" The doctor's voice faded and his face got smaller. Without warning, he was back, shined a laser light into Grady's eye and straight into his brain. Grady's head wouldn't obey when he tried to turn away. Clenching his lids shut, he heard the doctor say, "Sir, there was no car accident." Grady's eyes snapped open. "You were found unconscious in a parking lot near the Lower City Bridge. Paramedics transported you here, to the emergency room at E.J. Noble Hospital. We are taking care of you, but I need you to confirm what narcotic you overdosed on. Sir, what did you take?"

The need to catch that car came creeping up from the pit of his belly, consuming his mind. His body trembled with a cold desire that defied control.

A female voice from behind rang out, "BP is up to150 over 90, Doctor. Temperature is still at eighty-seven degrees."

"Doc." The doctor leaned in to hear Grady's weak voice. "Help me. Need. I need. More ice."





(WC:962)

Author's Note : Many readers have expressed interest in knowing what "ice" refers to in this story. "Ice" is a common street term for the drug crystal meth.


Have you ever exerimented with writing an unreliable narrator? Have you come across the device and thought the author was successful?
Unsuccessful?

New Genre, New Process

Standing at the sun room windows, looking out at the backyard's monochromatic landscape, I contemplated my plight. I've been writing short stories for several years. There are dozens of them stored in my portfolio, each more tightly written and higher impacting than the last. And now I'm writing a novel. A novel. I feel like someone switched off the light and left me groping and disoriented in abysmal darkness. My chin dropped and my gaze fell to the peace lily beside me. I stared wide-eyed. Was that a flower forming on one of the tallest fronds? My disbelief was absolute; never in the three and a half years since it was carried over the threshhold had I been able to bring it to flower. I blinked to be sure I wasn't hallucinating.

In the arms of a friend the day she offered her housewarming present, the lily had boasted three small flowers. But its decline began that day. Within a week, the flowers had fallen away and the leaves were browned at their tips. My mother had once told me when a peace lily isn't doing well, put it in a closet. It made sense, sort of, since I knew the peace lily was a shade plant that thrived on a rain forest floor. So I repotted the plant and put it in a corner away from the windows. It didn't improve. Over the next two years, I moved it from location to location, starved it of water at times and over-watered it at others. Another friend said tropical plants like "moisture" not "water," and suggested I mist the leaves every day. After a while, I decided the plant just didn't like me. I resigned myself to its demise.

One day as I repotted another plant, hubby said I should put the peace lily in the window. Mom's advice floated through my mind, but I ignored it. Why not? I thought. Maybe that'll finish it off once and for all. A few days later, the lily's last remaining three fronds appeared slightly perkier than before. I pretended I didn't notice, in case the plant was toying with me. Some wicked plot hatched in vengeance. I watered it that Saturday along with the others on a once-a-week feeding schedule. By the next Saturday, new shoots had pushed their heads through the black soil. I took it as a peace lily peace offering. It began to thrive, and we've been friends ever since.

Still, in the last year of our renewed friendship, I'd never seen a flower! As I stared at it, I started to think about the long, hard road I'd walked with that plant. I'd struggled; I'd tried new things that failed. I almost gave up along the way. I listened to a lot of people's advice before someone pointed me in the right direction. It occurred to me that my transition from short stories to novels may turn out resembling my peace lily experience.

Right now, I feel pretty lost. I have twenty chapters written, though they're drooping and the edges are browned and curled. But, I know my novel project will blossom because I'm willing to do the work, explore the genre, learn. But I wonder if any of you have shifted genres like this? Any advice for me? Did you find it was hit-or-miss, that you had to re-start your first project(s) until you found your way? How did you battle your insecurities?

Sensational Opening Lines

One of my favorite things to do in Barnes and Noble is go down a shelf row, pulling one book at a time and reading its first line. Sometimes the whole first paragraph is the hook, but I give snaps to authors who can grab my attention right out of the start block. So what is it about an opening line that makes it sensational?

For me, the best first lines have shock appeal. It’s an art form, really, because it’s so easy to do it wrong. The line must astonish rather than revolt, and possess a certain subtlety that draws readers to it instead of repelling them from it. Short, smart lines often work well.

An exceptional opening line sets the tone of the whole book. The mood descends upon you, envelopes you in its possibilities, casts its spell on you. The meaning of the first line goes beyond that of its subject and predicate; it tells you something about the entire work. And it insists you read on.


I was re-reading the first lines of books I own. Five favorite first lines from them are:

“When all is said and done, killing my mother came easily.” -- The Almost Moon, by Alice Sebold.

“It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York.” -- The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath.

“It was not easy to cut through a human head with a hacksaw.” -- Travels, by Michael Crichton.

“Even Grade walked past the spot on the bridge where Canaan caught the bottle with his head and saw the blood mark was still there, but just barely.” -- Mother of Pearl, by Melinda Haynes

“On the morning of her ninth birthday, the day after Madame François Derbanne slapped her, Suzette peed on the rosebushes.” -- Cane River, by Lalita Tademy.



Here is one blogger's list of literature's ten most outrageous first lines. It's even more fun to read the comments below it, especially by those debating Orwell's meaning when he used "a clock striking thirteen o'clock" in the first line of 1984:

http://www.alternativereel.com/includes/top-ten/display_review.php?id=00117



Do you have a favorite first line? Or what about a favorite book with a terrible first line? (Think Bulwer-Lytton's "It was a dark and stormy night.") What's your criteria for a sensational opening line?

Beyond My Profile

My name is Nicole, but my college and Internet friends know me as Nicki, my husband and sisters call me Nick, and I'm Mama to my two beautiful kids. Together, hubby and I have lived on three continents, and we currently reside in a small city outside metro Atlanta, Georgia.

I grew up in rural New York State, dreaming of the big world beyond the horizon. After college, I set out to discover it. In true Kerouacan fashion, I headed west to crash the party of life. After two years in Los Angeles working for Chiat/Day Advertising (creator of the Energizer Bunny campaigns), I was restless. I'd stand on the beach and look out over the Pacific, wondering what it would be like to interact with the world beyond that horizon. Too poor to realize any travel dreams launched from LA, I headed back east and lived with a sorority sister in Washington D.C. It took another two years, but I submitted my application for Peace Corps service, and it was approved. In 1994, I was stationed in the Central African Republic where I worked as a Community Health Extensionist.

I lived outside the U.S. for a total of seven and a half years, and during that time my life changed forever. Besides meeting my husband, I learned two foriegn languages (French and Sango) and acclimated to cultures that challenged my view of the world and my place in it. Today, I describe myself as a free-spirited woman, trying to live each day with arms wide open -- and most nights I go to bed content that I did.

I love to write lists (although I forget them on the kitchen counter when they consist of grocery items I mustn't forget to buy), so I thought I'd introduce myself to you in that format. The following are ten things that describe me. Here goes:

10 Things To Know About Me

1. I LOVE my family~

After 14 years of marriage, Christian and I still love and laugh like when we first met. Our kids, Cody (age 11) and Sidney (age 9), fill my days with sunshine that dazzles my soul and warms my heart. I am truly blessed.

2. I'm a writer ~ I used to think I was overly dramatic, listening to my internal dialogue as I took in the world aound me. Riding the Metro back and forth to work, I'd pull scraps of paper out of my bag and sketch the characters I saw on the platform or sitting across the aisle from me. In the Peace Corps, I dealt with homesickness and culture shock by scribbling emotional entries in my journals. In 2007, I discovered http://www.writing.com/ and for the first time I wrote stories with an audience in mind. My life changed. I became an author, passionate about the craft. Now I write everyday, and I love it.

3. I crave a technicolor life ~ Bright hues lift my spirits, so I surround myself with them. Christian and I painted the boring beige interieur of our new house in vivid sunset shades and ocean blues. Even when we entertain, we eat on the oversized country table in the kitchen. The formal dining room is our family art studio furnished with easels and cabinets of painting and drawing supplies. I frame our artwork myself and hang them, splashes of our colors, on the walls. If money were no object, I'd have stained glass in all the rooms.

4. The gym is my sanity ~ Four to five times a week for the past eight years, I've met my best friend Lorri at the gym. We arrive early, unfluffed and bare-faced, and get our sweat on. Our workouts aren't for the faint-hearted. We start with cardio, usually a forty-five minute-long combination of jogs, hills and sprints. Next we hit the weights, often scaring and sometimes inspiring newbies in the room. Of course, we talk about food the entire time we're exercising. What we ate the day before, what we wished we hadn't, what we plan to eat later on... But more than that, we just talk. We've exercised our way through pregnancies, fights with our husbands, boob jobs, problems with friends and neighbors, fortieth birthdays, moving into new houses. We've cheered each other on through good times and encouraged each other over the rough patches. My body and spirit are stronger thanks to her.

5. No recipe scares me off ~ I learned to make a mean pot of (spaghetti) sauce when I was growing up. In Africa, I befriended women and children who taught me to prepare their country's dishes, cooked over three-rock fires out in the yard. But it was when I moved to France with my new husband and became my mother-in-law's star pupil that I really learned how to cook. Watch out Julia Child, you got nothin' on me!

6. Cake Artistry is one of my hobbies ~ My creative side fears no medium, including buttercream frosting. As soon as my kids were old enough to ask, I've been making their birthday cakes. I raise the bar each year, and here are the two most recent cakes I made.

I made each rose by hand with Royal Icing -- everything on this cake was edible!

I crafted the palm trees with pretzel logs and fondant, and the monkeys with Royal Icing. Only the zebras, lions and giraffes were not edible.

7. I read tarot cards ~ A reading doesn't predict the future in any traditional sense. The tarot's power lies in the fact that while I meditate on a question or quandary in my life, I'm drawn to certain cards. I fan them out face down, close my eyes, and choose the number of cards needed for the reading. As I turn each over, one at a time, reading the card's interpretations, it mirrors a quiet truth I hold in my heart. Sometimes the truth is so still I can't hear it, but when it resonates loudly in the days that follow, the card's meaning is revealed. It never fails to astound and inspire me. I also like to pull a card in the morning, to give focus to that day.

8. I have a word box ~ My mother has a small stained glass workshop in her basement, and one Christmas she made me a gorgeous box of light pink and white glass. She soldered the joints and affixed the lid with hinges. Inside, I keep short, narrow strips of card stock, on which each I wrote a noun, verb, or adjective. When I'm feeling uninspired to write, I sometimes pull ten or fifteen words out at random and compose a poem. My daughter and I often pull two words out each and they become our names for the afternoon. One day she was Polite Lovely Green, and I was Pristine Flabbergast. Another day, we could be Sudsy Ricchorchet and Faucet Fade.

9. I love board games ~ There's something relaxing and nostalgic about playing games. Maybe I find comfort in the fact that everything you need comes out of the box, and once you've finished it all stores neatly back in the box. I love playing with the kids -- Monopoly is one of our faves. And my son is an excellent chess player. My all-time favorite, though, is Scrabble. When my sisters and I get together, you can bet the Scrabble board will be out the entire time.

10. I'm an idealist ~ I believe the world is as it should be, disasters and heartbreak and all. If life were easy and our challenges minimum, there would be nothing driving us to improve. Each of us has a responsibility to be the best human beings we can be, to spend our energies invoking positive change in the world, one person at a time. The soul is eternal; its journey continues. I want to make the most of my time here and grasp the lessons I set out to learn.

So now you know a bit more about me. Do we have anything in common? Tell me, leave me a comment!

From The Lips Of...Ray Manners

Ray Manners is writing today. He's a fictional character and the antagonist in "Overcome," my novel-in-progress. Ray is a thirty-four year old telemarketer struggling to keep his life orderly and organized. It isn't easy, considering the open wounds from an abusive childhood that refuse to scab and heal. No matter how tight his grip on the day-to-day, everything in his perception is linked to that old pain. The following is a moment from his life. [Note: This is NOT an excerpt from the novel. It is a writing exercise in which I practice capturing the voice of my character.]

It was eleven a.m., but that's lunchtime for me. Not because I'm hungry, I don't start missing food until mid-afternoon. I just can't take the noon hour swarms of people in the delis and restaurants. Hell, you can't even find a place to park at that time of day, and the chance of someone not paying attention and dinging your car quadruples. No thanks. Besides, by the time I finish my meal each day, the office is emptied out and quiet, just the way I like it.

I was in the mood for a sub, but I bypassed the sandwich shop close to work. The fat chick in there took meat off the customer in front of me's sandwich one day, when he changed his mind at the last minute and opted for roast beef instead of ham. Then she tried to put that roast beef on my bread. She looked at me like I was crazy when I complained. I don't want food that touched someone else's food, what was crazy about that?

I had my pick of spots in the grocery store lot. As soon as I walked in, a greeter in a goofy green smock said hello to me. Here's a concept I can't explain. Why do they station someone inside the doors? Are they that worried the shopping experience they have to offer won't beat the competition's unless they gush with enthusiasm at my arrival? Two more people in smocks shouted hello from their scattered positions before going back to their tasks of restocking shelves or sweeping the floors. I didn't even look at 'em, just kept my head down and headed for the deli.

The place was spotless, I'll give 'em that. Of course, the rush of people needing a quart of milk or something for supper was still to arrive once the five o'clock whistles sounded. They'll come bustling in, scuffing the floors and leaving unnoticed scraps of trash in their wakes. Ever go to a store around ten at night? The place is trashed. People are unbelievable.

There was no one waiting when I got to the deli. A dry old woman with a hairnet greeted me. I watched her struggle to pull the latex gloves over her liver spotted hands, but I looked away before she glanced up apologetically. Finally, she constructed my roast beef sub to order, and I was glad to note the cleanliness of the sandwich board and the fresh appearance of the condiments. A clock on the wall reminded me this area wouldn't look as neat and clean in another forty-nine minutes. I took the wrapped sandwich from the woman and thanked her.

I headed straight for the express lane to pay. A woman was paying at the register, and behind her was the only other customer in line, a big bellied man with a ten gallon cowboy hat on his head. The hat distracted me from noticing what was in his cart, but a moment later I looked down. Tex began transferring his items to the belt, and I counted along in my head. One, two, three...eight... I looked up at the express sign that read, "10 items or less"...eleven, twelve... I set my jaw. Sixteen items covered the conveyor belt when he was finished. The cashier greeted him with a smile, and ol' Tex spoke right up. He apologized for having so many items.

"Oh that's alright, sugar," said the cashier.

I felt my eyes narrow and heat rise up under my collar. I didn't think it was all right at all. I'd passed two other registers that allowed an unrestricted number of items, but Tex here must have wanted to get in and out without waiting. Must be his schedule was more important than mine. He didn't turn and look at me. Didn't offer an apology or anything. I guess I was shit in his eyes.

I clutched my bag and stormed out the store, ignoring the cheerful good-bye tossed out by the greeter. I wanted her to know my shopping experience wasn't that great. I drove to the stop sign you have to pass before turning down the short lane to the road, and whose truck arrived at the stop from the opposite side but Tex and his ridiculous hat. He pulled right out and made his turn first, even though I had the right-of-way. I slammed my hand so hard on the horn that I think the emblem in the center of the steering wheel embedded in my palm.

People really are unbelievable.

Identity Crisis

I'm a very visual person and I just can't seem to find the right look for this blog. I love color -- and by that I don't mean shades of beige -- so bear with me while I audition new layouts. I'm looking forward to this color neurosis being over ;)

Update:

Ahhh. This feels more like me!

Omniscient Narration

The mental image I had of Lisbeth Salander as I read The Girl With The Dragon Tatoo looked nothing like the girl on this book cover. I saw her vividly though, as clearly as if she were sitting across from me, riding downtown in the same subway car. Author Stieg Larsson did a wonderful job describing her appearance, and his characterizations were strong. So why didn't I ever feel a sense of intimacy with her?

I think the problem was Larsson's use of omniscient narration. When more than one character's inner thoughts and feelings are coming at me from the same page, I feel like I'm floating above the book. It's like watching the scenes unfold shoulder-to-shoulder with God, rather than from out the eyes of a character. Lisbeth Salander was a character I wanted badly to connect with, but I never really got there. Too many POVs stood between us.

My favorite books employ multiple POVs, but their success hinges on the fact that the authors allowed only one character-narrator per chapter. "The Witching Hour" by Anne Rice comes to mind. Rice shares the POV between several characters, two of which are central players Michael Curry and Rowan Mayfair. As each chapter filters through the perspective of one of these characters, the reader develops a strong, intimate bond with him or her. After reading that book, I felt closely connected to all the characters.

I've never attempted omniscient narration in my own writing. My short stories tend to be third person limited or first person narration. The novel I'm working on switches POV at the beginning of each new chapter.

What POV narration options do you prefer to write in?