It's a Promise to the Reader

By Sarah Sally Hamer

Writers often talk about point of view as if it’s merely a technical decision. First person or third person. Omniscient or limited. Past tense or present tense.

But point of view is far more than a grammatical choice.

Point of view is a promise.

It's the agreement you make with readers about how they will experience your story. It tells them whose eyes they're looking through, whose emotions they're feeling, and whose understanding they can trust. When that promise remains clear, readers sink effortlessly into the narrative. When it becomes muddled, they become confused, detached, or frustrated.

Understanding point of view—and understanding it at both the story level and the scene level—is one of the most powerful skills a fiction writer can develop.

Because point of view doesn't just tell a story.

It shapes the reader's entire experience of that story.

Global Point of View: The Story's Lens

Global point of view is the perspective that governs the entire novel.

It's the answer to the question:

Who gets to tell this story?

In The Hunger Games (and I’ll be using the first book, not the movie unless I say differently – they ARE different!), Suzanne Collins chooses first-person point of view through Katniss Everdeen. Readers discover the world only as Katniss discovers it. We don't know what President Snow is planning. We don't know what Peeta is truly thinking. We know only what Katniss sees, hears, believes, and misunderstands.

That limitation creates emotional intimacy.

We don't observe Katniss's fear.

We experience it.

Contrast that with J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings (whether books or movies in this case). While the story often follows Frodo, the narrative shifts among multiple characters. Readers witness events occurring in different locations, gaining a broader understanding of the larger conflict and each character with a point of view tells the story from their own perspective. So, several characters become the protagonist, even if only for a moment or two, and we see the story through their eyes. These points of view are woven together to make a perfect overall story.

Neither approach is better or worse. It’s strictly a matter of understanding as a writer who is in charge of what and each version creates a different reading experience.

Short note: There are lots of books and movies out there that do not have a single point of view character or only one at a time. Some of them are very good. Some of them are not. But they do exist and, if that’s your style, there is nothing wrong with it.

Ultimately, the global point of view determines how much information readers receive and how close they feel to the characters. It shapes suspense, mystery, emotional connection, and pacing from the first page to the last.

Choose wisely because this decision influences everything that follows.

The Reader's Seat

Many writers understand global point of view.

Fewer understand scene point of view.

Every scene needs a perspective character. Someone owns that moment. Someone experiences the action. So, now we study how to tell a scene character by character.

The question becomes:

Whose scene is this?

Imagine the shark attack sequence in Jaws. The tension doesn't come from bouncing among multiple frightened swimmers. It comes from remaining focused on a particular experience. The audience knows where to look, whose fear to follow, and why the danger matters.

The same principle applies in novels.

Suppose a husband and wife argue over a looming divorce.

If the scene belongs to the wife, readers experience her fear, her hopes, and her interpretation of her husband's words.

If the scene belongs to the husband, the same conversation becomes an entirely different emotional experience, which can change the reader’s attitude about the story. If we’d only heard Rhett Butler’s point of view instead of Scarlett’s, we would have an entirely different understanding of the story. Good or bad? Not at all! A series of books has been written through the Wicked Witch of the West’s point of view of what happened in Oz. There are multiple characters with their own point of view, much less the entire series having a point of view separate from Baum’s books.

The facts in these stories haven't changed.

The story has because of who is telling it.

Point of view determines not only what readers see but also how they feel about what they see.

Why Clarity Matters

Readers rarely stop and consciously analyze point of view.

They simply feel it.

And, when a writer manages point of view well, readers become immersed in the story world. They forget they're reading. They live inside the narrative.

When point of view becomes unclear, immersion breaks.

A common mistake occurs when writers jump from one character's thoughts to another's within the same scene.

Jane worried her son wouldn't come home.

Across the room, Mark wondered if she knew he was planning to leave.

Then Jane noticed his expression and feared the worst.

The shift may seem harmless, but it unsettles readers. The narrative camera suddenly jumps without warning and confusion reigns. Once a reader is confused, it may take a long time to pull them back into the story.

It's the literary equivalent of a movie cutting from shot to shot so rapidly that viewers lose track of what's happening.

Readers shouldn't have to stop and ask:

Whose head am I in right now?

The moment they do, you've pulled them out of the story.

Point of View and Reader Enjoyment

Good point of view management isn't about following arbitrary rules.

It's about creating the most enjoyable experience possible.

Consider Harry Potter. Imagine how different the books would feel if readers constantly jumped into Snape's thoughts, Voldemort's thoughts, Dumbledore's thoughts, and Harry's thoughts every few paragraphs. Many mysteries would disappear and emotional surprises and wonder would vanish.

J.K. Rowling largely keeps readers aligned with Harry because that perspective creates the strongest emotional journey.

The same principle applies regardless of genre.

Point of view controls curiosity, surprise, empathy, and, most importantly, point of view controls emotional engagement.

Readers care most deeply when they're allowed to experience events through a clear, consistent lens.

How to Choose the Right Scene Character

When deciding whose perspective should control a scene, ask a simple question:

Who has the most to lose?

The answer often reveals the strongest viewpoint.

In The Silence of the Lambs, scenes frequently stay close to Clarice Starling because her emotional stakes are enormous. She needs answers. She needs growth. She needs to confront her fears.

Readers naturally invest in the character whose desires and risks dominate the moment.

Point of view works best when the emotional stakes and the narrative lens point in the same direction.

The Real Purpose of Point of View

Many writers think point of view exists to deliver information.

It doesn't.

Point of view exists to create experience.

Readers don't open a novel simply to learn what happened.

They open it to feel what happened.

Point of view determines whether they stand outside the story looking in or step inside and live it alongside the characters.

At the global level, point of view shapes the entire journey.

At the scene level, it shapes every emotional moment along the way.

Master point of view, and you give readers clarity.

Give readers clarity, and you give them immersion.

Give them immersion, and you give them one of the greatest gifts fiction can offer: the chance to disappear into another life for a while.

If you'd like to learn more, there is a free video at this link: https://youtu.be/TBQxmV914Is

How do you decide whose point of view controls a scene in your writing?

About Sarah Sally

Sarah (Sally) Hamer is a lover of books, a teacher of writers, and a believer in a good story. Most of all, she is eternally fascinated by people and how they 'tick'. She’s passionate about helping people tell their own stories, whether through fiction or through memoir. Writing in many genres - mystery, science fiction, fantasy, romance, medieval history, non-fiction – she has won awards at both local and national levels, including two RWA Golden Heart finals.

A teacher of memoir, beginning and advanced creative fiction writing, and screenwriting at Louisiana State University in Shreveport for over twenty years, she also teaches online at both margielawson.com and nostresswriting.com with blogs for writersinthestormblog.com/ as well as her monthly blog for thewriteconversation.com. Sally is a free-lance editor and book coach at Mind Potential, with many of her students and clients becoming successful, award-winning authors. 

You can find her at sally@mindpotential.org

Author picture from the author, featured picture from CoPilot

By RJ Redden

Spring 2022. I'm driving home, radio low, one hand hovering over the blinker before I've even consciously decided to turn, because my body knows this route better than my brain does.

I come up on my usual Starbucks, read the sign, and do the sigh. Because I already know how this is gonna go. I’ll walk in, ask for my coffee, get The Face from the barista (kind, but useless), and walk back out holding whatever's closest on the menu. A consolation prize dressed up as a decision.

My favorite coffee is burnt butterscotch latte. And I do mean burnt: the kind that tastes like caramel that almost escaped the pan but didn't, sweet with a smoky shadow trailing right behind it. Starbucks makes a great one, but only in the fall.

So I'm sitting at a red light doing math on exactly how disappointed I'm about to be. And a thought saunters in sideways, hips first, like it already knows it's about to rearrange my whole life.

You see, I'd just started poking around with this GPT thing.

What if, instead of settling for whatever's next, I skipped the counter and ask AI how to build the drink myself?

I drove straight home, and my answer came back: butterscotch extract and a little liquid smoke, just enough to smell like trouble. I poured it over a shot of espresso still ticking hot from the machine and took a sip standing at my own kitchen counter. No barista, no apologetic face anywhere in sight. Burnt-sugar smell curling up out of the mug like it had been waiting just for me.

It worked. It actually worked. The whole mug tasted like a campfire had fallen hard for a butterscotch sundae. And somewhere behind my eyes, my brain cracked open like a jar giving up its seal.

If I can build one recipe this way, I thought, I can build more. The coffee shop stuff is always so boring anyway.The same fourteen syrups just wearing a different trench coat depending on the season. Surely I can do better than that…

Then One Recipe Turns Into a Hundred

So I went hunting for extracts, and not politely. Picture the counter of a woman who has fully lost her sense of reality: little glass soldiers of extract lined up like a spice rack that had a breakdown, vanilla and toffee crowded next to one bottle that just says “smoke #3” in Sharpie because I'd run out of names. My whole kitchen started smelling like a bakery that couldn't decide what it was baking.

I was off to the races, writing recipe after recipe, and somewhere around recipe number two, still cradling that first burnt butterscotch latte like a trophy, a second thought sat down right behind the first one.

This drink needed a real name, something that belonged to my world, the fantasy tavern I'd been building in my head for years called the Come Write Inn. A harmless project, right?

So I had GPT pitch me titles. I picked one. I had it pitch descriptions, then did what I always do. I took what it gave me, and marked it up in red pen

Then I kept going. A whole slate of coffees, each one carrying a name and a sliver of story poured right into the cup.

A hundred coffees later, that is still exactly how it works.

The Loop, Explained Like a Barista Who Can’t Quit

This is the part I need you to actually get, because it's the entire point. I do not take what the AI gives me and call it finished, not on coffee one, not on coffee ninety-four.

Think of it the way a judge on Chopped sends a plate back for missing the mark, except the plate is actually a paragraph. I ask GPT to write the description for a coffee called the Widow's Toast. Round one comes back.

It's fine. It's technically words in a row, just not words that sound like they came out of my mouth. So I send it back. I tell it exactly what's off and what needs to go. Round two comes back closer, but still not quite it. I cut a line here, sharpen a phrase there. Out that description comes again.

Four rounds. Six. Sometimes ten, if that recipe's being stubborn. Every pass, the only question that matters is whether the words are finally right. The answer is no, right up until the second it isn’t.

That's the loop, spelled out plain: draft, critique, resubmit. Then again. And again, until it's something I'd actually put my name on. The AI hands me the first draft. I'm the one doing the shaping, and somewhere in the back of my head Ted Allen is already clearing his throat to ask what inspired this coffee.

The point isn't the material. It's refusing to stop shaping the draft until the page is right.

Then the Pictures Started Talking Back

Chapter two of this saga: I had roughly ten coffees fully written and wanted images to go with them. GPT couldn't generate images yet, so I grabbed stock photos that were close enough and called it good for now. Flat and generic, tasting of nothing much at all. Understudies standing in for stars who hadn't yet been cast.

Then the day came. The tool could suddenly generate images, and I was at the stage door before it had even finished opening. I took the description already written for a coffee, fed it to AI, and asked for an image. What came back was so much closer than I’d ever been. My world went from two dimensions to three in as many seconds.

I saw it. My world. Right there on the screen. It’s that moment when you’ve been carrying something around with you so long, something that no one else had ever seen.

Then, because apparently I don't know the meaning of leaving well enough alone, I pushed one step further. I took the finished image and fed that back in too, asking a different question this time, one layer deeper than the coffee itself: tell me the story of how this exact picture came to be.

Out came an extended backstory nobody had asked for, lore behind the lore. Same loop, just a bit larger.

A Hundred Coffees Later, I Still Can't Stop

That loop is still running right now, today, probably while you're reading this. Every coffee in my world has a title, ingredients, a description, a backstory, a character sheet, and in some cases a whole time-shifted history of how it came to sit on that tavern's menu.

We’re in over a hundred coffees deep. Forty-seven extracts currently live on my kitchen counter, lined up like a chorus line waiting for their cue, right next to a coffee machine that runs most of the day. A shrine nobody asked me to build and everybody who visits comments on anyway.

It isn't finished.

New flavors keep showing up. And somewhere along the way they stopped being just coffees. Characters started climbing out of them, and whole places came trailing right behind, magic items and all.

Start With Something That Doesn't Matter

This is the idea I actually want you to walk away with. I started with something fun and harmless.

Nothing was going to explode if a coffee description flopped. No client was waiting on the other end of a bad latte name. People write throwaway coffee shop copy every day of the week. It's about as low-stakes as language gets, and that's exactly why it made a safe door to walk through.

I fully expected the whole experiment to go nowhere. If that had happened, I'd have shrugged and gone on with my Tuesday.

Instead, one silly, doesn't-matter-if-it-flops drink order turned into the spine that holds up my entire fictional world. I'd tried building this world by hand before, with tea and notebooks and big brave stabs at a “series bible”. I stalled every time.

It just felt too big. I never knew which wall to start painting first. What actually cracked the world open was smaller than any plan I'd ever tried: one small idea nobody would miss if it flopped. Looped on with zero pressure to be brilliant. Then my whole world snuck in sideways while I was busy naming a latte.

So tell me. What's your burnt butterscotch latte? The one small, doesn't-matter-if-it-flops thing sitting in your writing life right now that you could hand to AI, just to see what loops back at you. Drop it in the comments. I read every one, and I will absolutely have thoughts.

CALL TO ACTION

If you want your own kitchen-counter moment, the kitchen's open. I'm hosting a Free Week of my NO BS AI class: seven days, two real things built by your own hands, no coding required, and I’m here to help you through. https://nobsai.now/free-week

About RJ

RJ Redden is your digital fairy godmother for audience engagement. Her wand wields AI, chatbots, and augmented reality to create experiences so engaging, your readers will forget Netflix exists. She also speaks fluent human in a world obsessed with algorithms. Find her at The Come Write Inn.com. This article was edited with AI assistance, because this fairy godmother believes in using every tool in the workshop — ethically and transparently.

Share this:

Facebook X Pinterest Reddit LinkedIn Threads Email Share

Pictures contributed by the author

(Even When You’re Using Deep POV Correctly)

By Susan Watts

Recently, I found myself staring at a scene in my current work-in-progress, wondering why it wasn't working.

On paper, it should have been one of the strongest emotional scenes in the chapter. The stakes were high, and I'd woven visceral reactions and interiority (click here to read my blog on interiority) throughout the scene. If you're unfamiliar with those terms, visceral reactions are the body's immediate, involuntary response to emotion, while interiority reveals the character's private thoughts and interpretation of what's happening. Together, they create the emotional closeness that makes deep POV so immersive.

Those techniques helped transform my writing, which is why the problem I was having with this  chapter surprised me.

Every time I reread it, I found myself strangely disconnected. The emotion was obvious, yet the scene never quite came alive. My first instinct was to do add more internal thoughts, more physical reactions, and more explanation about why the moment mattered.

The chapter grew longer, but it didn't become more engaging.

Only later did I realize I wasn't dealing with a lack of emotion. I had become so focused on making sure readers understood what my character felt that I'd stopped paying attention to whether those emotions actually changed as the scene unfolded.

That realization completely altered the way I approach scene revision.

The Problem Wasn't a Lack of Emotion

When critique partners say a scene needs more emotion, we often assume the character lacks feeling. Occasionally that's true. Stronger visceral reactions, deeper interiority, or more specific emotional language can absolutely strengthen a scene.

But I've started noticing another problem. Sometimes the emotion is already on the page, yet it never changes.

Looking back, my character spent nearly the entire scene with the same emotion. She began the chapter afraid and ended it in much the same emotional place. Only then did I realize I'd never stopped to ask whether that fear was evolving. Every meaningful scene needs its own emotional arc because those small shifts eventually build the larger character arc readers remember.

That discovery reminded me of something I've watched hundreds of times while teaching martial arts.

Students spend a great deal of time perfecting their stance, as they should. However, standing in a technically perfect stance isn't enough to win a fight. As your opponent changes distance, rhythm, or strategy, your body should adapt. If you remain frozen in the same position simply because it's technically correct, you eventually lose the exchange.

The stance exists so you can move.

Emotion works much the same way.

I've come to think of this as emotional movement—the gradual change in a character's understanding that reshapes how they experience events. A scene's emotional arc isn't about changing emotions for the sake of variety but allowing that understanding to evolve. A character may begin and end a scene feeling fear, yet if they understand that fear differently by the final page, the emotional arc has moved.

Interestingly, I rarely think about emotional movement while drafting my manuscript. At that stage, I'm still discovering the story. It's during revision that I begin asking whether the emotion changes from the beginning of a scene to the end, because that's when I can finally see whether the emotional arc is actually working.

Real Emotions Rarely Stay Still

Think about the last time you waited for news that mattered. Maybe it was a response from an agent, medical test results, or a difficult conversation you couldn't avoid.

Did you experience one emotion the entire time?

Probably not.

Hope gave way to doubt. Confidence slipped into worry. Every new possibility subtly changed how you interpreted the situation, even before anything actually happened.

Real emotions rarely remain fixed because our understanding keeps changing.

Readers respond to characters in much the same way. They aren't seeking stronger emotions. They're looking for emotions that evolve.

The Question That Changed My Revision Process

As I worked through that problem scene, I realized I'd been asking the wrong revision question.

For years, I'd asked myself:

How does my character feel?

It had always been a useful question because it pushed me toward deeper interiority.But this time, it wasn't enough. So I replaced it with a different question:

What is my character discovering?

That simple shift transformed everything.

Once I dug beneath the surface, I realized the scene wasn't really about immediate danger. It was about a previous failure my character had never forgiven herself for. The external conflict hadn't changed, but its meaning had. Suddenly the fear had somewhere to go because her understanding had shifted.

Meaning Creates Emotion

That revision taught me something I hadn't fully appreciated before.

Readers connect more with the character’s interpretation of events rather than the events themselves. Meaning acts like a filter between the event and the emotion. Two characters can experience exactly the same situation and leave with completely different emotional responses because each brings unique fears, beliefs, expectations, and history into the moment.

I've started thinking about emotional scenes as a simple progression:

Event → Meaning → Emotion → Action

As the character’s perception changes, so does the meaning. And the emotion naturally follows. That's where emotional movement begins.

Imagine two writers receiving the same rejection letter. One shrugs, files it away, and immediately sends another query. The other stares at the email long after the screen goes dark.

The rejection itself isn't different.

The meaning is.

Perhaps the second writer has spent years wondering whether they're talented enough. Or they promised themselves this manuscript would finally prove they belonged. The emotional weight comes from everything the rejection represents rather than the rejection itself.

Characters experience events the same way. A missed phone call, a failed test, or a broken promise only becomes emotionally significant because of what they represent to that particular character.

Sometimes the Emotion Is Hiding in the Character's World

One of my favorite revision techniques is to stop looking at the character for a moment and start looking at what they're noticing. Emotion changes perception.

A recently divorced woman notices the empty chair at the kitchen table.

A grieving father notices the school photograph attached to the refrigerator.

A detective notices the unlocked window.

The room hasn't changed. The character has.

I've found that what a character notices often reveals more emotion than a detailed explanation of their feelings. It also allows readers to participate in the experience by drawing conclusions for themselves instead of being told exactly what to think.

What Finally Fixed My Scene

The solution wasn't adding more visceral reactions, another paragraph of interiority, or stronger emotional language. It was allowing the character's emotional understanding to change.

That didn't mean rewriting every sentence. It meant looking for the places where her new awareness should naturally appear. Once I knew what had shifted internally, I found myself revising her thoughts, her observations, her decisions, and even the way she interpreted other people's words. Those changes weren't separate revisions. They all grew out of the emotional movement happening beneath the surface.

Although I added very little emotion to the page, the emotional impact rose dramatically. What changed was the direction the emotion moved.

If Readers Want More Emotion...

My scene revision process now begins with one question: Has the character's understanding changed from the beginning of the scene to the end? Once I know that answer, revising the prose becomes much easier.

When a scene feels emotionally flat, these are the questions I return to:

• What is my character discovering in this scene?
• How has their understanding changed by the end?
• What does this event now mean to them personally?

I've found those questions far more useful than simply trying to add more emotion. Once I understand the character's emotional movement, the rest of the revision usually follows naturally.

Have you ever revised a scene that contained plenty of visceral reactions and interiority, yet still felt emotionally flat?
If so, what finally unlocked it?

About Susan

Under the pen name Michelle Allums, Susan Watts has authored a young adult urban fantasy titled, The Jade Amulet and is currently writing the sequel. Her short stories are also included in the anthologies Christmas Roses and Forever and Always.

Susan has dedicated over four decades to training in multiple martial arts styles and holds the impressive title of a five-time US Karate Alliance world black belt fighting grand champion. Through her karate school, she is able to impart martial arts and life skills. Susan also incorporates her martial arts knowledge into her writing.

An avid triathlete, she keeps in shape by running, biking, and swimming. She lives in the country with her husband, where they raise animals and enjoy being outdoors. Susan also has three grown children and numerous grandchildren. In addition, she is a CPA and VP of finance for a company in her hometown. 

You can connect with Susan on social media or her website.

Featured picture from Canva Magic Media. Extra picture: Susan Watts