
Some writing crimes are misdemeanors. In fact, whether or not these two peeves of mine count as actual no-no’s is open to discussion. I hope you’ll share your opinion.
This post is about peeve # 1, Head-hopping. Changing the point of view (POV) within a scene confuses the reader.
This post is about peeve # 1, Head-hopping. Changing the point of view (POV) within a scene confuses the reader.
Go ahead. Create ambiguity and tension about the plot and the characters’ motivations and perhaps their well-hidden pasts, but not about who’s telling the story and whose eyes the reader is “seeing” through.
Some well-known and popular writers switch point of view from paragraph to paragraph and get away with it. One way to do this, if you must, is to give a little clue that you’re about to, or have just, changed POV. You can use some sort of action to indicate you are now in the other person’s head, or maybe a simple tag, like “Jessie thought.”
Here's an example:
Bonny walked into a kitchen that reeked of cooking oil and fried fish, saw the burned frying pan and a sink filled with dishes. Heat careened through her body as if she’d been in that damn pan. She slammed her purse to the table, heedless of the damage to its contents.
The comforting smells of cooking always reminded her of home. Delilah hated that her roommate had so little patience with the children. She wished she were their mother.
Bonny walked into a kitchen that reeked of cooking oil and fried fish, saw the burned frying pan and a sink filled with dishes. Heat careened through her body as if she’d been in that damn pan. She slammed her purse to the table, heedless of the damage to its contents.
The comforting smells of cooking always reminded her of home. Delilah hated that her roommate had so little patience with the children. She wished she were their mother.
Here’s one repair approach:
Bonny walked into a kitchen that reeked of cooking oil and fried fish, saw the burned frying pan and a sink filled with dishes. Heat careened through her body as if she’d been in that damn pan. She slammed her purse to the table, heedless of the damage to its contents.
Bonnie’s roommate dashed to the table in time to catch the purse before it tumbled to the floor. She wondered why Bonnie always stressed at mess, always insisted that tidy homes are happy homes. Weird, because the comforting smells of cooking always reminded Delilah of home. Delilah hated that her roommate had so little patience with the children. She wished she were their mother.
Bonnie’s roommate dashed to the table in time to catch the purse before it tumbled to the floor. She wondered why Bonnie always stressed at mess, always insisted that tidy homes are happy homes. Weird, because the comforting smells of cooking always reminded Delilah of home. Delilah hated that her roommate had so little patience with the children. She wished she were their mother.
Bonny walked into a kitchen that reeked of cooking oil and fried fish, saw the burned frying pan and a sink filled with dishes. Heat careened through her body as if she’d been in that damn pan. She slammed her purse to the table, heedless of the damage to its contents.
Bonnie’s roommate dashed to the table in time to catch the purse before it tumbled to the floor. She spun to the stove, flipped on the fan, and trotted to the window to open it a crack.
“You’re home just in time for dinner,” she said, one of her annoying, welcome-to-my-world smiles pasted across her face. “The kids and I had such fun making dinner for you.”
“Burning dinner?” Bonnie asked.
Delilah’s eyes filled with tears (we’ll work on cliches another time!). “I’ll clean up, I promise.” She went to the refrigerator and snatched two pieces of juvenile scribbling from the crowded door front. “Aren’t these terrific? One of those kids is bound to be an artist, just like you.” She forced them into Bonnie’s hands.
Bonnie took a quick scan of the papers. Not bad, actually. Which of course made it worse. “Maybe you’re planning on paying for art school. I work damn hard just to get enough to pay for fish for them to burn.”
Next post: Whose head is it, anyway? Talking heads.



