Tag Archives: writing-tips

Using punctuation to lock readers into your protagonist’s POV

Life update! While I’m still pursuing writing, right now I’m detouring to focus specifically on developing my editing skills. Along with reading for Strange Horizons and Flash Fiction Online, I’ve taken on more freelance editing and story coaching jobs this year, and I’m working towards a copyediting certificate from UC San Diego. I thought some of the assignments I turned in for the first course in the UCSD program, a grammar intensive, might make for fun blog posts, so here’s one about using the semicolon (and other punctuation) to guide the reader through description of setting in a story, locking them into your protagonist or narrator’s POV.

Using punctuation to lock readers into your protagonist’s POV

According to The McGraw-Hill Education Handbook of English Grammar and Usage, semicolons should be reserved for instances “when the two parts of a compound sentence—the two independent clauses—are very closely related” (260). But, assuming fluid prose and sound rhetoric, all consecutive sentences from any given text may be expected to bear a degree of “close” relationship to each other. Although one can imagine two sentences side by side which bear absolutely no relation—for example, “I find it difficult to understand contemporary punctuation usage through studying examples from Moby Dick. My cat just vomited on my toe”—in practice, most writing will not contain sentences this jarringly disconnected. So how does one determine if two independent clauses are closely related enough to warrant a semicolon?

I’d like to explore this question in the context of writing fiction, particularly in describing setting. In a passage of setting description, generally the sentences are all “closely related”—they all describe the setting, lighting up aspects of place formerly obscured, like a flashlight beam in a night hiker’s hand. So when and why might a semicolon be used?

When describing setting in fiction, I try to think about where, based on the details I select, I am turning the reader’s attention, and how the reader is spatially experiencing the world of the book. If the protagonist enters a garden, I could describe the grackles in the pecan trees, the stink of stagnant pond water, or the irises wilting in the afternoon sun—details which ground the reader in a real sense of place, while also doing something to characterize the protagonist/narrator, whom the reader will infer (consciously or subconsciously) is the one noticing and pointing these things out to them. Just look at how setting informs character through the narrator in Ella Fitzgerald’s song, “Tenderly,” who describes how “the evening breeze / caressed the trees / tenderly,” compared to the narrator in T. S. Eliot’s poem, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” who describes “the evening spread out against the sky / like a patient etherized upon a table”!

Recognizing that description of setting is really simulation of character gaze or movement through space, an author may use punctuation to moderate that gaze or movement—and the reader’s “movement” alongside them. Punctuation may serve not simply as grammar notation or reproduction of spoken language’s rhythm, but as a lever or regulating valve for the reader’s flow through the physical world described in the text.
Then, while all the sentences in a passage of description may technically be “closely related,” different punctuation choices can influence how closely a reader feels physically proximal to what is described, depending on the effect you want to produce.

Consider this passage of setting description from Satin Island by Tom McCarthy:

There was a small window. A few feet from this there was a drape that hung along the wall: this big wrinkled curtain. I don’t know why it was there—maybe for warmth; behind it there was just a wall as far as I could tell.


Each of these sentences could be said to be equally related, because they are all describing something about the same room. But McCarthy doesn’t join them all with semicolons. He saves it for a specific impact at the end, while slowly escalating towards it through other punctuation, tightly controlling how the reader moves through and experiences the space:

First, the initial period forces the reader to come up short at the window, simulating the way one is naturally drawn to and transfixed by a source of light upon entering an otherwise dark room. Next, the colon similarly emphasizes the prominence of another detail: a peculiar curtain, which might have blended into the shadows if only a comma had preceded it. While the window is “small,” the curtain is “big,” and McCarthy’s next punctuation choices serve to magnify the oppressive curtain even further: an em-dash links question and answer bubbling in the protagonist’s mind in response to the curtain. Finally, McCarthy drops a semicolon to provoke the reader, after a tense pause, to dare to draw back the curtain.

If McCarthy had used a period here instead, the reader would not experience the sense of a continuously deeper slide into the room, as if sucked into a whirlpool. The punctuation parallelism would have made the curtain and wall seem to sit statically next to each other, two-dimensional instead of three-dimensional. The reader would know there was a wall behind the curtain—but she would not have pulled back the curtain herself to discover it.

Whenever you write a passage describing setting, return during the editing phase to interrogate its punctuation. Think about how a comma might dip a reader’s finger into the pool, where a period pushes them all the way in. Could the enclosure of one detail in parentheses better effect the reader poking their head around a corner? Consider if a colon or an em-dash announces the presence of the gothic mansion at the end of the lane—and its door, creaking open, slowly, very slowly . . .

Some ways that stories start

This week I studied story openings! I looked at a number of short stories and novels in science fiction, fantasy, romantasy, suspense, and literary fiction. Here’s what I noticed:

  1. Starting in medio conflictu
  2. Application: some writing exercises
  3. Some Types of story openings
    1. The Founding Legend Prologue opening
    2. The Theme or Philosophy Concept opening
    3. Intriguing Clutter / Lagniappe opening
    4. “This is Real” Author Note opening
    5. Hard Action opening
    6. Soft Action opening
    7. Contemporary Day in the Life opening
    8. Fantasy Day in the Life / Hero’s Journey opening
    9. Big Game Hunter opening
    10. The Tool of the Trade opening
    11. Dialogue opening
    12. The Ensemble opening

Starting in medio conflictu

I found that one thing 99% of openings had in common was that they began with some kind of conflict. It could be epic in scale, along the lines of “Once upon a time there was a war between the Humans and the Faerie,” or of middling importance (like a fight scene or argument about something fairly important) or even super low stakes (a guy struggling to open a jar of pickles, or bickering with his sister over something almost inconsequential).

It seems like it basically doesn’t matter what the conflict is, as long as there is one. Some do retain relevance on rereading—this seems particularly common in short stories, where the opening conflict often reflects the heart of the story. In these cases, the real significance of the opening conflict is only made clear at the end of the story, giving these stories a circular quality, as in the echoing and layering “We Will Teach You How to Read” by Caroline M. Yoachim. The jar of pickles may turn out to be the key to saving the world! But this doesn’t necessarily have to be the case. I found other stories where, however dramatic the opening conflict seemed, further reading revealed it was more of a throwaway event simply for the purpose of hooking attention or setting things up. Gideon the Ninth and its sequels are notoriously built for re-reading, yet I find that the opening of Gideon, where she tries to escape her prison-home, is actually a fairly unimportant conflict, soon swept away by more relevant ones.

The opening conflict can also be a single, sustained issue, or a barrage of problems. In “Lucky Thirteen” by Tracy Clark, the singular, subtle opening conflict is the hint of difficulty in an old man’s traversing an icy path. But in “La Chingona” by Hector Acosta, in setting the scene, each sentence describes a new conflict: a church which looks like it’s flipping off God, a storm and thunder making the lights flicker. Neighbors arguing upstairs. An eviction notice. Sabaa Tahir’s An Ember in the Ashes begins with a low-stakes conflict in the form of argument between the MC and her brother, then proceeds at almost breakneck pace, introducing new exposition, mysteries, obstacles, and stakes with every line of a dialogue.

Application: some writing exercises


Some exercises and methods I’ve drawn from this are:

1. Think of opening a story or scene in terms of conflict, not simply in terms of things happening. If I’m starting with a character, ask what would stand most in opposition to their achieving their goal right then? What kind of initial conflict, however low stakes, might exemplify the main character’s overarching problem, or explain the driving forces in the world of the story, etc.

2. Try out two ways of opening a story or scene: “slow,” going long and deep on a single, sustained conflict, or “fast,” piling on the problems like an opening salvo.

3. Ask how each sentence, aspect, or scene could be modified to most maximize or imply conflict. Instead of a tree standing next to a house, the tree’s branches might beat against the window. Instead of opening with someone reading a letter, open with them having to put on their reading glasses first. Turn each line of dialogue into a rebuttal or disagreement in some way, rather than allowing characters to chat obligingly. Write a scene like those classic commercials where everything goes absurdly wrong.

4. After finishing a story, go back and ask how the opening conflict could be revised into something emblematic of the driving conflict or that foreshadows the ending.

Some Types of story openings

I also noticed some common types of story openings crop up again and again. When I start working on a fantasy novel next year I’m going to do an even deeper genre-specific dive to understand common structures and beats, but for now here’s what I’ve found across various genres, that can be helpful in thinking about where and how to begin:

The Founding Legend Prologue opening

Usually 1-3 pages. Tells the foundational myth or event in a prologue that sets the stage for the world of the story, generally followed by a first chapter which can enter straight into action scene and not require as much explanation of the magic/world because the prologue has cleared up the basics. It also helps to serve as a promise of the premise or clarify what the story is about for the reader, so even if there aren’t werewolves in the first chapter, you know to expect them. In Elantris, a single page prologue briefly explains how the city of Elantris was once great and people magically turned into immortals to live there. In The Serpent and the Wings of the Night, the prologue establishes the origin story of an important character, and that this is a world of humans vs vampires.

The Theme or Philosophy Concept opening


Can be a prologue or opening to first chapter. In The Power, a couple pages describe the book’s stance on the concept of power: “The shape of power is always the same; it is the shape of a tree[…].” The Left Hand of Darkness features the MC ruminating on a concept that led him to where he is today. Or in Anna Karenina: “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

Intriguing Clutter / Lagniappe opening

Opens with various pieces of “texture” leading us into the world of the novel, like news clippings, letters, email or text exchanges, poems, epigrams, fake author/title page, drawings, etc. (see The Power which includes many of the above). An exception is that in fantasy genre, it’s so typical to start with a map and/or dramatis personae that these do not feel like intriguing clutter and I would not consider them an in-story opening, rather I consider them frontmatter. 

“This is Real” Author Note opening

An author note references the book as if it’s real or what it describes is real. For example, Thomas More’s Utopia or Gene Wolfe claiming he has tried to translate The Book of the New Sun into English and Latinate approximations, explaining name choices and worldbuilding.

Hard Action opening

Opens in the middle of a fight scene, a raid, a dogfight, or interrogating somebody, etc. BAM hits you in the face with dramatic action. Typical of action thrillers, but also seen in fantasy or science fiction. A Broken Blade by Melissa Blair opens with the MC Opens in the middle of (really, right at the end of) interrogating a victim whose throat she slits at the end of a short scene.

Soft Action opening

Opens in the middle of an active scene (versus narration/exposition), but it’s lower stakes, not as dramatic. Gideon the Ninth opens with the dramatic situation of an escape in process, but it’s softened by humor and the fact that the character isn’t being pursued or prevented from carrying out their plan until the end of the scene.

Contemporary Day in the Life opening

See Starter Villain and many generic romance books, mystery, and contemporary horror: opens with character just going about their normal daily life activities, which each thing they do or reflect on giving a piece of information setting up the character, setting, and story to come. There needs to be some kind of driving mystery, problem, little conflict, or piece of intriguing news that drives you to keep reading among these generally humdrum details, although there is some general interest in this person just for being a person and demonstrating different quirks, complaints, gossip etc.

Fantasy Day in the Life / Hero’s Journey opening

Technically also day in the life, it starts with character waking up and/or going about their usual activities, but it looks pretty different from the contemporary one. Often because the hero is starting in a wretched village, and their status quo is wretched, whereas in Contemporary Day In Life, the status quo is generally pretty chill and pleasant. See Foundation by Mercedes Lackey, which starts with a young boy MC working in the mines. Elantris could be considered this I think, starts with character waking up and, if only very briefly, experiencing a moment of peaceful day in the life of a prince, before he’s suddenly thrown into a new reality. 

Big Game Hunter opening

It’s funny this would happen enough to be its own category, but there’s a distinct trope of opening fantasy stories with the hero hunting a deer, in many cases only to stumble on a magical creature. Hunger Games, A Court of Thorns and Roses, Eragon, and The North Wind all open like this. I guess it’s an easy way to make a character be immediately engaged in action/conflict, while still setting up the status quo before the real inciting incident. It also seems to be a trophy way to demonstrate “strong female character who don’t need no man.”

The Tool of the Trade opening

Opens by demonstrating and/or explaining some craft, technique, or trade. “The Dragonslayer of Merebarton” by K.J. Parker opens with an explanation of mending a chamberpot. “Stingers” by LaToya Jovena opens with a bartender’s perspective on life and mixing drinks as chemical processes. Can be combined with another opening, for example the Hunter opening shows an everyday skill, as does the interrogation scene mentioned in “Hard Action opening” above.

Dialogue opening

This would also count as an action opening, but one comprised mainly of dialogue between the main character and somebody else. In a short story, this will often cut straight to the chase, and comprise a conflict between the main character and their foil, love interest, or antagonist. The reverse is true in novels, where the dialogue will either be with a throwaway character, or with a beloved sibling, best friend, or comrade in arms. In a novel, the antagonist and love interest aren’t usually introduced in the opening dialogue/scene, I think because you don’t want to rush past developing the main character before introducing them. But this convention is occasionally broken, as in A Promise of Fire by Amanda Bouchet, where the love interest shows up in the first page. Like pure action, the dialogue should usually be a conflict between the two characters, although it can be low stakes, like “you look like shit,” “thanks a lot” “you sure you shouldn’t be resting?” “people depend on me” etc. Can also be combined with the Day in the Life opening, for example in Bannerless the main character comes down for breakfast, giving a glimpse of her normal daily life before she heads off to a detective assignment in an unfamiliar town.

The Ensemble opening

This may be a convention in some genres like epic fantasy and bad writing in others, like more basic fantasy. It’s an opening in which a bunch of characters are introduced, not just the main character and one or two foils or companions (I noticed most books have only 1-3 characters in the first scene). Now, this is different from an ensemble story, like Gideon the Ninth or Murder on the Orient Express, where each chapter introduces a couple more characters, until you’ve met everyone, and then the chapters sort of cycle through focusing on a couple at a time, so you can give each their deeper turn. No, this is referring to having over 3 characters in the very first scene/chapter. I am not personally a fan of this kind of opening, I feel it taxes my brain to try and hold too many characters at once right at the beginning of the book. I get them muddled up in my head since I don’t yet know them intimately on an individual level, and I also don’t get as interested with a broad sweep of characters (which can’t go as deep) versus giving me a single character or couple of characters to go deep on at first.