When I first aspired to write a novel, I never questioned that it must be in the first-person POV. With the certainty of a 14-year-old, I plotted innumerable scenes where my unerring perspective brimmed with the depth and insight that all readers longed to experience. By the time I published my first book over forty years later, I didn’t write it in that POV. Indeed, I could barely stand reading anything in the first-person. What had changed?

Nascent Notions

Looking through the ages (and the cringe) at my former self, I remember what teenage me wanted from a story: to enter the hearts and minds of the characters and vicariously live their adventures. What a thrill to have these exciting people share their thoughts and feelings with me. At that introspective period of my life, it was instructional and intimate, like close friendships. We were discovering the world together. Of course, I gravitated toward protagonists like me, feeling sure they would welcome my company and input. It was enough to go deep with a few companions or even one, because only kindred spirits mattered. Anyone else fell into the fuzzy hinterlands of “the others.”

As I branched out into forming my own stories, it was natural for my sensibilities to dominate the plot. And I imagined that my ideas and exploits would similarly delight readers. Thus, the wellspring of my preference for first-person POV.

Reluctant Revelations

Undoubtedly, from your second-person perspective, you see the childish narcissism of this view. But children are narcissistic, and we take a long time to grow out of childhood. Reading is supposed to help with that.

I found some interesting books which were told from the third person. Sighing with some irritation, I took them on and discovered that I could see the stories just fine with some distance. And, adding a bit of imagination, I actually saw more, now that I wasn’t stuck in my head. This POV soon became my favorite.

There is a poem by Emily Dickinson with a line, “How many the fictitious shores before the harbor be.” I interpret that to mean that we often think we have arrived at our destination when the journey isn’t nearly done yet. So it was with me. I was widening my gaze as a reader and a person. But I still liked the neat coherence of one POV, following the story linearly from a consistent perspective.

When I encountered the multi-person POV, I hated it. Why would anyone want to flit constantly between viewpoints and storylines? It felt disjointed and dysfunctional. But again, a few intriguing books were written in that POV, so I'd had to engage. This one grated for a while. First, it was hard to learn so many character mindsets and keep them straight. Then, I had to endure mini cliffhangers every few chapters when it came time to switch scenes. Annoying. Reading for pleasure became work. But there was a payoff.

Expanding Universe

Good things come to those who exercise. This isn’t true just for physical health. As I put in the effort to wade through these temperamental tales, I spotted positive benefits. My worlds began expanding.

Multiple POVs transcended the limits of time and space imposed upon a single character. With them, I could see action in different venues with immediate effect. Adventures seemed grander, and I felt the epic in the fantasy.

Yes, broadening the view made it harder to go deep with each individual character. So, I sharpened my observation and deduction skills to understand the players with less said. My imagination filled in the gaps. And with practice, it became easier to shift to another viewpoint and to pick up the threads of a dropped storyline. My mind and sympathies became more agile, spilling into real life. It was like learning to think. The unknown was no longer an obstacle but a tantalizing puzzle that could be deciphered.

It was heady stuff, and I never wanted to read or write in any other way.

What About the Innkeeper?

Inevitably, this heightened awareness led to a keener focus on side characters. I wondered at their possibilities and soon realized that in fiction, as in real life, there are no minor characters. Every person is the protagonist of their own story and worthy of notice.

With that regard, my mind now takes unexpected turns in reading. For instance, have you ever noticed the importance of innkeepers in key Biblical narratives? Where would we be if an innkeeper in Bethlehem hadn’t let a young couple bed down in the stable to have their first child? And how could the Good Samaritan carry out his goodwill if the innkeeper had not the faith to act on credit?

Once you see, you can’t unsee them. We all owe our stories to each other. This was something I could never have recognized until I stopped looking through a singular point of view.

Growing with our Stories

I don’t think that first-person POV is inherently wrong. It’s probably well-known that young people prefer it. In fact, they may need it in their formative years. But we ought to grow with our stories and allow them to grow with us, especially as writers.

The familiar is comfortable, and we may want to stay with it. But if we read as a child, we will see and write as a child. When we dare to progress, we enter the richness of the next stage. A different perspective may open the way to it. In each season of life, fresh stories can inform us of appropriate lessons. And the best tales continue to teach us as we grow to see them differently. These are the ones we should write, in whatever POV. Ultimately, the worthwhile stories grow us.

Expanding our horizons may challenge and stretch us. Yet, beyond the discomforts is the widening gaze that yields a finer view.