Earlier this week, we discussed framing devices, and how they can determine whatever a past-tense, first-person narrator can die or not. Today, we conclude with the other factors: time frames, and the broadcasting theory.
Photo by Derrick Tyson
Long live the time frames!
Narration is a tricky concept, with more to it than point-of-view and tense.
An often ignored-yet-important element is time frame. Is the narrator aware of events further along in the story? Does he or she have future knowledge that might affect their internal thoughts?
For example, A narrator might make a comment like “that was the moment when we fell in love”, or “little did we know that our penguin would fall into a blender two months later”.
Time frame is easier in present tense, since narrators, for the most part, aren't aware of future events in the concrete sense.
In past tense, you can have the narrator mentioning or referring to events that happen later in the story. Then they're granted the same immunity a framing device can provide. If the past-tense narrator has no more knowledge of the future than a present-tense narrator, then he or she can drop dead mid-story.
The Broadcasting Theory
The narrative mode I write in is basically present tense but in the past tense voice. This means that my protagonists convey their story a fraction of a second after an action happens.
Here's my thought: past-tense narration is like a broadcast. Broadcasts aren't instant, so what you hear on the radio or see on the TV is always a few seconds behind.
So when you read a book in the past tense that has an instant time frame (the narrator is telling what's happening an instant after the fact), you're receiving present tense that has been changed to past tense most of us are comfortable reading and writing.
If they happen to get killed along the way, I can sever the broadcast mid-sentence–because the sucker's minuscule framing device stopped giving them immunity.
So Can a First-Person, Past-Tense Narrator Die?
Let me repeat the what I asked last post: A first-person, past-tense narrator must be alive at the end of the story. Is this true or false?
If the first-person narrator has no knowledge of what happens after the events he's currently narrating, and he isn’t telling the story to an audience while alive, then he can be dead. In this case, they have as much immunity to death as a present tense narrator, and you're free to kill them on the last page or beforehand.
Just be prepared to deal with the readers' reactions.
PRACTICE
Now you can get your hands dirty.
Write in the past tense with a first-person narrator, then at the end, kill the narrator. You can either have a death in mind before-hand, or decide at the last second. Keep in mind the time frame.
Write for fifteen minutes, then post your practice in the comments. Let the blood ink spill!
Here’s something that makes things even more complicated:
What about epistolary novels, comprised of letters/journal entries of multiple characters? You could easily have some of the characters knocked off and keep going, with the other narrators telling us what happens “after.”
I guess you could do this from any story told from multiple POVs.
Or, like in some older novels, the narrator trails off at the end (the moment of death), but then there’s an epilogue of sorts, with someone saying they discovered this book/journal/etc. Or there’s a “newspaper clipping” explaining the body being found. Or something.
I believe Mina in Dracula is dead by the end of the novel, but we hear her story through her journal. That whole book is framed in letters and journals etc and the time frame shifts depending on who’s story you’re reading. So It’s a bit confusing, but it does work. Quite well actually.
I think I addressed this in Thursday’s post, about how it can still work if a character is reading or listening to a dead character’s recorded accounts.
I need to try reading Dracula one day again. I read an original text version in sixth grade and the reading level for it was too high for me.
The Watchmen (movie version) uses something like this approach. The story is basically Rorschach’s journal describing the events. But Rorschach deposits his journal through the mail slot at the newspaper before heading to Antarctica where he dies. The end of the movie implies that what we’ve watched was Seymour’s (writer at the newspaper) reading of Rorschach’s journal. But if that’s the case, it shouldn’t have included anything past when he dropped if off, such as the revelations disclosed at Karnak. Still, as a storytelling vehicle, it works.
The judge had this long white beard and he was leaning back on a big white beanbag pillow thing that I guess was supposed to look like a cloud. There were food and wine stains all over it and it was obvious that he didn’t give a shit about any of this; the stains, the power, the cute angels waiting on him all day long, how it was going to work out for me…
And I was lying there on a hospital bed with all these wires coming out of my head and tubes in my arms and unidentifiable things sticking out of my ass. My head was propped up on a Snoopy pillow but it was a cheap Chinese version of Snoopy called Scoopy. Anyway, no matter how fake this Snoopy-Scoopy was, I was grateful for it because it meant I could actually see this judge in front of me and I could just about make out my wife a few metres to my left. As usual, she had that smug look on her face that said I don’t care if my husband is right next to me but whatever, I’m going to flirt my ass off with you. At least she was
consistent.
“So tell me in your own words what happened back then,” said the judge, looking at me while trying not to look at her.
I couldn’t talk though. So I made some strange, abrupt, incoherent sounds and my lawyer interpreted for me. Basically I just thought really hard and he said what I was thinking.
“My client didn’t try to kill himself, your honour,” he said. “His wife attacked him. That money-grabbing, two-timing, crack-smoking, dirty-ass whore-bag,” He stopped suddenly, took a deep breath and looked a bit confused about where that not-so-professional rant came from. He looked at me angrily.
“Objection.” said her lawyer.
“Dismissed,” said the judge. “The court is not interested in your client’s subjective opinions of his wife,” he said to my lawyer. “What we would like to know is what actually happened.”
I started again with the weird ‘bleeugh’ and ‘grrr’ and ‘r-a-h’ sounds that came out of my mouth. Even I didn’t understand what I meant but again my lawyer did an amazing job at translating. He’s clearly some kind of geek genius. Then the judge stroked his soft white beard and it was obvious that he was bored out of his mind. But suddenly we all heard the ping sound of a text message on his phone and he sat up on his cloud beanbag. A serious look came over his face, he banged his hammer and said, “I see no progress with this case so I suggest we adjourn until Monday.”
There was a sudden hush. And then I was making those abrupt, incoherent sounds again. But it was too late. And then I wasn’t making those sounds. And with that I saw myself go. But it was Friday afternoon and if you’re the god of a whole universe and you have a summer house to go to where your beautiful wife is waiting for you with your beautiful kids, what are you going to do?
I enjoyed reading this, SC. The mind-reading lawyer was unexpected. And the Scoopy pillow, gotta love that! Thanks for sharing
The judge brings God and the golden gates of heaven to mind. The Scoopy vase is an amusing addition.
This was a bit weird, killing off the narrator and all.Still good practice, though. Here’s my contribution:
The early afternoon was turning sharply colder, but we pressed on up the hill.
James and I were tracking a cougar. At least that’s what James thought it was.
Something had killed three head of cattle over the last month, with the latest
kill earlier today. We had never seen the big cat, but James said the carnage
looked like what a cougar would do. We’d had fresh snowfall last night, and
there were tracks leading off from the latest carcass into the woods.
We didn’t have that big a herd. Pa was away for a few weeks getting more supplies, leaving James in charge as the oldest boy. James thought we should track the cougar down before it could strike again, so we bundled up, loaded up, and headed out.
I snugged up my coat and checked my rifle again. James was the better tracker, so he was about ten yards ahead following the trail. Some flurries were swirling
around us. Not enough to hide the tracks, I hoped. There looked to be plenty of
daylight left, but there was no telling how far we had to go. Or if there was anything to find when we got there. I tried not to think about the cold or the mountain lion any more than I had to.
Hadn’t wanted to say anything to James when we left, but this pursuit didn’t seem the best idea. I would have preferred to hide out in the barn and see if we could
shoot the cat when it came stalking again. James loved being in charge, though,
and with his take-it-on personality he’d given orders and I’d followed.
Besides the wind and our occasional noises and words, there was no other sound. Seemed strange to not hear the usual birds in the woods around us. Spooky was more like it. I saw James pass out of sight around a boulder up there on the left,
and hustled to catch up.
As I came around the boulder there was a flash of movement from my left. Something hit me in the head, a stunning blow. My ears rang. My face and neck felt strangely warm. I don’t think I made a single sound before seeing another blur. Now a heavy weight was on my back, and something clamped onto my neck. It was more pressure than pain. I sensed warm liquid on my neck as I staggered and fell. Passing out, I wondered where James was.
Hi Paul,
I really like how nobody ever actually sees the big cat, even your victim at the end.
I also got a great sense of the brothers’ relationship and how the younger one was smarter even though he felt he should follow his brother.
Thanks for the note, SC – glad you liked it.
I personally though “werecat”, although I think the cougar is something more primal. Details are general yet specific, but its definitely focused in the last paragraph.
Sorry, this is a little short, I had some difficulty with the concept.
This is it. I knew he meant to kill me, I know too much. Tried the exit but it was closed. Why did I have to catch the last train? I thought he wouldn’t see me. Fat chance. I tried to run down the track but he didn’t even bother to follow, just opened up with that blasted sniper’s rifle. So here I sit waiting to bleed to death, or if I survive, to be hit by the first train of the morning. There is no way out. I know he is waiting to finish me off if the train doesn’t. I have written this to explain what has happened. If anyone should read it please contact my wife, Lucy O’Hare of
It looks like you’re not the only one who had trouble with the concept. Like how it cuts off at that movement.
Shorty-short I wrote this fine morning
This was a fun challenge:
Willie. Where’s Willie?
“Amara! Amara, where are you?” My poor brother. He doesn’t deserve to feel what I felt that night.
I settled on a tree in the woods. The chaos had stopped. I was there mission. And, although my revenge wasn’t fulfilled, Nox has never been so avenged. My sweet brothers.
“Amara. God, Amara!” Willie cries, running to me.
“Willie, no. Ca va bien, ca va bien.” He knelt down and put my head in his lap.
“Stop. Amara, stop…” He put his head near mine, I could feel his tears.
I couldn’t cry for him. There was no use. I put my head to his neck and squeezed. “Bien. Ca va bien, Willie.”
Short, but I see potential. I’m especially intrigued by Amara’s saying “ca va bien”, since I’m taking French.
Still accepting these? I’m a bit confused still, so…
I stood in the back of the grey room, with everyone else who was chosen. One tall , strong looking lad wearing a grey uniform had led us in, and he left us without a word, locking the vault behind him. Grey clothes against grey bodies against grey walls. The handcuffs bit into my wrists and ankles. Needless, there was no way I could have escaped through the grey metal doors. While I was slipping into grey insanity, a girl with grey eyes jabbed my arm and pointed with free arms at a panel that had just opened up in the wall. Grey handcuffs laying on the grey cement at her feet. I shut my eyes.