what does writing an essay in first person mean

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First-Person Point of View: Definition and Examples

4-minute read

• 13th August 2023

The first-person point of view is a grammatical person narrative technique that immerses the reader into the intimate perspective of a single character or individual.

In this literary approach, the story unfolds through the eyes, thoughts, and emotions of the narrator, granting the reader direct access to their inner world. Through the narrator’s use of pronouns such as I and me , readers gain a personal and subjective understanding of the narrator’s experiences, motivations, and conflicts. For example:

If the author uses the third-person point of view , the sentence would read like this:

Why Write From the First-Person Point of View?

This point of view often creates a strong sense of immediacy, enabling readers to form a deep connection with the narrator while limiting the reader’s knowledge to what this character or narrator knows. It’s a dynamic viewpoint that allows the rich exploration of a character’s or narrator’s growth and provides the opportunity to delve into their personal struggles.

First-person narration shouldn’t be used or should be considered carefully in some situations. Familiarize yourself with genre style and tone before making this decision.

Using the First-Person Point of View in Fiction

The first-person point of view is a powerful tool in fiction because it can create an intimate and engaging connection between the reader and the narrator. It is particularly effective for the following purposes.

Developing a Character’s Voice and Personality

First-person narration facilitates a deep exploration of a character’s or narrator’s unique voice, thoughts, and personality. It enables readers to experience the story through the lens of the narrator or a specific character, giving the reader direct insight into their emotions, motivations, and growth.

Portraying Subjective Experiences

When the story relies heavily on the narrator’s or a character’s subjective experience, emotions, and perceptions, the first-person point of view can help the reader connect on a personal level. This bond is especially beneficial in stories that explore complex internal conflicts and psychological themes.

Enhancing Reader Empathy

First-person narratives can foster empathy by enabling readers to see the world through the eyes of the narrator. This perspective can lead to a more emotional and immersive reading experience, allowing readers to relate to and invest in the narrator’s or a character’s journey.

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Conveying Unreliable Narrators

First-person narration is excellent for stories featuring unreliable narrators . Readers can uncover discrepancies between what the narrator says and what they actually do, revealing layers of intrigue and mystery.

Delivering Engaging Storytelling

When the narrative requires a strong and engaging storyteller, the first-person point of view can make the story feel more like a conversation or confession, drawing the reader in.

It’s also important to note that using the first-person point of view comes with limitations. The narrator’s perspective is confined to what they personally experience, possibly limiting the scope of the story’s atmosphere and the portrayal of events that occur outside the narrator’s awareness. Consider how authors of classic novels have utilized point of view in their writing.

The First-Person Point of View in Research Essays

Generally, it’s preferable to avoid the first person in academic and formal writing. Research papers are expected to maintain an objective, unbiased, and impartial tone, focusing on presenting information, data, and analyses clearly. The use of I or we may introduce subjectivity and personal opinions, which can undermine the credibility and professionalism of the research.

Instead, the third-person point of view is preferred because it allows a more neutral and detached presentation of the material. Follow the guidelines and style requirements of the specific field or publication you’re writing for: some disciplines may have different conventions regarding the use of first-person language.

The first person can lend itself to some types of research description when the researcher is discussing why they made a particular decision in their approach or how and why they interpret their findings.

But be aware that when writers attempt to write without reverting to the first person, they often overuse the passive voice . In nonfiction or academic writing, staying in the first person may sometimes be better than using the passive voice.

Ultimately, the decision to use the first person in fiction or nonfiction depends on the specific goals of the author. Fiction authors should consider how this narrative choice aligns with the story’s themes, characters, and intended emotional impact. Research writers should carefully consider whether the use of the first person is necessary to convey their findings and decisions or whether that information could be described as or more effectively without it.

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Table of Contents

Ai, ethics & human agency, collaboration, information literacy, writing process, using first person in an academic essay: when is it okay.

• CC BY-NC-ND 4.0 by Jenna Pack Sheffield

Related Concepts: Academic Writing – How to Write for the Academic Community ; First-Person Point of View ; Rhetorical Analysis; Rhetorical Stance ; The First Person ; Voice

In order to determine whether or not you can speak or write from the first-person point of view, you need to engage in rhetorical analysis. You need to question whether your audience values and accepts the first person as a legitimate rhetorical stance. Source:Many times, high school students are told not to use first person (“I,” “we,” “my,” “us,” and so forth) in their essays. As a college student, you should realize that this is a rule that can and should be broken—at the right time, of course.

By now, you’ve probably written a personal essay, memoir, or narrative that used first person. After all, how could you write a personal essay about yourself, for instance, without using the dreaded “I” word?

However, academic essays differ from personal essays; they are typically researched and use a formal tone . Because of these differences, when students write an academic essay, they quickly shy away from first person because of what they have been told in high school or because they believe that first person feels too informal for an intellectual, researched text. While first person can definitely be overused in academic essays (which is likely why your teachers tell you not to use it), there are moments in a paper when it is not only appropriate, but also more effective and/or persuasive to use first person. The following are a few instances in which it is appropriate to use first person in an academic essay:

• Including a personal anecdote: You have more than likely been told that you need a strong “hook” to draw your readers in during an introduction. Sometimes, the best hook is a personal anecdote, or a short amusing story about yourself. In this situation, it would seem unnatural not to use first-person pronouns such as “I” and “myself.” Your readers will appreciate the personal touch and will want to keep reading! (For more information about incorporating personal anecdotes into your writing, see “ Employing Narrative in an Essay .”)
• Establishing your credibility ( ethos ): Ethos is a term stemming back to Ancient Greece that essentially means “character” in the sense of trustworthiness or credibility. A writer can establish her ethos by convincing the reader that she is trustworthy source. Oftentimes, the best way to do that is to get personal—tell the reader a little bit about yourself. (For more information about ethos, see “ Ethos .”)For instance, let’s say you are writing an essay arguing that dance is a sport. Using the occasional personal pronoun to let your audience know that you, in fact, are a classically trained dancer—and have the muscles and scars to prove it—goes a long way in establishing your credibility and proving your argument. And this use of first person will not distract or annoy your readers because it is purposeful.
• Clarifying passive constructions : Often, when writers try to avoid using first person in essays, they end up creating confusing, passive sentences . For instance, let’s say I am writing an essay about different word processing technologies, and I want to make the point that I am using Microsoft Word to write this essay. If I tried to avoid first-person pronouns, my sentence might read: “Right now, this essay is being written in Microsoft Word.” While this sentence is not wrong, it is what we call passive—the subject of the sentence is being acted upon because there is no one performing the action. To most people, this sentence sounds better: “Right now, I am writing this essay in Microsoft Word.” Do you see the difference? In this case, using first person makes your writing clearer.
• Stating your position in relation to others: Sometimes, especially in an argumentative essay, it is necessary to state your opinion on the topic . Readers want to know where you stand, and it is sometimes helpful to assert yourself by putting your own opinions into the essay. You can imagine the passive sentences (see above) that might occur if you try to state your argument without using the word “I.” The key here is to use first person sparingly. Use personal pronouns enough to get your point across clearly without inundating your readers with this language.

Now, the above list is certainly not exhaustive. The best thing to do is to use your good judgment, and you can always check with your instructor if you are unsure of his or her perspective on the issue. Ultimately, if you feel that using first person has a purpose or will have a strategic effect on your audience, then it is probably fine to use first-person pronouns. Just be sure not to overuse this language, at the risk of sounding narcissistic, self-centered, or unaware of others’ opinions on a topic.

Recommended Readings:

• A Synthesis of Professor Perspectives on Using First and Third Person in Academic Writing
• Finding the Bunny: How to Make a Personal Connection to Your Writing
• First-Person Point of View

Brevity – Say More with Less

Clarity (in Speech and Writing)

Coherence – How to Achieve Coherence in Writing

Flow – How to Create Flow in Writing

Inclusivity – Inclusive Language

The Elements of Style – The DNA of Powerful Writing

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Types of Point of View: The Ultimate Guide to First Person and Third Person POV

by Joe Bunting | 74 comments

In my experience as an editor, point of view problems are among the top mistakes I see new writers make, and they instantly erode credibility and reader trust. Point of view isn't easy though, since there are so many to choose from: first person point of view, third person limited, third person omniscient, and second person.

What do those even mean? And how do you choose the right one for your story?

All stories are written from a point of view. However, when point of view goes wrong—and believe me, it goes wrong often—you threaten whatever trust you have with your reader. You also fracture their suspension of disbelief.

However, point of view is simple to master if you use common sense.

This post will define point of view, go over each of the major POVs, explain a few of the POV rules, and then point out the major pitfalls writers make when dealing with that point of view.

Table of Contents

Point of View Definition The 4 Types of Point of View The #1 POV Mistake First Person Point of View Second Person Point of View Third Person Limited Point of View Third Person Omniscient Point of View FAQ: Can you change POV in a Series? Practice Exercise

Point of View Definition

The point of view, or POV, in a story is the narrator's position in the description of events, and comes from the Latin word, punctum visus , which literally means point sight. The point of view is where a writer points the sight of the reader.

Note that point of view also has a second definition.

In a discussion, an argument, or nonfiction writing, a point of view is an opinion about a subject. This is not the type of point of view we're going to focus on in this article (although it is helpful for nonfiction writers, and for more information, I recommend checking out Wikipedia's neutral point of view policy ).

I especially like the German word for POV, which is Gesichtspunkt , translated “face point,” or where your face is pointed. Isn't that a good visual for what's involved in point of view? It's the limited perspective of what you show your reader.

Note too that point of view is sometimes called narrative mode or narrative perspective.

Why Point of View Is So Important

Why does point of view matter so much?

For a fiction writer, point of view filters everything in your story. Everything in your story must come from a point of view.

Which means if you get it wrong, your entire story is damaged.

For example, I've personally read and judged thousands of stories for literary contests, and I've found point of view mistakes in about twenty percent of them. Many of these stories would have placed much higher if only the writers hadn't made the mistakes we're going to talk about soon.

The worst part is these mistakes are easily avoidable if you're aware of them. But before we get into the common point of view mistakes, let's go over each of the four types of narrative perspective.

The Four Types of Point of View

Here are the four primary types of narration in fiction:

• First person point of view.  First person perspective is when “I” am telling the story. The character is in  the story, relating his or her experiences directly.
• Second person point of view. The story is told to “you.” This POV is not common in fiction, but it's still good to know (it is  common in nonfiction).
• Third person point of view, limited. The story is about “he” or “she.” This is the most common point of view in commercial fiction. The narrator is outside of the story and relating the experiences of a character.
• Third person point of view, omniscient. The story is still about “he” or “she,” but the narrator has full access to the thoughts and experiences of all  characters in the story. This is a much broader perspective.

I know you've seen and probably even used most of these point of views.

While these are the only types of POV, there are additional narrative techniques you can use to tell an interesting story. To learn how to use devices like epistolary and framing stories, check out our full narrative devices guide here .

Let's discuss each of the four types, using examples to see how they affect your story. We'll also go over the rules for each type, but first let me explain the big mistake you don't want to make with point of view.

The #1 POV Mistake

Do not begin your story with a first person narrator and then switch to a third person narrator. Do not start with third person limited and then abruptly give your narrator full omniscience. This is the most common type of error I see writers make with POV.

The guideline I learned in my first creative writing class in college is a good one:

Establish the point of view within the first two paragraphs of your story.

And above all, don't change your point of view . If you do, it creates a jarring experience for the reader and you'll threaten your reader's trust. You could even fracture the architecture of your story.

That being said, as long as you're consistent, you can sometimes get away with using multiple POV types. This isn't easy and isn't recommended, but for example, one of my favorite stories, a 7,000 page web serial called Worm ,  uses two point of views—first person with interludes of third-person limited—very effectively. (By the way, if you're looking for a novel to read over the next two to six months, I highly recommend it—here's the link to read for free online .) The first time the author switched point of views, he nearly lost my trust. However, he kept this dual-POV consistent over 7,000 pages and made it work.

Whatever point of view choices you make, be consistent. Your readers will thank you!

Now, let's go into detail on each of the four narrative perspective types, their best practices, and mistakes to avoid.

First Person Point of View

In first person point of view, the narrator is in the story and telling the events he or she is personally experiencing.

The simplest way to understand first person is that the narrative will use first-person pronouns like I, me, and my.

Here's a first person point of view example from Herman Melville's  Moby Dick :

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world

First person narrative perspective is one of the most common POVs in fiction. If you haven't read a book in first person point of view, you haven't been reading.

What makes this point of view interesting, and challenging, is that all of the events in the story are filtered through the narrator and explained in his or her own unique narrative voice.

This means first person narrative is both biased and incomplete, but it can also deliver a level of intimacy other POVs can't.

Other first person point of view examples can be found in these popular novels :

• The Sun Also Rises  by Ernest Hemingway
• Twilight by Stephenie Meyer
• Ready Player One by Ernest Cline
• The Hunger Games  by Suzanne Collins
• The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
• Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brönte

First Person Narrative is Unique to Writing

There's no such thing as first person in film or theater—although voiceovers and mockumentary interviews like the ones in The Office and Modern Family provide a level of first person narrative in third person perspective film and television.

In fact, the very first novels were written in first person, modeled after popular journals and autobiographies which were first-person stories of nonfiction..

First Person Point of View is Limited

First person narrators are narrated from a single character's perspective at a time. They cannot be everywhere at once and thus cannot get all sides of the story.

They are telling their  story, not necessarily the  story.

First Person Point of View is Biased

In first person novels, the reader almost always sympathizes with a first person narrator, even if the narrator is an anti-hero with major flaws.

Of course, this is why we love first person narrative, because it's imbued with the character's personality, their unique perspective on the world.

The most extreme use of this bias is called an unreliable narrator. Unreliable narration is a technique used by novelists to surprise the reader by capitalize on the limitations of first person narration to make the narrator's version of events extremely prejudicial to their side and/or highly separated from reality.

You'll notice this form of narration being used when you, as the reader or audience, discover that you can't trust the narrator.

For example, Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl  pits two unreliable narrators against one another. Each relates their conflicting version of events, one through typical narration and the other through journal entries. Another example is  Fight  Club , in which *SPOILER* the narrator has a split personality and imagines another character who drives the plot.

Other Interesting Uses of First Person Narrative:

• The classic novel Heart of Darkness is actually a first person narrative within a first person narrative. The narrator recounts verbatim the story Charles Marlow tells about his trip up the Congo river while they sit at port in England.
• William Faulkner's Absalom,  Absalom  is told from the first person point of view of Quentin Compson; however, most of the story is a third person account of Thomas Sutpen, his grandfather, as told to Quentin by Rosa Coldfield. Yes, it's just as complicated as it sounds!
• Salman Rushdie's award-winning  Midnight's Children  is told in first person, but spends most of the first several hundred pages giving a precise third person account of the narrator's ancestors. It's still first person, just a first person narrator telling a story about someone else.

Two Big Mistakes Writers Make with First Person Point of View

When writing in first person, there are two major mistakes writers make :

1. The narrator isn't  likable. Your protagonist doesn't have to be a cliché hero. She doesn't even need to be good. However, she must  be interesting .

The audience will not stick around for 300 pages  listening to a character they don't enjoy. This is one reason why anti-heroes make great first person narrators.

They may not be morally perfect, but they're almost always interesting. (Remember Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye ?)

2. The narrator tells but doesn't show. The danger with first person is that you could spend too much time in your character's head, explaining what he's thinking and how he feels about the situation.

You're allowed to mention the character's mood, but don't forget that your reader's trust and attention relies on what your character does , not what he thinks about doing.

Second Person Point of View

While not used often in fiction—it is used regularly in nonfiction, song lyrics, and even video games—second person POV is still helpful to understand.

In this point of view, the narrator relates the experiences using second person pronouns like you and your. Thus, you  become the protagonist, you  carry the plot, and your  fate determines the story.

We've written elsewhere about why you should try writing in second person , but in short we like second person because it:

• Pulls the reader into the action of the story
• Makes the story   personal
• Surprises the reader
• Stretches your skills as a writer

Here's an example from the breakout bestseller  Bright Lights, Big City by Jay Mclnerney (probably the most popular example that uses second person point of view):

You have friends who actually care about you and speak the language of the inner self. You have avoided them of late. Your soul is as disheveled as your apartment, and until you can clean it up a little you don't want to invite anyone inside.

Second person narration isn't used frequently, however there are some notable examples of it.

Some other novels that use second person point of view are:

• Remember the Choose Your Own Adventure series? If you've ever read one of these novels where you get to decide the fate of the character (I always killed my character, unfortunately), you've read second person narrative.
• The Fifth Season  by N.K. Jemison
• The opening of The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

There are also many experimental novels and short stories that use second person, and writers such as William Faulkner, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Albert Camus played with the style.

Breaking the fourth wall:

In the plays of William Shakespeare, a character will sometimes turn toward the audience and speak directly to them. In  A Midsummer Night's Dream , Puck says:

If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended, that you have but slumbered here while these visions did appear.

This narrative device of speaking directly to the audience or the reader is called breaking the fourth wall (the other three walls being the setting of the story).

To think of it another way, it's a way the writer can briefly use second person in a first or third person narrative.

It's a lot of fun! You should try it.

Third Person Point of View

In third person narration, the narrator is outside of the story and relating the experiences of a character.

The central character is not the narrator. In fact, the narrator is not present in the story at all.

The simplest way to understand third person narration is that it uses third-person pronouns, like he/she, his/hers, they/theirs.

There are two types of this point of view:

Third Person Omniscient

The all-knowing narrator has full access to all  the thoughts and experiences of all  the characters in the story.

Examples of Third Person Omniscient:

While much less common today, third person omniscient narration was once the predominant type, used by most classic authors. Here are some of the novels using omniscient perspective today.

• War and Peace  by Leo Tolstoy
• Middlemarch  by George Eliot
• Where the Crawdad's Sing by Delia Owens
• The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway
• Still Life by Louise Penny (and all the Inspector Gamache series, which is amazing, by the way)
• Gossip Girl by Cecily von Ziegesar
• Strange the Dreamer by Laini Taylor
• Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
• Crazy Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan (one of my favorites!)
• A Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula Le Guin
• Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
• More third person omniscient examples can be found here

Third Person Limited

The narrator has only some, if any, access to the thoughts and experiences of the characters in the story, often just to one  character .

Examples of Third Person Limited

Here's an example of a third person limited narrator from  Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone  by J.K. Rowling:

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous…. He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Harry Potter—the boy who lived!”

Some other examples of third person limited narration include:

• Game of Thrones s eries by George R.R. Martin (this has an ensemble cast, but Martin stays in one character's point of view at a time, making it a clear example of limited POV with multiple viewpoint characters, which we'll talk about in just a moment)
• For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway
• ​The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson
• The Da Vinci Code  by Dan Brown
• The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson
• Ulysses by James Joyce
• Love in the Time of Cholera  by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
• 1984  by   George Orwell
• Orphan Train by   Christina Baker Kline
• Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff

Should You Use Multiple Viewpoint Characters vs. a Single Perspective?

One feature of third person limited and first person narrative is that you have the option of having multiple viewpoint characters.

A viewpoint character is simply the character whose thoughts the reader has access to. This character become the focus of the perspective during the section of story or the story as a whole.

While it increases the difficulty, you can have multiple viewpoint characters for each narrative. For example,  Game of Thrones  has more than a dozen viewpoint characters throughout the series.  Fifth Season has three viewpoint characters. Most romance novels have at least two viewpoint characters.

The rule is to only focus on one viewpoint character at a time (or else it changes to third person omniscient).

Usually authors with multiple viewpoint characters will change viewpoints every chapter. Some will change after section breaks. However, make sure there is  some  kind of break before changing so as to prepare the reader for the shift.

Should You Use Third Person Omniscient or Third Person Limited

The distinction between third persons limited and omniscient is messy and somewhat artificial.

Full omniscience in novels is rare—it's almost always limited in some way—if only because the human mind isn't comfortable handling all the thoughts and emotions of multiple people at once.

The most important consideration in third person point of view is this:

How omniscient are you going to be? How deep are you going to go into your character's mind? Will you read their thoughts frequently and deeply at any chance? Or will you rarely, if ever, delve into their emotions?

To see this question in action, imagine a couple having an argument.

Tina wants Fred to go to the store to pickup the cilantro she forgot she needed for the meal she's cooking. Fred is frustrated that she didn't ask him to pick up the cilantro on the way home from the office, before he had changed into his “homey” clothes (AKA boxer shorts).

If the narrator is fully omniscient, do you parse both Fred and Tina's emotions during each back and forth?

“Do you want to eat ? If you do, then you need to get cilantro instead of acting like a lazy pig,” Tina said, thinking, I can't believe I married this jerk. At least back then he had a six pack, not this hairy potbelly . “Figure it out, Tina. I'm sick of rushing to the store every time you forget something,” said Fred. He felt the anger pulsing through his large belly.

Going back and forth between multiple characters' emotions like this can give a reader whiplash, especially if this pattern continued over several pages and with more than two characters. This is an example of an omniscient narrator who perhaps is a little too comfortable explaining the characters' inner workings.

“ Show, don't tell ,” we're told. Sharing all  the emotions of all  your characters can become distraction. It can even destroy any tension you've built.

Drama requires mystery. If the reader knows each character's emotions all the time, there will be no space for drama.

How do You Handle Third Person Omniscient Well?

The way many editors and many famous authors handle this is to show the thoughts and emotions of only one character per scene (or per chapter).

George R.R. Martin, for example, uses “ point of view characters ,” characters whom he always has full access to understanding. He will write a full chapter from their perspective before switching to the next point of view character.

For the rest of the cast, he stays out of their heads.

This is an effective guideline, if not a strict rule, and it's one I would suggest to any first-time author experimenting with third person narrative. Overall, though, the principle to show, don't tell should be your guide.

The Biggest Third Person Omniscient Point of View Mistake

The biggest mistake I see writers make constantly in third person is  head hopping .

When you switch point of view characters too quickly, or dive into the heads of too many characters at once, you could be in danger of what editors call “head hopping.”

When the narrator switches from one character’s thoughts to another’s  too quickly, it can jar the reader and break the intimacy with the scene’s main character.

We've written about how you can get away with head hopping elsewhere , but it's a good idea to try to avoid going into more than one character's thoughts per scene or per chapter.

Can You Change POV Between Books In a Series?

What if you're writing a novel series? Can you change point of view or even POV characters between books?

The answer is yes, you can, but whether you should or not is the big question.

In general, it's best to keep your POV consistent within the same series. However, there are many examples of series that have altered perspectives or POV characters between series, either because the character in the previous books has died, for other plot reasons, or simply because of author choice.

For more on this, watch this coaching video where we get into how and why to change POV characters between books in a series:

Which Point of View Will You Use?

Here's a helpful point of view infographic to help you decide which POV to use in your writing:

Note that these distances should be thought of as ranges, not precise calculations. A third person narrator could conceivably draw closer to the reader than a first person narrator.

Most importantly, there is no best point of view. All of these points of view are effective in various types of stories.

If you're just getting started, I would encourage you to use either first person or third person limited point of view because they're easy to understand.

However, that shouldn't stop you from experimenting. After all, you'll only get comfortable with other points of view by trying them!

Whatever you choose, be consistent. Avoid the mistakes I mentioned under each point of view.

And above all, have fun!

How about you? Which of the four points of view have you used in your writing? Why did you use it, and what did you like about it? Share in the comments .

Using a point of view you've never used before, write a brief story about a teenager who has just discovered he or she has superpowers.

Make sure to avoid the POV mistakes listed in the article above.

Write for fifteen minutes . When your time is up, post your practice in the Pro Practice Workshop (if you’re not a member yet, you can join here ). And if you post, please be sure to give feedback to your fellow writers.

We can gain just as much value giving feedback as we can writing our own books!

Happy writing!

Joe Bunting

Joe Bunting is an author and the leader of The Write Practice community. He is also the author of the new book Crowdsourcing Paris , a real life adventure story set in France. It was a #1 New Release on Amazon. Follow him on Instagram (@jhbunting).

Want best-seller coaching? Book Joe here.

74 Comments

My book is a memoir so first person is what I chose.

That was my choice for memoir, but am exploring other avenues for better character development.

I hate to be such a nag but isn’t the plural “points of view” and not “point of views”? As in brothers in law and not brother in laws

Joe, excellent post on POV. Probably the best I’ve read. Thanks!

I go for third person deep. In the PoV character’s head, using her unique voice, no author intrusion, no filter words. Am I doing it right? Far from it, but I’ve attended deep writing classes, an it’s easier to pinpoint slips.

Greetings from Greece!

Thanks for sharing this tit bit. I will be looking out for a deep writing class!

When deciding your POV, I strongly believe genre and tense should be considered as well.

Here is my first time ever uploading a “practice.” I chose to try second person, please be kind!

I couldn’t believe it when you called me, waking me from an intense fantasy dream, to tell me that you had been somehow magically transformed overnight into some type of superhero. You cannot blame me if my reaction appeared to be less than awe and more of disbelief and worry for your current state of mind. You will not want me to ask this, but have you started doing drugs? Remember, Freshman Health class, one of the signs to look for was if your friend suddenly changes or acts crazy. Well dude, you are acting more than just a little bit crazy.

Can you really fly? I have been waiting for 15 minutes for you to appear at my bedroom window, and so far nothing. I can envision you, at this very moment, running down the alley and between the houses. You will get to my back gate, jump over, and scurry behind the bushes; all bent over and believing that I can’t see you. When you are sure of your timing and that I have no idea at your mastery, you will jump out and try to convince me that you flew to your location. Please try to remember that I have known you since Kindergarten. Very little about you surprises me anymore, yet you are entertaining.

Although, you did sound different on the phone this morning, you voice had a quality I had never heard before. I would call it confidence. You weren’t trying to convince me that you had a special new talent. You were telling me, informing me.

You need new boots, I know this because I noticed the hole in the bottom of the left one as you slowly descended from the top of my window. Your smile was radiant, your arms crossed confidently across your puffed out chest. You are transformed.

Barbara! Thank you so much for your creativity. Keep sharing it with the world! The parts about the boots… wow!

Keep making lemonade from lemons, Barb. Be in touch.

You don’t look peaceful, but you look at peace. Morphine will do that to you. Your flaky, red eyes flutter in your sleep—do you dream, there? “The eyes are the windows to the soul,” so they say; with the curtains drawn, does your gaze turn inward? Do you dream of me amidst the pain, or are you cradled in the gentle embrace of the abyss?

This was your fault, you know; waving that gun in my face, pushing me around; what did you expect?

Certainly not this; no one could have expected this. Dazzling cords of fire springing from the fingertips of your would-be, should-be victim—perhaps it would’ve been wiser to hand over the money—but then, who next? Woudl you have let me go in the first place?

It wasn’t for anything venial, was it? Not for clothes or jewelry—not from what I can tell; you don’t seem the type. But it’s hard to tell. There’s not much left of your clothes, you know.

There’s not much left of you.

They’ll pour maggots over your chest and into your eyes, and flake off the blackness with gentle sponges, and alcohol over everything. That will hurt.

Your hair was so pretty. The doctor says most of it will grow back.

The cops are taking your side, you know. Figures. At least guns don’t burn. I wouldn’t be sticking around if they hadn’t cuffed me to the bed, and set it beside yours—someone in blue has a sick sense of irony.

There are birds fluttering by the windowpane, and whispers of white amidst pastels of blue. Your burns will heal. Mine have only just begun.

Yeah, having superpowers would actually be terrifying. Especially fire. Fire is bad.

I’ve used second-person before, but very rarely, so I went with it, since I’ve used all the points of view you mentioned.

Changing point of view is not only acceptable, it’s quite common. You just italicize it. I don’t know how to do that in a comment, but the general form would be something akin to: He felt around for the plot device. *Damn; I can’t find this thing. Woe is me, I am woe, woe unto me, woe betides me, etc.* He found it. *Huzzah!*

Further, your example for third-person POV includes a sputter of second-person: “the very last place *you* would expect astonishing things to happen.” This is the rhetorical “you,” not an actual pronoun—that is, “you” isn’t referring to anyone—but it still counts.

I think the argument shouldn’t be “never switch POV,” but, rather, “use the turn signal;” that is to say, give the reader an indication that the POV is changing, and why. Italics for brief periods, chapters for changing the individual narrator (you can have lots in one book), etc. Much like turning in traffic, problems generally arise not from the turn, but from the surprise. “Head hopping” is easy to avoid with, for instance, section separators—a vertical space, or a line of three little stars if the space breaks across a page, so that the reader knows a shift is happening. After familiarizing the reader with the mechanism, you can abuse it as much as you want.

Hemingway’s way works too, although I was never a big fan of Hemingway.

P.S. Give away an antique typewriter; brilliant—plenty of nostalgia; tangled ribbons, torn sheets, jammed keys; I can see why you want to inflict it on somebody else!

Wow, that was amazing descriptions. I loved your opening and closing lines as well. You did a great job of setting the dark mood of the story. Very well done.

Great post! It is quite thorough and engaging, and you offered plenty of terrific examples and practical tips.

I tend to write my stories more in the third person POV, I tend to focus on one main character but sometimes try to give some insight on another character’s perspective. The only reason I shy away from first person is because it can be emotionally exhausting to write. The funny thing is my most dramatic story was written in first person (though I did switch between two people) but I felt it would come off stonger in first person rather than third.

I’m not sure I qualify for this practice, because I’ve written in pretty much every POV: My novel is 3rd person deep, my short stories are first person, my articles are second, and my songs cover all of the above plus the others. 🙂 In my book I have several POVs, but I make sure to change the scene completely before changing the person. (Like Jerry Jenkins’/Tim Lahaye’s Left Behind.) I’m not breaking any rules like that, am I? This is a great and informative article that I’ll definitely reference in the future. Thanks for sharing your knowledge!

“Whatsoever ye do, do unto the Glory of God” Reagan

Nice post! Very helpful of keeping them strait. I tend to lean toward first person or third person limited, so I decided to try out second person for the prompt. I also used a dialogue prompt, which is the first line of the story. Here goes nothing!

“The last time I said yes to you, a lot of people died.” You say it low, under your breath, perhaps because you don’t really want him to hear you or perhaps because you don’t want to hear yourself, don’t want to remember that it happened.

“You know,” He reaches out to you, and you pull away, not wanting to touch his hands, hands that could have prevented the deaths of so many, but that have always been so gentle with you. He turns his face to the ground and, you realize, he is just as pained by the memory as you. “You know that I couldn’t have done it.”

“No.” The word comes out all wrong, because of your still upper lip, “You couldn’t have. I knew that then and I know that now.” You lock eyes with him, “Don’t you understand that’s what I’m saying? Don’t you understand that the answer is no?”

“But I can’t…” He grimaces, as though someone has twisted a knife in his gut, “I can’t just let you kill yourself.”

And now it’s your turn to grimace, to feel the pain twisting your stomach into knots. You don’t really know why you do it though. Are you afraid to die? No. That’s not it. You’re afraid for him. For the pain your death will cause him.

“You have to be strong.” You say, “For me.” This time it’s you that reaches out, to lay a hand gently on his shoulder, “You know if I don’t do this, a lot of people will die. Because I know, if I go berserk again, you won’t be able to pull the trigger. And it wouldn’t be fair to ask you to do that anyway. So the answer is no, I won’t let you be my safety net anymore.” His only response is a nod. You slide the hand gently off of his shoulder. That will be your only goodbye. It will be easier that way.

The cup that holds the poison looks normal. Just a regular coffee cup, containing your favorite blend of Colombian roast, and, of course, the substance that will kill you, quickly and painlessly, which is more then you deserve. You are not afraid. You are ready. You pick the cup up off the table and bring it close to your lips but then hesitate, because you see that shining in his eyes, the shining that means he’ll start crying. There is that twisting feeling in your stomach again. Seeing him in pain has always hurt the worst. But you can’t risk it anymore. You can’t let yourself live at the cost of more deaths.

Before you can hesitate, you take a gulp, the coffee burning your throat as it goes down. The room wobbles and you fall, but he catches you, like you knew he would, so that your head doesn’t crack open on the concrete floor.

You are paralyzed, but still conscious, and you know you only have a few seconds before the world grows dark.

He sinks to his knees, cradling you in his arms, like a child. He is no longer holding back his tears. Perhaps because he already thinks you dead.

“I wish,” He says, through sobs and tears and unbecoming bubbles of snot, “I wish you would have said yes.”

He puts his forehead to yours and you feel warm drops of moisture fall on your cheeks. In that moment you, too, wish you had said yes. That things could have been different. That you could have been alive and happy.

But you do not doubt your decision, not in the last seconds that you have breath. Because the last time you said yes to him, a lot of people died and this time, the death tole would be a single, solitary, one.

That was amazing and beautiful and very very emotional. You’ve used second person very effectively! I love it. Did this just come from the top of your head or is there a longer story behind it?

Thanks! It was a sort of top of my head thing. I used this writing prompt and also a dialogue prompt. Also, I’ve been thinking of werwolfs a lot lately for some odd reason (which is what the main character is). The rest of it kinda flowed from there. I’m glad you liked it!

Wonderful story

Not knowing much about POV, I believe I’ve been hedge hopping between them, but appear to prefer Third Person Omniscient, but will have to first discover what that last big word means? Then a re-write may well be called for!

The post is excellent, extending a warm hug of inspiration to the budding writers. I prefer ‘third person omniscient’ POV, with no room for any boredom in my narration.

Peter had his normal “I’m paying attention” look plastered on his face, but his mind was chasing super villains, decimating evil minions with mighty punches that laid ten low at one swipe.

One ear caught, “Good morning, we have a guest speaker this morning, the Rev. Charles Birch, from the 2nd Baptist Church. Rev. Birch will present the creationist side to what we have been studying in the physical sciences. Rev. Birch.”

“Blah … blah … blah,” Peter heard in his public ear but his private ear heard Dr. Daemon spewing his maleficent threats, “Capt. Magnificent, you have no hope of defeating my eco-destroying minions!” On and on it went, Birch preaching “let there be light … the dominion of man over all things … everything in it’s proper order … on the first day God created the second day … and on the third day blah blah blah,” and of course during all of this Dr. Daemon and Capt. Magnificent continued their mighty struggle on the farside of the moon, until Peters public ear heard, “of course the universe can only be 10,000 years old …”

What? What was that his public ear just heard? The Universe is a maximum of 10,000 years old? Peter was now attentive to what the pompous windbag in front of the class was saying.

A single hand raised itself amongst the sea of blank faces.

“Yes, young man?”

“Uh, Rev. Birch, how can the universe be 10,000 years old?”

“Easy uh huh,” Ms. Murphy whispered into the Reverends ear, “yes, Peter, we know the age of the universe from the generations that are recorded in the Bible.”

“But … I was at a dig in Colorado last summer and the rock strata around the fossils …”

“Humph, all conjecture. I believe God made the fossil and the rocks surrounding it ten thousand years ago.”

“All fossils are like that then?”

“Well of course. Given He made the fossils He made the surrounding rock. We only think that it took millions of years.”

Peter’s hand shot up again.

Rev. Birch tried to avoid him, but Peter was a persistent little son of… “Yes?”

“So God’s just a practical joker, creating false evidence to fool the sciences?”

The class was coming out it’s “guest speaker” lethargy, as Peter again had his hand up and spoke before acknowledged, “Does the Bible say what the speed of light is?”

“Well, now I think that has no bearing …”

Susan piped up, adding onto Peter’s question “How can Andromeda be millions of light-years away if the universe is only 10,000 years old?”

“Uh well … Andromeda?”

“No wonder He didn’t have time to save my baby sister if He wasted all that time making fossils look millions of years old,” came a loud, whispered, comment from the back of the room.

Ms. Murphy quickly ushered Rev. Birch from the classroom, and shook his hand in the hall, “Thank you so much for coming. We do appreciate all view points.”

“Who are those kids?” the Reverend asked.

“Oh, the Anderson District Scholars Program. Basically our high school geniuses in sciences and math. It’s required we allow all view points to be presented.”

Interesting. Uh, Gary, how could you have written the story in 15 minutes? Or did you dig up a fossil story you wrote millions of years ago…?

Does it matter?

It took a day and a half to percolate through my gray matter. I then took approximately 15 to 20 minutes to rough it out and get it into Draftin. Then another while, hours, lots of minutes, to get it to where I wanted to post it. Once posted, I’ve gone back and edited it, probably dozens of times, making changes as it has continued to peroclate.

I loved the flashing between reality and a story he is telling himself in his head. That’s me about 90% of the time. lol

I would also just like to add, that all creationists aren’t young earth creationists. There are a lot of different theories. Take the gap theory and theistic evolution for example. Then you have people who take it as a literal six days and others who don’t because of the bible verse that says “a day is like a thousand years and a thousand years is like a day”. Then, there are two different meanings to the word “day” if you look at the translation of the bible from Hebrew to English. So there is argument over which version of the word “day” is being used sense one can be taken literally and the other figuratively. There are literally of books written on these subjects, with Christians arguing amongst themselves over which is right. I have actually meet very few people who think the way the reverend in this story does, especially sense when you go to seminary they teach you how to not look like an idiot in these situations.

I think It’s important to remember when you’re writing Christians (or any group that often gets stereotyped) that they are not stereotypes. I’ve written atheists and it’s really easy just to make them injured people who are angry at God and dissatisfied with life, but that’s just not the reality. A lot of atheists know their stuff and have good reason for their beliefs. The same applies to Christians. If you still want to debunk the Christian in the end, I’m totally cool with it. I would just say, have the Christian have a better argument then “God put the fossils their like that”. Make it harder for your main character to debunk him, create more conflict, and make us cheer him on all the more when he wins.

Just thought that was worth mentioning. All in all, the piece is very well written.

Assumption: Pastors and or reverends have been to seminary. Not true. In the Southern Baptist Convention, at least when I was in the SBC, pastors were not assigned by the convention, nor was any kind of, pre or post graduate, pastoral education required. Pastors were called by the local church, without guidance from the convention, and could easily not even have finished high school. There are many churches that have no affiliation with any established denomination, and therefore call whomever they want as their pastor.

Oh, yes, you handled POV nicely. I’m just the kind of person that will comment on every part of the story. And I’m sorry if the comment was too much, or you didn’t find it helpful. I just tend to say what I think. But for the exercise you did a good job on the POV.

Oh the comment wasn’t too much. After 68 years my hide is pretty tough and criticism I tend to take in a constructive manner and/or with a grain of salt.

But you assumed something in your comment that, in my experience is simply not true. In my experience, the pastors that had graduated college, let alone ever attended seminary were zero. My denomination, at the time, was lucky to have pastors that finished high school.

68 years, wow that’s a lot of time and experience! You have the respect of a young Padawan.

You’re right. I was looking at it from a United Methodist view point (sense that’s the denomination I belong to). Our denomination is pretty strict with schooling and is very organized when it comes to chain of command. I discounted the fact that not all denominations and churches are like mine. My current pastor actually has a PhD and really knows what he’s talking about, so were lucky in that. I’ve also grown up in a home where ignorance isn’t tolerated. We learn about our religion (and everything else we can learn about) and are not victims of blind acceptance.

I’m sorry you had experiences with uneducated pastors. I hope they weren’t all as bad as the one in the story. If they were, then that stinks. And I do realize that there are, sadly, some pastors like the one from your story who don’t have very good arguments when it comes to the science of their faith. But I also hope that people know that all Christians aren’t, to put it frankly, stupid.

Again, assumptions. Christianity was never equated to stupidity, and above all else no attempt to equate uneducated to stupid was ever made. In all those 68 years I have seen incredibly educated people, read that doctorates, that were, above all else, stupid. I have also encountered uneducated people that could best be described as genius.

Birch was, at best, unprepared. His fault, Murphy’s fault, irrelevant, not what I was striving for. It was simply the vehicle used to convey POV switching from character to character. Birch could have been Islamic and quoting the Torah.

I wrote for 20 minutes before I realized it, so here’s what I got.

“Okay, calm down, calm down. You must get a hold of yourself” I murmured frantically to myself, I had to calm down before I blew another hole through the wall, or worse. I sat still on the hard floor, and I still couldn’t believe what had happened, it didn’t make sense at all, but there was evidence of it right before my eyes: a brick wall that now had a wide circle in its middle, still glowing hot from what I had done. Yet it was nothing compared to the silver glow that came from my hands, it felt strange, alien yet oddly comfortable, like I was wearing a glove while sparks coursed throug my arms.

I kept staring at my hands for a long time, trying to find some explanation for what had happened, it couldn’t have been me who did that, I wasn’t that special, I didn’t have some special blood, nor had I gone through any experiment, I didn’t even fit in any origin story of any Super. I was sure of that, I had even taken the tests at the Dome.

“This can’t be happening!” I screamed, letting loose all the emotions I had tried to hold back. “ARGGGHhhh!”

Then, it happened again, the room was bathed again in a silver hue as another silver beam left my hands and destroyed the wall a bit more, leaving behind only one third of what had been an sturdy wall once. That flash had confirmed my fears, this was the reality I had been the one to destroy the wall. I was angry, scared and happy at the same time, these emotions clashing one against the other as I witnessed the destruction I had wrecked in less than 10 minutes.

A grave sound pierced the old room I was in, it sounded like a lament, a sorrowful lament from a strange lonely monster. It only lasted a few seconds, and then, a piece of the roof fell about 5 meters from me. It was followed by another one, and another one bigger than the first two. Soon the whole roof was falling in, and fear once again took a hold of me. I was going to die, I knew I was going to die, buried beneath the rubis of the room.

“I, I don’t want to die” I screamed with all the force of my lungs while I tried to protect my head with my hands, I knew it wasn’t going to be enough, it wasn’t going to be enough if I wanted to live. I want to live. That thought was the last one I had before a surge of power coursed through my body, engulfing my vision in a white blanket before I passed out.

When I woke up, I felt groggy, moving my body was hard, and the air was packed with dust. But I didn’t hurt anywhere, not did I feel like I was buried under something. I slowly made my way to my knees, looking at myself for any sign of injuries, but there was none, in fact except for the dust my clothes were exactly the same as they had been before the fall in.

“This is impossible” I said out loud to no on, but how did this happen? I thought I was done for sure. It was only then that I looked around me and I was shocked for the fifth time that day.

There wasn’t any rubis near me, no for a meter around me. Was that possible? How?

Well done. There are a couple of times where the protagonist is thinking, not speaking. It would help to clarify that like using italics, or at least quoting.

Thanks for the advice- I usually use italics when it comes to thoughts, but I wasn’t sure if they were going to copy that way from writer. So I’ll try to use them next time.

I wrote one short story in the first person POV twenty five years ago. I never tried it again. Since I decided to face my fears, here I go again.

I had just opened my eyes and before I could see clearly, I was standing next to the bed jumping up and down. All of a sudden, i was standing next to the dresser drawer. did I run? I had so much energy. It seemed as if I had four cups of coffee and six energy pills. I looked across the room at the hamper. The hamper was empty and the clothes that were stuffed there were clean and folded. Last night the hamper was full of dirty clothes.. I head a soft voice that sounded like mine. “Esther, you now have super human power. The clothes were washed and folded last night. If you go to the kitchen, there is no longer a pile of dirty dishes. They have all be washed and put away. That’s all I have to say.” “What are you talking about? Who are you?” Suddenly, I was jumping up and down next to my dresser drawer.. I paused and looked into my mirror. I still looked the same. A long braid with a hair pin fastened to the left close to may ear. I did feel energized. At once I felt like I needed or wanted to run. I walked down the stairs toward the front door. The moment that i stepped out. I had dashed down the block, turned to the right and dashed down that block and Paused, standing in right in from of me was me. she looked exactly like me. She had a long braid that was pinned to the side like i did. She was wearing a light tan tee-shirt and black short shorts, blue gym shoes. Just like I am wearing. We both stood there, sweating, jumping up and down as though there were springs.under our shoes. ” Who are you?” ” I just you told you when we were in the house.” Then, she said “I’ll just tell you this much. Let’s race back to the house and up the stairs and stand next to the bed. Whoever get there first wins. “Win what,” “You’ll find out.” she dashed past me to the right. I spun back around so fast that I became dizzy. I dashed down the block and turned left. Before I knew it, I was in the kitchen. Mama was there. I was downstairs sitting at the table with her. “I am impressed. you have fixed breakfast and washed the dishes and I see you have been running.” Thanks mama, I said. Then in my mind and my ear I heard my own voice. There are two Esther. The one who procrastinate and don”t get things done and the one that get things done immediately without being told.. Then mama looked at me and smiled. She never smiles in the morning. but today, she did. She said, well today you cooked the breakfast and washed the dishes without waiting until you got home from school. I like this part of you, Esther. Then, I knew what had happened, KEN Well, there it is. Now, this means that I have used the first person again. I feel okay because, even if it’s terrible. I tried.

My go to POV is 3rd Person, limited.

Oops!! Just realized I completely blew the prompt.

Oh well … back to he drawing board (or computer).

This app helps me understand a lot about the 3d person

The first time it happened took me by surprise. It would anyone wouldn’t it? I was standing in line at the grocery store with my mom. I was tapping my foot to the beat of my own boredom, impatiently waiting for the guy ahead of us to move his cart; which if you ask me he didn’t even need. I added in some finger snaps. 1…2…and…3. The third snap brought with it an echo. When I looked around, I wasn’t in the grocery store anymore. I was in a cave.

I had waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark. The only light that was coming through was a small crack far ahead of me to my left side. I looked down at my feet for a path. Right in front of me the rock I was standing on dropped off into an abyss of black. Behind me stood the edge of the cave. I remember hyperventilating. I was so scared I couldn’t move. I started snapping my fingers again and said out loud, “think, think, think,” matching my snaps to the words in my head. On the third snap, I was back in the grocery store. Police were there talking with my mother. I had been gone a long time.

After that day I tried experimenting with my new formed ability. I started thinking of specific places that I wanted to visit; I wanted to see if I could control it. After a few failed attempts ending up in grungy basements, restaurant cooler storages, and an actor’s cottage, I got a hold of the pattern.

The success of my teleportation was contingent on my ability to breathe evenly. I needed to remain completely calm. When I realized that my ability was never going away, my excitement is what kept me from perfection. Failure after failure brought an increased frustration with myself.

It’s good. You haven’t overdone anything. You’ve shown what happened through your character really well. I particularly like the line “dropped off into an abyss of black.”

This was my attempt at using 2nd person. I rarely use it. Any advice would be appreciated. Thank you 🙂

“Now what can you tell me about God? Anybody? Yes, yes, um Alice?” “Alicia, Miss. God is often described with the three Os. He is omnipotent, all powerful, omnipresent, everywhere and omniscient, all knowing.” You suppress a groan. “Which textbook did she swallow to spew that out?” you whisper to your friend. She giggles quietly. “Shhhh,” she replies. You sigh and put your head on the table. You’ve been stuck in this stuffy classroom for half an hour and you really won’t last for another half. You can practically eat religion in this school.

“Hey you, you, sleepy child,” the teacher says. For a moment you’re confused but then your friend nudges you and you realise the woman is talking to you. ‘Can’t she learn our names?’ you think. “Yes, Miss?” you dare to risk saying. “What can you tell me about God?” she asks. ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ you think before realising the irony. “Um,” you reply. You could almost swear that time was slowing down. Everyone’s eyes turn towards you almost in slow motion before they stop as if frozen. You wish the ground would hurry up and swallow you. It takes you a moment to realise that no one is blinking. “Hello?” you say, hoping you don’t sound like an idiot. Nobody responds. ‘Okay, this is really creepy.’ You poke your friend but she doesn’t move. A bead of sweat trickles down your forehead that has nothing to do with the heat. What is going on? A cold feeling washes over you and you sit back in your seat feeling dizzy. You try to control your breathing but it is rapid and coming in gasps. You glance at the clock only to see that the second hand has stopped moving. Hands clammy, you glare at it willing it to move. Millimetre by millimetre it does. You sigh with relief when everybody’s movement resumes only to find yourself under the scrutiny of 30 pairs of eyes.

“Well?” asks the teacher. Suddenly desperate, you look at the clock and wonder if you can make time go faster.

Who’s point of view;

So there’s this guy, this one guy I never liked, he’s constantly stealing my ideas, getting credit for the success, or if the idea fails, that’s when he throws me under the bus. Oh it’s so aggravating when he takes the words right outta my mouth, when I try to participate in the discussion, he cuts me off, I swear he thinks he knows everything he’s talking about. Oh, yeah and he’s always making an ass out of me, no matter what it is, especially at every work party. This guy thinks he’s so slick, two steps ahead of everyone, but he’s not quick, I know every move he’s gonna make before he makes them. It’s also extremely embarrassing he always seems to wear what I have on, then to hear people say how good he looks, I swear his heads swelling from the compliments. Have you seen him? That car he’s driving, that watch he’s wearing, his house, and kids, and his wife, most people only dream of marrying. He has everything I ever wanted, yet he takes it all for granted, he won’t let anyone else enjoy the spot light, like it’s impossible for him to share it. He never talks to me, which makes it that much more awkward, because I always see him in the bathroom, and every time I wash my hands, there he is, just starring, blocking my reflection. When I try to move, he moves too, it’s so obvious he’s doing it on purpose, but I don’t like drama, quite frankly his demeanor makes me a little nervous. So I just ignore it, I’m starting to wonder if I should report him, but what if the boss thinks I’m jealous? I much rather prefer waiting until the day he quits, or who knows maybe he’ll get fired, I just hope he’s not still here up until the day that I retire.

Until the age of five almost six, I thought everyone could figure out how to walk through walls. The morning my mom was walking me to my first day of school she broke the news to me. Once we reached the first intersection, and we were standing at the corner waiting for the light to change, she first asked me, “Maddy, remember that I mentioned to you every person in the world is unique?” I nodded while I kept my eye on the street light. “and what did I say was so unique about you?” “That I have three freckles on my nose.” “Maddy! Not that but the one thing nobody can tell by looking at you.” I looked up at her and said, “That I am a smart kid and I figured out that walls don’t divide or separate?”

Chapbook 25

Last night I was scared, I had another bad dream I just wanted my mommy there but she was in another room asleep. It was a nightmare, the one I often have, about a monster, who’s over 6ft. He chases me down, grabs me by my hair, thrown me into walls, I don’t know why he’s so angry, he’s even kicked me down the stairs.

I woke up sweating, my eyes filled with tears, and what scared me the most was bruises had appeared. They covered me from head to toe, I couldn’t hide them underneath my clothes. Today I was supposed start my first day of school, but mommy said I couldn’t go.

Back to sleep, I don’t even remember getting ready for bed, I just blacked out, when I woke up a pain filled my head. My dream had some how become real, there was the monster, standing over my body, breathing, and grunting, where is my mommy. Why doesn’t she come and help, why isn’t she protecting me, can’t she hear me if I yell.

Can anyone hear me, why can’t anyone figure it out, I wish my daddy was here, but mommy won’t let him around. When will this nightmare finally end, what will it take for him to leave, one of us dead, or broken and bleeding?

Years have gone by, I’m learning to deal, he’s still in our lives, drinking his meal. He is always mad always drunk, never caring, incapable of feeling love. Beating satisfies a need inside him, one that reminds him he’s alive, he’s in control, that everyone’s beneath him, we do as were told.

My other siblings have dealt with it their own way, my oldest sibling has different personality traits. One minute he’s him, by the next someone else, he swears one day he’ll be free of this hell, and when he does he never wants to see any of us again, he disowns our family, he can’t be my friend. The pain is so much more than anyone should take, it won’t be long from now till one of us breaks.

It finally happened, as I began to prepare my food, cutting up vegetables, trying not to listen to them argue, but low and behold i couldnt ignore the thump, at that very moment I snapped into somebody else.

Someone stronger than who I thought I’d become, with a knife in one hand, and a plan in the other, I made my way to the second floor, and found the that thud was my mother. As the plaster in the wall shaped like her head, I looked for the monster, and seen him covered in red.

Like a bull I charged toward him, digging the knife in his gut, 1,2,3 times ain’t enough. Like the monster he’s always been, courage from his bottle, the pierces in his side didn’t stop him, he was numb from the booze, and like a mad man, he retaliated, nothing could keep him from trying to kill me.

I just woke up from a terrible dream, just to find myself in a worse reality. Laying at the bottom if the stair case, in a puddle of my own blood, flashing lights reassured me help had finally come, but I couldn’t move, my body paralyzed, what had I done? I see my mother screaming she is covered in blood, Then I seen the monster sitting up with tape across his abdomen arms crossed in cuffs, finally he will get what he deserves, but what does this mean or us?

The only girl out of eight kids, the second eldest of the bunch, I thought we stuck together this long, and through such hell, we’d most likely stay together, but only time could tell. If only the words for what’s felt could every truly be spoken, perhaps only then could anyone listening would know just what was dealt, but sometimes you can’t mutter out the words that would allow others to understand what kind of welt gets lashed across a tiny body when beaten with a belt.

Even after hundreds of beatings, thousands of black and blue marks, fractured bones like ribs and wrists, almost on a daily basis. I bet your thinking how the hell does this go on for so long, when a parent allows another adult to enter their home, use them for everything they own, get drunk and stands by as that person takes their angers and frustration out on the innocent lives they should be protecting. When a mother or father chooses a stranger over their own little ducklings. That is how monsters get away with it so long, because an active parent allows it to go on.

The truth is of all the afflictions none bare as much pain as the very thought that a mother could prefer a stranger, a monster, putting her babies in danger, actually acts like she doesn’t see what she did wrong. She won’t acknowledge her errors, and the ultimate worst, the day she would choose another guy over us, again, this guy just another monster, and yet he is her life, treats her like crap, calls her an asset, not as his wife. Let her keep him, and the life she’s made, I have my own daughter now, I will never allow her to grow up this way, I will be nothing like my momster, this is the ultimate promise I make, and would die before I’d ever let it break.

Great piece about a super villain, and how this kind of thing does not happen in a vacuum. Your POV was consistent, first person, but there are places where you need to highlight that these are the thoughts of the protagonist. Italics would work, or even quotes.

I only just came across this site today an I was immediately intrigued. I’ve always been self conscious about my writing but I like the idea of being about to just practice like this and get genuine feedback. Anyway I wrote mine in third person limited, I trying to practice how to use better descriptions without overdoing it and getting to fluffy. Here goes..

I remember the day Melissandra first told me she had superpowers. I would have laughed right then and there if I hadn’t learned to recognize the tension burrowed between her brows. Her pale youthful skin now sagged to that of a woman three times her age. The bags beneath her eyebrows had become so swollen and dark you would have thought she hadn’t slept in weeks. The dark shadows behind her eyes gave way to little life. She hunched over me, her body twitching like little jolts of electricity pulsed through her. In health classes we had often seen videos of the effects of hard drugs on addicts, the way they scratched and clawed, itching to escape their bodies. Could she had gotten herself into hard drugs? No, I definitely would have noticed. This was something worse, as a tenth grader living in the suburbs true terror had never struck me very hard, but the fear that gripped her eyes sent a chill through my spine.

“Mel, is everything okay?” I ask as we push our way through the crowded cafeteria.

Mel leans in close looking over her shoulder with unease checking to see that no one else is listening. She whispers, almost inaudibly.

“I think I have superpowers Suz.”

Laughter roars through my belly, which is quickly stifled by the lifeless expression on her face. I’ve never seen her so afraid.

“I’m sorry, did you say superpowers Mel?” I ask in disbelief.

Her eyes fix on me with a cold hard expression, there’s no laughter in her eyes, no punch line at the end of this story.

She lowers her voice as she begins to explain.

“Last night I went for a climb on Bears Peak. I must of got 150 feet when I lost my footing on the rocks. I was so sure I had all my ropes secured, but as I started to fall nothing caught. In that moment I thought I was going to die. Than, just before my body hit the ground I stopped. My body just suspended, hovering in mid air. It wasn’t long, only a moment, a few seconds at best, but enough time for my body to correct itself and find its footing on the ground.”

I stare at her in bewilderment, she’s not saying what I think she is, is she.

“Suzan!” she exclaims as her eyes show a flicker of light. “Last night I flew.”

I just discovered this site tonight, I like it already. I wrote mine in third person limited.

I remember the day Melissandra first told me she had superpowers. I would have laughed right then and there if I hadn’t learned to recognize the tension burrowed between her brows. Her pale youthful skin now sagged to that of a woman three times her age. The bags beneath her eyes had become so swollen and dark you would have thought she hadn’t slept in weeks. The dark shadows behind her eyes gave way to little life. She hunched over me, her body twitching like little jolts of electricity pulsed through her. In health classes we had often seen videos of the effects of hard drugs on addicts, the way they scratched and clawed, itching to escape their bodies. Could she had gotten herself into hard drugs? No, I definitely would have noticed. This was something worse, as a tenth grader living in the suburbs true terror had never struck me very hard, but the fear that gripped her eyes sent a chill through my spine.

Great article, Joe! I really appreciate the detail you went into. You made the different points of view so clear. The breadth of your knowledge of literature is awesome, and your two graphics were helpful and concise.

Katherine Rebekah, great story! You did the second-person POV seamlessly.

All the best, Deena

Well thanks, Deena. 🙂

My genre is romantic suspense, or romantic thrillers, if you will. I always write third person point of view, omniscient, and steer clear of first person for exactly the reasons you’ve stated above. I find first person too limited and stifling. When I read a novel written in first person I find myself distracted, wondering what the other main character(s) are thinking or feeling. Particuarly in a romance – I don’t want to spend my entire reading experience wondering: Is he feeling the same way way or she on her own here?

Granted, the authors that I habitually read do not typically write in first person, but when they do, I will admit, they’re pretty good at showing me the thoughts and feelings of the other party without actually going into their POV. But, I would say it is a tough thing to accomplish, and only the best writers do.

Any feedback would be nice, thanks!

There are no more villains to fight you. No more evil-doers who wish to challenge your right—the right the people gave you to defend their lives. The monument that watched over the city like an old father is the tribute they built for you. The responsibility that you now stand in. Watching over them. An extraterrestrial guardian.

You look up to see grey clouds swirling, forming some odd shape. You take flight, and burst through the glass pane, as people below begin to chant your name. The clouds merge with one another, swirling in and out of each other. With your vision you can see the faces of the ones you swore to protect, even at the cost of your life. Some are smiles, the faces of those that believe in you—the ones if they could would join you without a second thought. Others had grief-stricken eyes; doubt lined their faces. How could you protect them forever? Surely someone greater than you, stronger than you would destroy everything that you deemed worth saving. Maybe there was someone that could take your place, someone that made all this easier. Hopefully.

No. Your chest bursts out and the veins in your arms feel ready to explode. Your fists clench tighter with each breath. Your eyes narrow. Never will you doubt yourself ever again. A crash of lightning hit a nearby building, signifying your resolve. You charge into the vortex still swallowing the sky. The mass of clouds block your path and out the whirlwind a humanoid shape takes form. You. You face off against yourself. “Of course. A hero’s greatest challenge is his or herself,” you say.

How I hate head-hopping! This is a common mistake my students make – and an easy one that can slip into our drafts. Hence, the importance of revision and beta readers.

Thank you for this thorough discussion of such an important element of story!

The worst limitation I find writing in first person is exactly what Joe pointed out, that you cannot be everywhere at once. I find myself getting frustrated at having to switch POV’s between characters in order to be able to tell the story better and show how different characters are feeling because of certain situations; or in my story’s case: one very sinister character.

But since I’m using my past experiences as a means to write the way I do, I kind of need to stay in first person. It’s both a blessing and a curse.

How interesting that a man who has written a 7000-page story is the author of a bestselling book about writing a short story. 😉

“Tina, what the heck. Put me down.”

“Sorry Charlie, I just ate a spinach salad.”

“Clever, but not humorous. Popeye wouldn’t be so frivolous. What if mom and dad had seen you showing off, or worse, if one of the Dancings is spying on us.”

“You’re no fun, you’re boring and paranoid. Brother or not, I may look for another partner”

“Be my guest. I’ll find someone who takes our mission seriously. Who won’t jeopardize our friends and family out of boredom, and the childish need for attention. Grow up a little. You’re sixteen years old.”

“And, you’re eighteen going on eighty. It’s true what they say about friends and family.”

“Whose they?

“Idiot. They’re the consensus.”

“What does the consensus have to say on the subject?”

“Family is the luck of the draw. Friends are deliberate choices.”

“I’d mention a few of your choices but that won’t get this conversation on track. I, we, need to find out what the Dancings are up to. You need to get close enough to read their daughter’s mind. I’ve got a plan. It could work if you can augment your powers with a dash of maturity.”

My sister Tina and I were abducted a month ago while hiking in the Grand Canyon. If I had the words to describe the aliens or their vessel, I’d share them, but I don’t. They were spirits as much as anything and I may have been sedated somehow. They separated us. Apparently Tina was more qualified for mental and physical superpowers than I was. She can read minds and has the strength of The Hulk. My power is cooler though. My eyes shoot lasers when I squint and concentrate. If it was just a matter of squinting, the neighborhood would be ablaze. My vision is less than perfect. I’ve been squinting for years. Maybe that’s why I got this power? Whatever. If the Dancings are building a dirty bomb in their basement, I may need to set fire to them and their house. Soon maybe. First, I need to know that my suspicions are warranted.

Tina needed to befriend the Dancing’s daughter Tanya, an introvert who spoke to no one at school. If she couldn’t befriend her, Tina at least needed to sit by her at lunch, hopefully to learn something from her thoughts. My sister gets bored easily, so sitting near a person who won’t acknowledge her was going to be a challenge. That’s why I was so irritated with Tina and her circus tricks just now. I’m convinced our neighbors are terrorists. But I can’t just burn their house down. What if somebody died and I was wrong? It was time for my sister to step up and put her powers to good use.

Appreciate the write up Joe. Laura

I am having a lot of difficulty with point of view. For instance, Let’s say you have a Memoir or “Diary” type fiction. You want to it to be from the point of view of the person writing the diary; however, you need your reader to know facts about the characters the speaker interacts with that he couldn’t possible know. (perhaps he just met them, etc.) How can you give the reader information about a person that the speaker deosn’t know yet?

hey, I am in the same boat as you, and I uncovered something called First Person Omniscient, which is– if you are still not away after a year of writing the comment I am replying back to– the character is in first person, still uses “I” and “we” and such, but also knows information about other characters that he/she does not yet know, precisely as what you described in your comment. However, this type of first person is rare, as very few novels and authors decide to use this method. But whatever floats your boat! Hope I helped, even though I am clearly late!

Try second person

One question I have in regards to POV and which to choose, is suppose you’re writing a story about something that’s already happened. The story is being told by the main character in the story, years later after the story is “over” (kind of like in a journal of what happened, how it ended- to a certain point- leaving out what has happened to the main character due to his choices made). But, one of the unique situations is that the main character is not just one person, but a person literally divided into 3 separate selves. He himself is the Present self, the other two are what has already happened (past- alternate choice of reality) and the last one is “what could be if” situation” (future). The main (present) is part of the three, but only knows the whole story after it’s happened and how the other two responded to events as they occurred. How would the story be told in what point of view? Both first and third? I know it probably sounds confusing; so if you’re willing to give me advice and need some clarification I can do that. Thanks.

Amanda stared at herself in the mirror. She lifted her hands and gazed at all of the blood on them. “Why am I not dead?” she asked herself puzzled. “It was a head on collision…with a truck!” she exclaimed to herself in amazement. She turned on her heel and marched to her kitchen and grabbed a large knife. She waved the knife around in the air before placing it on her wrist. “If I can’t make it look like an accident, I guess my parents would have to deal with the fact I wanted to die.” Amanda spat. She winced as the blade dug deep into her delicate flesh and watched her blood flow. But the seconds later it stopped. Blinking, she brought her arm closer to her face and stared at her smooth skin -without a single scratch on it. In disbelief she dropped the knife and ran back into the bathroom and wiped her arm of its blood and confirmed there wasn’t a wound. Desperate, Amanda ran down into the basement and grabbed her father’s rifle. “Heal from this if you can.” Amanda put the point under her chin and pulled the trigger. Everything went black and she felt herself crash to the floor. Moments later, Amanda woke up with a huge headache. “What happened?” she groaned but then gasped when she remembered what she had tried to do. “What is happening to me?!” she cried. “I don’t want to be in this world anymore, let me die!” she screamed. Amanda got up from the floor and shuffled up stairs to take a warm shower. “Maybe drowning would work…”

You forgot deep pov; close third. >:(

Deep POV is still third person limited.

Great write-up! Worth sharing and bookmarking.

As for me, I prefer to write (and read) in either first person or third person limited.

Good article except that the plural of point of view is points of view and NOT point of views! C’mon!

Though I’ve only started writing in earnest this year, POV is a topic that has been pointed out to me again and again concerning my WIP. TODAY, as I go through the comments I received overnight POV is the stumbling block I inadvertently put in my story. I’m consciously employing the third person omniscient POV, but it’s not coming through to my readers. I’ve read this article before and anew and I still don’t get it… I’m doomed.

talented writer, Noddy, mentioned this article . is good read . reread since wanted to make the third person omniscient viewpoint cleaner without head hopping . soon peruse Italo Calvino book written in second person pov to see how a master wrote .

Write two pieces of 750 words. One will be from the point of view of a traveller travelling to a foreign country. The other will be from the point of view of a native of that country who receives that traveller which person do I write form the first person, second person or the third person please help

You know, i had a dream once… I wanted to redo my entire life, I’m getting a divorce from my wife, Scarlett. We have two children, Alex and Maggie, and they’e both seniors in the high school I used to attend. I was driving to Ned’s house one rainy night and saw a man on a bridge. I got out and ran after him. When I got there he jumped, i looked over the edge and then I fell off. I woke up in Ned’s house and looked in the mirror. I was my young self again… I was 17 again.

What about this post is actual, and what part’s a dream? It’s hard to distinguish what dialogue this follows, and what efforts are trying to be accomplished.

Everything about this was my dream… I woke up after i fell and thought, I need some pancakes.

Hi- I’m writing a novel in 3rd omniscient. I struggle with the point of view on a micro level, never dipping into 1st or second person. Here is an example of what I mean is this… ‘While Eunice and Barbara were in the nursery spending a few minutes with the baby boy, Margaret walked away from a group and then grabbed a quick nibble of cheese from the buffet. She continued on to the bar where she picked up a full glass of vodka with a twist of lemon. On her way out the door to the patio, she looked back over her shoulder directly to where Jules stood, as if she had known his position to the inch.’ Does ‘she looked back over her shoulder’ now put the reader in Margaret’s POV???

I could use some advice.

I have a novel focusing on the relationship of two people. This is entirely written in 3rd person limited with occasional internal dialogue.

Initially, this story was focused on one character (A); however, I realised the protagonist was the other character (B). I re-wrote the novel to be inside B’s head, and generally this works *much* better.

Here’s the problem. Although the entire novel is written in 3rd person limited for B, there are several action points within the novel that follows A, not B because there is not much going on with B during this time.

There’s no head hopping or reading of A’s mind in these few scenes, but nothing is happening to B at this point, so narrative-wise, it seems okay to follow A through action (not thought).

So, question 1) because there’s no head hopping, is following A occasionally too distracting for this story? And if so, 2) I’m open to suggestions on how to handle this, because it’s what happens to A in these scenes that changes things.

Very good article. Great examples.

Nice article

Understanding the difference between first person and third person point of view (POV) is crucial for any writer looking to master narrative technique. This “Ultimate Guide” promises to provide comprehensive insights into both POVs, which can significantly enhance storytelling skills. By delving into the nuances of each POV, writers can learn how to effectively convey characters’ perspectives, emotions, and experiences, ultimately enriching the reader’s engagement with the narrative. Whether you’re a beginner or seasoned writer, mastering these narrative techniques is essential for crafting compelling and immersive stories. Looking forward to exploring this guide and honing my storytelling skills further!

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First, Second, and Third Person: Definition and Examples

Home » The Writer’s Dictionary » First, Second, and Third Person: Definition and Examples

Point of view definition: First, second, and third person are categories of grammar to classify pronouns and verb forms.

• First person definition: first person indicates the speaker.
• Second person definition: second person indicates the addressee .
• Third person definition: third person indicates a third party individual other than the speaker.

What is the difference Between First Person, Second Person, and Third Person?

First, second, and third person refer to pronouns and their verb forms.

What is First Person?

First Person Example:      

• I prefer coffee to hot cocoa.

In this example, “I” am the speaker. This is first person.

What is Second Person?

Second person point of view: Second person refers to the addressee. It uses the subject pronoun “you.”

Second Person Example:  

• You prefer coffee to hot cocoa.

In this example “you” is the addressee. The speaker is addressing “you.” This is second person.

What is Third Person?

Third Person Example:

• He prefers coffee to hot cocoa.

In this example “he” is the third party. The speaker is referring to him as the addressee. He prefers coffee to hot cocoa.

When using the different points of view, verbs need to be conjugated appropriately to fit the pronoun use.

Note: Pronouns are only used in English when an antecedent has been clearly identified.

What Are First Person Pronouns?

First person pronouns always refer to the speaker himself. These pronouns are only used when the speaker is making a statement about himself or herself.

First Person Pronoun List:

Here is a list with examples of the first person words we use in writing and speech.

• I prefer coffee to hot cocoa. (First person singular)
• We prefer burgers to pasta. (First person plural)
• Jacob embarrassed me.
• Jacob embarrassed us.
• The hat is mine.
• The hat is ours.
• That is my hat.
• That is our hat.

What Are Second Person Pronouns?

When you are writing, a good way to think about the second person’s point of view is that it addresses the reader (as I just did in that sentence).

Second person pronouns are only used when the speaker is making a statement to the addressee, i.e., to someone.

Second Person Pronoun List:

Here is a list with examples of the second person words we use in writing and speech.

• Jacob embarrassed you.
• The hat is yours.
• That is your hat.

Note: In each of these examples, “you” can be an individual (singular) or multiple people (plural).

What Are Third Person Pronouns?

Third person pronouns always refer to a third party. These pronouns are used when the speaker is making a statement about a third party.

Third Person Pronoun List:

Here is a list with examples of the third person words we use in writing and speech.

• He prefers coffee to hot cocoa. (Third person singular)
• They prefer tea to coffee. (Third person plural)
• Jacob embarrassed her.
• The hat is theirs.
• That is their hat.

First, Second, and Third Person in Writing

Writing in first person: Literature in the first person point of view is written from the speaker’s perspective. This point of view uses first person pronouns to identify the speaker/narrator. First person point of view is generally limited in that the audience only experiences what the speaker/narrator himself experiences.

Writing in third person: Literature in third person point of view is written from an “outside” perspective. This point of view uses third person pronouns to identify characters. In third person writing, the narrator is not a character in the text. Because of this, he can usually “see” what happens to all of the characters.

Writing in second person: In non-fiction writing, a speaker will often switch between pronouns. Writers do this only for effect. For example, if a speaker wants to be clear and “get through” to the audience, he might say “you” (second person) throughout the text even if the text is mostly in third person. Again, this is strictly for rhetorical effect. Experienced writers use this as a literary tool.

Common Questions and First, Second, and Third Person

Here, I want to go quickly through a few questions I get about first, second, and third person pronouns.

Questions About the First Person

Is our first person? Yes, our is one of the first person pronouns.

• Are you coming to our wedding?

Is you first person? No, you is a second person pronoun.

• You are a great friend.

Is we first person? Yes, we is a first person pronoun.

• We are great friends.
• We polled this group of political observers and activists each week prior to the Iowa caucuses to produce the USA TODAY GOP Power Rankings and went back to them this week to ask who is the best choice for Trump’s running mate. – USA Today

Is my first person? Yes, my is a first person pronoun.

• My glasses are broken.

Is they first person? No, they is a third person pronoun.

• They can’t find parking.
• For frugal travelers, there are some smart alternatives if they are willing to do a bit of homework. – The New York Times

Is us first person? Yes, us is one of the first person pronouns.

• The president congratulated us.

Questions About the Second Person

• You are causing a scene.

Is they second person? No, they is a one of the third person pronouns.

• They are our neighbors.

Is we second person? No, we is one of the first person pronouns.

• We are going to get groceries.

Questions About the Third Person

Is their third person? Yes, their is a third person pronoun.

• Their hat is over there.

Is we third person? No, we is a first person pronoun.

• We are going to the beach.

Is our third person? No, our is a first person pronoun.

• This is our cake.

Is you third person? No, you is a second person pronoun.

• You are a nice person.

Is they third person? Yes, they is a third person pronoun.

• They are nice people.

Is he third person? Yes, he is one of the third person pronouns.

• He is a great man.
• Last week, he restated that he believes he deserves a maximum contract. – The Washington Post

Trick to Remember the Difference

Here are a few helpful memory tricks that always help me.

In the first person writing, I am talking about myself.

• I enjoy singing.

In the second person writing, I am talking to someone.

• You enjoy singing.

In the third person writing, I am talking about someone.

• He enjoys singing.

Summary: What is the First, Second, and Third Person Perspective?

Define first person: The definition of first person is the grammatical category of forms that designate a speaker referring to himself or herself. First person pronouns are I, we, me, us, etc.

Define second person: The definition of second person is the grammatical category of forms that designates the person being addressed. Second person pronouns are you, your, and yours.

Define third person: The definition of third person is the grammatical category of forms designating someone other than the speaker. The pronouns used are he, she, it, they, them, etc.

If this article helped you understand the differences between the three main English points of view, you might find our other article on English grammar terms helpful.

You can see our full list of English grammar terms on our grammar dictionary .

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Scholarly Voice: First-Person Point of View

First-person point of view.

Since 2007, Walden academic leadership has endorsed the APA manual guidance on appropriate use of the first-person singular pronoun "I," allowing the use of this pronoun in all Walden academic writing except doctoral capstone abstracts, which should not contain first person pronouns.

In addition to the pointers below, APA 7, Section 4.16 provides information on the appropriate use of first person in scholarly writing.

Inappropriate Uses:   I feel that eating white bread causes cancer. The author feels that eating white bread causes cancer. I found several sources (Marks, 2011; Isaac, 2006; Stuart, in press) that showed a link between white bread consumption and cancer.   Appropriate Use:   I surveyed 2,900 adults who consumed white bread regularly. In this chapter, I present a literature review on research about how seasonal light changes affect depression.

Confusing Sentence:   The researcher found that the authors had been accurate in their study of helium, which the researcher had hypothesized from the beginning of their project.   Revision:   I found that Johnson et al. (2011) had been accurate in their study of helium, which I had hypothesized since I began my project.

Passive voice:   The surveys were distributed and the results were compiled after they were collected.   Revision:   I distributed the surveys, and then I collected and compiled the results.

Appropriate use of first person we and our :   Two other nurses and I worked together to create a qualitative survey to measure patient satisfaction. Upon completion, we presented the results to our supervisor.

Make assumptions about your readers by putting them in a group to which they may not belong by using first person plural pronouns. Inappropriate use of first person "we" and "our":

• We can stop obesity in our society by changing our lifestyles.
• We need to help our patients recover faster.

In the first sentence above, the readers would not necessarily know who "we" are, and using a phrase such as "our society " can immediately exclude readers from outside your social group. In the second sentence, the author assumes that the reader is a nurse or medical professional, which may not be the case, and the sentence expresses the opinion of the author.

To write with more precision and clarity, hallmarks of scholarly writing, revise these sentences without the use of "we" and "our."

• Moderate activity can reduce the risk of obesity (Hu et al., 2003).
• Staff members in the health care industry can help improve the recovery rate for patients (Matthews, 2013).

Pronouns Video

• APA Formatting & Style: Pronouns (video transcript)

Related Resources

Didn't find what you need? Email us at [email protected] .

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Crying Myself to Sleep on the Biggest Cruise Ship Ever

Seven agonizing nights aboard the Icon of the Seas

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Updated at 2:44 p.m. ET on April 6, 2024.

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MY FIRST GLIMPSE of Royal Caribbean’s Icon of the Seas, from the window of an approaching Miami cab, brings on a feeling of vertigo, nausea, amazement, and distress. I shut my eyes in defense, as my brain tells my optic nerve to try again.

The ship makes no sense, vertically or horizontally. It makes no sense on sea, or on land, or in outer space. It looks like a hodgepodge of domes and minarets, tubes and canopies, like Istanbul had it been designed by idiots. Vibrant, oversignifying colors are stacked upon other such colors, decks perched over still more decks; the only comfort is a row of lifeboats ringing its perimeter. There is no imposed order, no cogent thought, and, for those who do not harbor a totalitarian sense of gigantomania, no visual mercy. This is the biggest cruise ship ever built, and I have been tasked with witnessing its inaugural voyage.

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“Author embarks on their first cruise-ship voyage” has been a staple of American essay writing for almost three decades, beginning with David Foster Wallace’s “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” which was first published in 1996 under the title “Shipping Out.” Since then, many admirable writers have widened and diversified the genre. Usually the essayist commissioned to take to the sea is in their first or second flush of youth and is ready to sharpen their wit against the hull of the offending vessel. I am 51, old and tired, having seen much of the world as a former travel journalist, and mostly what I do in both life and prose is shrug while muttering to my imaginary dachshund, “This too shall pass.” But the Icon of the Seas will not countenance a shrug. The Icon of the Seas is the Linda Loman of cruise ships, exclaiming that attention must be paid. And here I am in late January with my one piece of luggage and useless gray winter jacket and passport, zipping through the Port of Miami en route to the gangway that will separate me from the bulk of North America for more than seven days, ready to pay it in full.

The aforementioned gangway opens up directly onto a thriving mall (I will soon learn it is imperiously called the “Royal Promenade”), presently filled with yapping passengers beneath a ceiling studded with balloons ready to drop. Crew members from every part of the global South, as well as a few Balkans, are shepherding us along while pressing flutes of champagne into our hands. By a humming Starbucks, I drink as many of these as I can and prepare to find my cabin. I show my blue Suite Sky SeaPass Card (more on this later, much more) to a smiling woman from the Philippines, and she tells me to go “aft.” Which is where, now? As someone who has rarely sailed on a vessel grander than the Staten Island Ferry, I am confused. It turns out that the aft is the stern of the ship, or, for those of us who don’t know what a stern or an aft are, its ass. The nose of the ship, responsible for separating the waves before it, is also called a bow, and is marked for passengers as the FWD , or forward. The part of the contemporary sailing vessel where the malls are clustered is called the midship. I trust that you have enjoyed this nautical lesson.

I ascend via elevator to my suite on Deck 11. This is where I encounter my first terrible surprise. My suite windows and balcony do not face the ocean. Instead, they look out onto another shopping mall. This mall is the one that’s called Central Park, perhaps in homage to the Olmsted-designed bit of greenery in the middle of my hometown. Although on land I would be delighted to own a suite with Central Park views, here I am deeply depressed. To sail on a ship and not wake up to a vast blue carpet of ocean? Unthinkable.

Allow me a brief preamble here. The story you are reading was commissioned at a moment when most staterooms on the Icon were sold out. In fact, so enthralled by the prospect of this voyage were hard-core mariners that the ship’s entire inventory of guest rooms (the Icon can accommodate up to 7,600 passengers, but its inaugural journey was reduced to 5,000 or so for a less crowded experience) was almost immediately sold out. Hence, this publication was faced with the shocking prospect of paying nearly $19,000 to procure for this solitary passenger an entire suite—not including drinking expenses—all for the privilege of bringing you this article. But the suite in question doesn’t even have a view of the ocean! I sit down hard on my soft bed. Nineteen thousand dollars for this .

The viewless suite does have its pluses. In addition to all the Malin+Goetz products in my dual bathrooms, I am granted use of a dedicated Suite Deck lounge; access to Coastal Kitchen, a superior restaurant for Suites passengers; complimentary VOOM SM Surf & Stream (“the fastest Internet at Sea”) “for one device per person for the whole cruise duration”; a pair of bathrobes (one of which comes prestained with what looks like a large expectoration by the greenest lizard on Earth); and use of the Grove Suite Sun, an area on Decks 18 and 19 with food and deck chairs reserved exclusively for Suite passengers. I also get reserved seating for a performance of The Wizard of Oz , an ice-skating tribute to the periodic table, and similar provocations. The very color of my Suite Sky SeaPass Card, an oceanic blue as opposed to the cloying royal purple of the standard non-Suite passenger, will soon provoke envy and admiration. But as high as my status may be, there are those on board who have much higher status still, and I will soon learn to bow before them.

In preparation for sailing, I have “priced in,” as they say on Wall Street, the possibility that I may come from a somewhat different monde than many of the other cruisers. Without falling into stereotypes or preconceptions, I prepare myself for a friendly outspokenness on the part of my fellow seafarers that may not comply with modern DEI standards. I believe in meeting people halfway, and so the day before flying down to Miami, I visited what remains of Little Italy to purchase a popular T-shirt that reads DADDY’S LITTLE MEATBALL across the breast in the colors of the Italian flag. My wife recommended that I bring one of my many T-shirts featuring Snoopy and the Peanuts gang, as all Americans love the beagle and his friends. But I naively thought that my meatball T-shirt would be more suitable for conversation-starting. “Oh, and who is your ‘daddy’?” some might ask upon seeing it. “And how long have you been his ‘little meatball’?” And so on.

I put on my meatball T-shirt and head for one of the dining rooms to get a late lunch. In the elevator, I stick out my chest for all to read the funny legend upon it, but soon I realize that despite its burnished tricolor letters, no one takes note. More to the point, no one takes note of me. Despite my attempts at bridge building, the very sight of me (small, ethnic, without a cap bearing the name of a football team) elicits no reaction from other passengers. Most often, they will small-talk over me as if I don’t exist. This brings to mind the travails of David Foster Wallace , who felt so ostracized by his fellow passengers that he retreated to his cabin for much of his voyage. And Wallace was raised primarily in the Midwest and was a much larger, more American-looking meatball than I am. If he couldn’t talk to these people, how will I? What if I leave this ship without making any friends at all, despite my T-shirt? I am a social creature, and the prospect of seven days alone and apart is saddening. Wallace’s stateroom, at least, had a view of the ocean, a kind of cheap eternity.

Worse awaits me in the dining room. This is a large, multichandeliered room where I attended my safety training (I was shown how to put on a flotation vest; it is a very simple procedure). But the maître d’ politely refuses me entry in an English that seems to verge on another language. “I’m sorry, this is only for pendejos ,” he seems to be saying. I push back politely and he repeats himself. Pendejos ? Piranhas? There’s some kind of P-word to which I am not attuned. Meanwhile elderly passengers stream right past, powered by their limbs, walkers, and electric wheelchairs. “It is only pendejo dining today, sir.” “But I have a suite!” I say, already starting to catch on to the ship’s class system. He examines my card again. “But you are not a pendejo ,” he confirms. I am wearing a DADDY’S LITTLE MEATBALL T-shirt, I want to say to him. I am the essence of pendejo .

Eventually, I give up and head to the plebeian buffet on Deck 15, which has an aquatic-styled name I have now forgotten. Before gaining entry to this endless cornucopia of reheated food, one passes a washing station of many sinks and soap dispensers, and perhaps the most intriguing character on the entire ship. He is Mr. Washy Washy—or, according to his name tag, Nielbert of the Philippines—and he is dressed as a taco (on other occasions, I’ll see him dressed as a burger). Mr. Washy Washy performs an eponymous song in spirited, indeed flamboyant English: “Washy, washy, wash your hands, WASHY WASHY!” The dangers of norovirus and COVID on a cruise ship this size (a giant fellow ship was stricken with the former right after my voyage) makes Mr. Washy Washy an essential member of the crew. The problem lies with the food at the end of Washy’s rainbow. The buffet is groaning with what sounds like sophisticated dishes—marinated octopus, boiled egg with anchovy, chorizo, lobster claws—but every animal tastes tragically the same, as if there was only one creature available at the market, a “cruisipus” bred specifically for Royal Caribbean dining. The “vegetables” are no better. I pick up a tomato slice and look right through it. It tastes like cellophane. I sit alone, apart from the couples and parents with gaggles of children, as “We Are Family” echoes across the buffet space.

I may have failed to mention that all this time, the Icon of the Seas has not left port. As the fiery mango of the subtropical setting sun makes Miami’s condo skyline even more apocalyptic, the ship shoves off beneath a perfunctory display of fireworks. After the sun sets, in the far, dark distance, another circus-lit cruise ship ruptures the waves before us. We glance at it with pity, because it is by definition a smaller ship than our own. I am on Deck 15, outside the buffet and overlooking a bunch of pools (the Icon has seven of them), drinking a frilly drink that I got from one of the bars (the Icon has 15 of them), still too shy to speak to anyone, despite Sister Sledge’s assertion that all on the ship are somehow related.

Kim Brooks: On failing the family vacation

The ship’s passage away from Ron DeSantis’s Florida provides no frisson, no sense of developing “sea legs,” as the ship is too large to register the presence of waves unless a mighty wind adds significant chop. It is time for me to register the presence of the 5,000 passengers around me, even if they refuse to register mine. My fellow travelers have prepared for this trip with personally decorated T-shirts celebrating the importance of this voyage. The simplest ones say ICON INAUGURAL ’24 on the back and the family name on the front. Others attest to an over-the-top love of cruise ships: WARNING! MAY START TALKING ABOUT CRUISING . Still others are artisanally designed and celebrate lifetimes spent married while cruising (on ships, of course). A couple possibly in their 90s are wearing shirts whose backs feature a drawing of a cruise liner, two flamingos with ostensibly male and female characteristics, and the legend “ HUSBAND AND WIFE Cruising Partners FOR LIFE WE MAY NOT HAVE IT All Together BUT TOGETHER WE HAVE IT ALL .” (The words not in all caps have been written in cursive.) A real journalist or a more intrepid conversationalist would have gone up to the couple and asked them to explain the longevity of their marriage vis-à-vis their love of cruising. But instead I head to my mall suite, take off my meatball T-shirt, and allow the first tears of the cruise to roll down my cheeks slowly enough that I briefly fall asleep amid the moisture and salt.

I WAKE UP with a hangover. Oh God. Right. I cannot believe all of that happened last night. A name floats into my cobwebbed, nauseated brain: “Ayn Rand.” Jesus Christ.

I breakfast alone at the Coastal Kitchen. The coffee tastes fine and the eggs came out of a bird. The ship rolls slightly this morning; I can feel it in my thighs and my schlong, the parts of me that are most receptive to danger.

I had a dangerous conversation last night. After the sun set and we were at least 50 miles from shore (most modern cruise ships sail at about 23 miles an hour), I lay in bed softly hiccupping, my arms stretched out exactly like Jesus on the cross, the sound of the distant waves missing from my mall-facing suite, replaced by the hum of air-conditioning and children shouting in Spanish through the vents of my two bathrooms. I decided this passivity was unacceptable. As an immigrant, I feel duty-bound to complete the tasks I am paid for, which means reaching out and trying to understand my fellow cruisers. So I put on a normal James Perse T-shirt and headed for one of the bars on the Royal Promenade—the Schooner Bar, it was called, if memory serves correctly.

I sat at the bar for a martini and two Negronis. An old man with thick, hairy forearms drank next to me, very silent and Hemingwaylike, while a dreadlocked piano player tinkled out a series of excellent Elton John covers. To my right, a young white couple—he in floral shorts, she in a light, summery miniskirt with a fearsome diamond ring, neither of them in football regalia—chatted with an elderly couple. Do it , I commanded myself. Open your mouth. Speak! Speak without being spoken to. Initiate. A sentence fragment caught my ear from the young woman, “Cherry Hill.” This is a suburb of Philadelphia in New Jersey, and I had once been there for a reading at a synagogue. “Excuse me,” I said gently to her. “Did you just mention Cherry Hill? It’s a lovely place.”

As it turned out, the couple now lived in Fort Lauderdale (the number of Floridians on the cruise surprised me, given that Southern Florida is itself a kind of cruise ship, albeit one slowly sinking), but soon they were talking with me exclusively—the man potbellied, with a chin like a hard-boiled egg; the woman as svelte as if she were one of the many Ukrainian members of the crew—the elderly couple next to them forgotten. This felt as groundbreaking as the first time I dared to address an American in his native tongue, as a child on a bus in Queens (“On my foot you are standing, Mister”).

“I don’t want to talk politics,” the man said. “But they’re going to eighty-six Biden and put Michelle in.”

I considered the contradictions of his opening conversational gambit, but decided to play along. “People like Michelle,” I said, testing the waters. The husband sneered, but the wife charitably put forward that the former first lady was “more personable” than Joe Biden. “They’re gonna eighty-six Biden,” the husband repeated. “He can’t put a sentence together.”

After I mentioned that I was a writer—though I presented myself as a writer of teleplays instead of novels and articles such as this one—the husband told me his favorite writer was Ayn Rand. “Ayn Rand, she came here with nothing,” the husband said. “I work with a lot of Cubans, so …” I wondered if I should mention what I usually do to ingratiate myself with Republicans or libertarians: the fact that my finances improved after pass-through corporations were taxed differently under Donald Trump. Instead, I ordered another drink and the couple did the same, and I told him that Rand and I were born in the same city, St. Petersburg/Leningrad, and that my family also came here with nothing. Now the bonding and drinking began in earnest, and several more rounds appeared. Until it all fell apart.

Read: Gary Shteyngart on watching Russian television for five days straight

My new friend, whom I will refer to as Ayn, called out to a buddy of his across the bar, and suddenly a young couple, both covered in tattoos, appeared next to us. “He fucking punked me,” Ayn’s frat-boy-like friend called out as he put his arm around Ayn, while his sizable partner sizzled up to Mrs. Rand. Both of them had a look I have never seen on land—their eyes projecting absence and enmity in equal measure. In the ’90s, I drank with Russian soldiers fresh from Chechnya and wandered the streets of wartime Zagreb, but I have never seen such undisguised hostility toward both me and perhaps the universe at large. I was briefly introduced to this psychopathic pair, but neither of them wanted to have anything to do with me, and the tattooed woman would not even reveal her Christian name to me (she pretended to have the same first name as Mrs. Rand). To impress his tattooed friends, Ayn made fun of the fact that as a television writer, I’d worked on the series Succession (which, it would turn out, practically nobody on the ship had watched), instead of the far more palatable, in his eyes, zombie drama of last year. And then my new friends drifted away from me into an angry private conversation—“He punked me!”—as I ordered another drink for myself, scared of the dead-eyed arrivals whose gaze never registered in the dim wattage of the Schooner Bar, whose terrifying voices and hollow laughs grated like unoiled gears against the crooning of “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.”

But today is a new day for me and my hangover. After breakfast, I explore the ship’s so-called neighborhoods . There’s the AquaDome, where one can find a food hall and an acrobatic sound-and-light aquatic show. Central Park has a premium steak house, a sushi joint, and a used Rolex that can be bought for $8,000 on land here proudly offered at $17,000. There’s the aforementioned Royal Promenade, where I had drunk with the Rands, and where a pair of dueling pianos duel well into the night. There’s Surfside, a kids’ neighborhood full of sugary garbage, which looks out onto the frothy trail that the behemoth leaves behind itself. Thrill Island refers to the collection of tubes that clutter the ass of the ship and offer passengers six waterslides and a surfing simulation. There’s the Hideaway, an adult zone that plays music from a vomit-slathered, Brit-filled Alicante nightclub circa 1996 and proves a big favorite with groups of young Latin American customers. And, most hurtfully, there’s the Suite Neighborhood.

I say hurtfully because as a Suite passenger I should be here, though my particular suite is far from the others. Whereas I am stuck amid the riffraff of Deck 11, this section is on the highborn Decks 16 and 17, and in passing, I peek into the spacious, tall-ceilinged staterooms from the hallway, dazzled by the glint of the waves and sun. For $75,000, one multifloor suite even comes with its own slide between floors, so that a family may enjoy this particular terror in private. There is a quiet splendor to the Suite Neighborhood. I see fewer stickers and signs and drawings than in my own neighborhood—for example, MIKE AND DIANA PROUDLY SERVED U.S. MARINE CORPS RETIRED . No one here needs to announce their branch of service or rank; they are simply Suites, and this is where they belong. Once again, despite my hard work and perseverance, I have been disallowed from the true American elite. Once again, I am “Not our class, dear.” I am reminded of watching The Love Boat on my grandmother’s Zenith, which either was given to her or we found in the trash (I get our many malfunctioning Zeniths confused) and whose tube got so hot, I would put little chunks of government cheese on a thin tissue atop it to give our welfare treat a pleasant, Reagan-era gooeyness. I could not understand English well enough then to catch the nuances of that seafaring program, but I knew that there were differences in the status of the passengers, and that sometimes those differences made them sad. Still, this ship, this plenty—every few steps, there are complimentary nachos or milkshakes or gyros on offer—was the fatty fuel of my childhood dreams. If only I had remained a child.

I walk around the outdoor decks looking for company. There is a middle-aged African American couple who always seem to be asleep in each other’s arms, probably exhausted from the late capitalism they regularly encounter on land. There is far more diversity on this ship than I expected. Many couples are a testament to Loving v. Virginia , and there is a large group of folks whose T-shirts read MELANIN AT SEA / IT’S THE MELANIN FOR ME . I smile when I see them, but then some young kids from the group makes Mr. Washy Washy do a cruel, caricatured “Burger Dance” (today he is in his burger getup), and I think, Well, so much for intersectionality .

At the infinity pool on Deck 17, I spot some elderly women who could be ethnic and from my part of the world, and so I jump in. I am proved correct! Many of them seem to be originally from Queens (“Corona was still great when it was all Italian”), though they are now spread across the tristate area. We bond over the way “Ron-kon-koma” sounds when announced in Penn Station.

“Everyone is here for a different reason,” one of them tells me. She and her ex-husband last sailed together four years ago to prove to themselves that their marriage was truly over. Her 15-year-old son lost his virginity to “an Irish young lady” while their ship was moored in Ravenna, Italy. The gaggle of old-timers competes to tell me their favorite cruising stories and tips. “A guy proposed in Central Park a couple of years ago”—many Royal Caribbean ships apparently have this ridiculous communal area—“and she ran away screaming!” “If you’re diamond-class, you get four drinks for free.” “A different kind of passenger sails out of Bayonne.” (This, perhaps, is racially coded.) “Sometimes, if you tip the bartender $5, your next drink will be free.”

“Everyone’s here for a different reason,” the woman whose marriage ended on a cruise tells me again. “Some people are here for bad reasons—the drinkers and the gamblers. Some people are here for medical reasons.” I have seen more than a few oxygen tanks and at least one woman clearly undergoing very serious chemo. Some T-shirts celebrate good news about a cancer diagnosis. This might be someone’s last cruise or week on Earth. For these women, who have spent months, if not years, at sea, cruising is a ritual as well as a life cycle: first love, last love, marriage, divorce, death.

Read: The last place on Earth any tourist should go

I have talked with these women for so long, tonight I promise myself that after a sad solitary dinner I will not try to seek out company at the bars in the mall or the adult-themed Hideaway. I have enough material to fulfill my duties to this publication. As I approach my orphaned suite, I run into the aggro young people who stole Mr. and Mrs. Rand away from me the night before. The tattooed apparitions pass me without a glance. She is singing something violent about “Stuttering Stanley” (a character in a popular horror movie, as I discover with my complimentary VOOM SM Surf & Stream Internet at Sea) and he’s loudly shouting about “all the money I’ve lost,” presumably at the casino in the bowels of the ship.

So these bent psychos out of a Cormac McCarthy novel are angrily inhabiting my deck. As I mewl myself to sleep, I envision a limited series for HBO or some other streamer, a kind of low-rent White Lotus , where several aggressive couples conspire to throw a shy intellectual interloper overboard. I type the scenario into my phone. As I fall asleep, I think of what the woman who recently divorced her husband and whose son became a man through the good offices of the Irish Republic told me while I was hoisting myself out of the infinity pool. “I’m here because I’m an explorer. I’m here because I’m trying something new.” What if I allowed myself to believe in her fantasy?

“YOU REALLY STARTED AT THE TOP,” they tell me. I’m at the Coastal Kitchen for my eggs and corned-beef hash, and the maître d’ has slotted me in between two couples. Fueled by coffee or perhaps intrigued by my relative youth, they strike up a conversation with me. As always, people are shocked that this is my first cruise. They contrast the Icon favorably with all the preceding liners in the Royal Caribbean fleet, usually commenting on the efficiency of the elevators that hurl us from deck to deck (as in many large corporate buildings, the elevators ask you to choose a floor and then direct you to one of many lifts). The couple to my right, from Palo Alto—he refers to his “porn mustache” and calls his wife “my cougar” because she is two years older—tell me they are “Pandemic Pinnacles.”

This is the day that my eyes will be opened. Pinnacles , it is explained to me over translucent cantaloupe, have sailed with Royal Caribbean for 700 ungodly nights. Pandemic Pinnacles took advantage of the two-for-one accrual rate of Pinnacle points during the pandemic, when sailing on a cruise ship was even more ill-advised, to catapult themselves into Pinnacle status.

Because of the importance of the inaugural voyage of the world’s largest cruise liner, more than 200 Pinnacles are on this ship, a startling number, it seems. Mrs. Palo Alto takes out a golden badge that I have seen affixed over many a breast, which reads CROWN AND ANCHOR SOCIETY along with her name. This is the coveted badge of the Pinnacle. “You should hear all the whining in Guest Services,” her husband tells me. Apparently, the Pinnacles who are not also Suites like us are all trying to use their status to get into Coastal Kitchen, our elite restaurant. Even a Pinnacle needs to be a Suite to access this level of corned-beef hash.

“We’re just baby Pinnacles,” Mrs. Palo Alto tells me, describing a kind of internal class struggle among the Pinnacle elite for ever higher status.

And now I understand what the maître d’ was saying to me on the first day of my cruise. He wasn’t saying “ pendejo .” He was saying “Pinnacle.” The dining room was for Pinnacles only, all those older people rolling in like the tide on their motorized scooters.

And now I understand something else: This whole thing is a cult. And like most cults, it can’t help but mirror the endless American fight for status. Like Keith Raniere’s NXIVM, where different-colored sashes were given out to connote rank among Raniere’s branded acolytes, this is an endless competition among Pinnacles, Suites, Diamond-Plusers, and facing-the-mall, no-balcony purple SeaPass Card peasants, not to mention the many distinctions within each category. The more you cruise, the higher your status. No wonder a section of the Royal Promenade is devoted to getting passengers to book their next cruise during the one they should be enjoying now. No wonder desperate Royal Caribbean offers (“FINAL HOURS”) crowded my email account weeks before I set sail. No wonder the ship’s jewelry store, the Royal Bling, is selling a $100,000 golden chalice that will entitle its owner to drink free on Royal Caribbean cruises for life. (One passenger was already gaming out whether her 28-year-old son was young enough to “just about earn out” on the chalice or if that ship had sailed.) No wonder this ship was sold out months before departure , and we had to pay $19,000 for a horrid suite away from the Suite Neighborhood. No wonder the most mythical hero of Royal Caribbean lore is someone named Super Mario, who has cruised so often, he now has his own working desk on many ships. This whole experience is part cult, part nautical pyramid scheme.

From the June 2014 issue: Ship of wonks

“The toilets are amazing,” the Palo Altos are telling me. “One flush and you’re done.” “They don’t understand how energy-efficient these ships are,” the husband of the other couple is telling me. “They got the LNG”—liquefied natural gas, which is supposed to make the Icon a boon to the environment (a concept widely disputed and sometimes ridiculed by environmentalists).

But I’m thinking along a different line of attack as I spear my last pallid slice of melon. For my streaming limited series, a Pinnacle would have to get killed by either an outright peasant or a Suite without an ocean view. I tell my breakfast companions my idea.

“Oh, for sure a Pinnacle would have to be killed,” Mr. Palo Alto, the Pandemic Pinnacle, says, touching his porn mustache thoughtfully as his wife nods.

“THAT’S RIGHT, IT’S your time, buddy!” Hubert, my fun-loving Panamanian cabin attendant, shouts as I step out of my suite in a robe. “Take it easy, buddy!”

I have come up with a new dressing strategy. Instead of trying to impress with my choice of T-shirts, I have decided to start wearing a robe, as one does at a resort property on land, with a proper spa and hammam. The response among my fellow cruisers has been ecstatic. “Look at you in the robe!” Mr. Rand cries out as we pass each other by the Thrill Island aqua park. “You’re living the cruise life! You know, you really drank me under the table that night.” I laugh as we part ways, but my soul cries out, Please spend more time with me, Mr. and Mrs. Rand; I so need the company .

In my white robe, I am a stately presence, a refugee from a better limited series, a one-man crossover episode. (Only Suites are granted these robes to begin with.) Today, I will try many of the activities these ships have on offer to provide their clientele with a sense of never-ceasing motion. Because I am already at Thrill Island, I decide to climb the staircase to what looks like a mast on an old-fashioned ship (terrified, because I am afraid of heights) to try a ride called “Storm Chasers,” which is part of the “Category 6” water park, named in honor of one of the storms that may someday do away with the Port of Miami entirely. Storm Chasers consists of falling from the “mast” down a long, twisting neon tube filled with water, like being the camera inside your own colonoscopy, as you hold on to the handles of a mat, hoping not to die. The tube then flops you down headfirst into a trough of water, a Royal Caribbean baptism. It both knocks my breath out and makes me sad.

In keeping with the aquatic theme, I attend a show at the AquaDome. To the sound of “Live and Let Die,” a man in a harness gyrates to and fro in the sultry air. I saw something very similar in the back rooms of the famed Berghain club in early-aughts Berlin. Soon another harnessed man is gyrating next to the first. Ja , I think to myself, I know how this ends. Now will come the fisting , natürlich . But the show soon devolves into the usual Marvel-film-grade nonsense, with too much light and sound signifying nichts . If any fisting is happening, it is probably in the Suite Neighborhood, inside a cabin marked with an upside-down pineapple, which I understand means a couple are ready to swing, and I will see none of it.

I go to the ice show, which is a kind of homage—if that’s possible—to the periodic table, done with the style and pomp and masterful precision that would please the likes of Kim Jong Un, if only he could afford Royal Caribbean talent. At one point, the dancers skate to the theme song of Succession . “See that!” I want to say to my fellow Suites—at “cultural” events, we have a special section reserved for us away from the commoners—“ Succession ! It’s even better than the zombie show! Open your minds!”

Finally, I visit a comedy revue in an enormous and too brightly lit version of an “intimate,” per Royal Caribbean literature, “Manhattan comedy club.” Many of the jokes are about the cruising life. “I’ve lived on ships for 20 years,” one of the middle-aged comedians says. “I can only see so many Filipino homosexuals dressed as a taco.” He pauses while the audience laughs. “I am so fired tonight,” he says. He segues into a Trump impression and then Biden falling asleep at the microphone, which gets the most laughs. “Anyone here from Fort Leonard Wood?” another comedian asks. Half the crowd seems to cheer. As I fall asleep that night, I realize another connection I have failed to make, and one that may explain some of the diversity on this vessel—many of its passengers have served in the military.

As a coddled passenger with a suite, I feel like I am starting to understand what it means to have a rank and be constantly reminded of it. There are many espresso makers , I think as I look across the expanse of my officer-grade quarters before closing my eyes, but this one is mine .

A shocking sight greets me beyond the pools of Deck 17 as I saunter over to the Coastal Kitchen for my morning intake of slightly sour Americanos. A tiny city beneath a series of perfectly pressed green mountains. Land! We have docked for a brief respite in Basseterre, the capital of St. Kitts and Nevis. I wolf down my egg scramble to be one of the first passengers off the ship. Once past the gangway, I barely refrain from kissing the ground. I rush into the sights and sounds of this scruffy island city, sampling incredible conch curry and buckets of non-Starbucks coffee. How wonderful it is to be where God intended humans to be: on land. After all, I am neither a fish nor a mall rat. This is my natural environment. Basseterre may not be Havana, but there are signs of human ingenuity and desire everywhere you look. The Black Table Grill Has been Relocated to Soho Village, Market Street, Directly Behind of, Gary’s Fruits and Flower Shop. Signed. THE PORK MAN reads a sign stuck to a wall. Now, that is how you write a sign. A real sign, not the come-ons for overpriced Rolexes that blink across the screens of the Royal Promenade.

“Hey, tie your shoestring!” a pair of laughing ladies shout to me across the street.

“Thank you!” I shout back. Shoestring! “Thank you very much.”

A man in Independence Square Park comes by and asks if I want to play with his monkey. I haven’t heard that pickup line since the Penn Station of the 1980s. But then he pulls a real monkey out of a bag. The monkey is wearing a diaper and looks insane. Wonderful , I think, just wonderful! There is so much life here. I email my editor asking if I can remain on St. Kitts and allow the Icon to sail off into the horizon without me. I have even priced a flight home at less than $300, and I have enough material from the first four days on the cruise to write the entire story. “It would be funny …” my editor replies. “Now get on the boat.”

As I slink back to the ship after my brief jailbreak, the locals stand under umbrellas to gaze at and photograph the boat that towers over their small capital city. The limousines of the prime minister and his lackeys are parked beside the gangway. St. Kitts, I’ve been told, is one of the few islands that would allow a ship of this size to dock.

“We hear about all the waterslides,” a sweet young server in one of the cafés told me. “We wish we could go on the ship, but we have to work.”

“I want to stay on your island,” I replied. “I love it here.”

But she didn’t understand how I could possibly mean that.

“WASHY, WASHY, so you don’t get stinky, stinky!” kids are singing outside the AquaDome, while their adult minders look on in disapproval, perhaps worried that Mr. Washy Washy is grooming them into a life of gayness. I heard a southern couple skip the buffet entirely out of fear of Mr. Washy Washy.

Meanwhile, I have found a new watering hole for myself, the Swim & Tonic, the biggest swim-up bar on any cruise ship in the world. Drinking next to full-size, nearly naked Americans takes away one’s own self-consciousness. The men have curvaceous mom bodies. The women are equally un-shy about their sprawling physiques.

Today I’ve befriended a bald man with many children who tells me that all of the little trinkets that Royal Caribbean has left us in our staterooms and suites are worth a fortune on eBay. “Eighty dollars for the water bottle, 60 for the lanyard,” the man says. “This is a cult.”

“Tell me about it,” I say. There is, however, a clientele for whom this cruise makes perfect sense. For a large middle-class family (he works in “supply chains”), seven days in a lower-tier cabin—which starts at $1,800 a person—allow the parents to drop off their children in Surfside, where I imagine many young Filipina crew members will take care of them, while the parents are free to get drunk at a swim-up bar and maybe even get intimate in their cabin. Cruise ships have become, for a certain kind of hardworking family, a form of subsidized child care.

There is another man I would like to befriend at the Swim & Tonic, a tall, bald fellow who is perpetually inebriated and who wears a necklace studded with little rubber duckies in sunglasses, which, I am told, is a sort of secret handshake for cruise aficionados. Tomorrow, I will spend more time with him, but first the ship docks at St. Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Charlotte Amalie, the capital, is more charming in name than in presence, but I still all but jump off the ship to score a juicy oxtail and plantains at the well-known Petite Pump Room, overlooking the harbor. From one of the highest points in the small city, the Icon of the Seas appears bigger than the surrounding hills.

I usually tan very evenly, but something about the discombobulation of life at sea makes me forget the regular application of sunscreen. As I walk down the streets of Charlotte Amalie in my fluorescent Icon of the Seas cap, an old Rastafarian stares me down. “Redneck,” he hisses.

“No,” I want to tell him, as I bring a hand up to my red neck, “that’s not who I am at all. On my island, Mannahatta, as Whitman would have it, I am an interesting person living within an engaging artistic milieu. I do not wish to use the Caribbean as a dumping ground for the cruise-ship industry. I love the work of Derek Walcott. You don’t understand. I am not a redneck. And if I am, they did this to me.” They meaning Royal Caribbean? Its passengers? The Rands?

“They did this to me!”

Back on the Icon, some older matrons are muttering about a run-in with passengers from the Celebrity cruise ship docked next to us, the Celebrity Apex. Although Celebrity Cruises is also owned by Royal Caribbean, I am made to understand that there is a deep fratricidal beef between passengers of the two lines. “We met a woman from the Apex,” one matron says, “and she says it was a small ship and there was nothing to do. Her face was as tight as a 19-year-old’s, she had so much surgery.” With those words, and beneath a cloudy sky, humidity shrouding our weathered faces and red necks, we set sail once again, hopefully in the direction of home.

THERE ARE BARELY 48 HOURS LEFT to the cruise, and the Icon of the Seas’ passengers are salty. They know how to work the elevators. They know the Washy Washy song by heart. They understand that the chicken gyro at “Feta Mediterranean,” in the AquaDome Market, is the least problematic form of chicken on the ship.

The passengers have shed their INAUGURAL CRUISE T-shirts and are now starting to evince political opinions. There are caps pledging to make America great again and T-shirts that celebrate words sometimes attributed to Patrick Henry: “The Constitution is not an instrument for the government to restrain the people; it is an instrument for the people to restrain the government.” With their preponderance of FAMILY FLAG FAITH FRIENDS FIREARMS T-shirts, the tables by the crepe station sometimes resemble the Capitol Rotunda on January 6. The Real Anthony Fauci , by Robert F. Kennedy Jr., appears to be a popular form of literature, especially among young men with very complicated versions of the American flag on their T-shirts. Other opinions blend the personal and the political. “Someone needs to kill Washy guy, right?” a well-dressed man in the elevator tells me, his gray eyes radiating nothing. “Just beat him to death. Am I right?” I overhear the male member of a young couple whisper, “There goes that freak” as I saunter by in my white spa robe, and I decide to retire it for the rest of the cruise.

I visit the Royal Bling to see up close the $100,000 golden chalice that entitles you to free drinks on Royal Caribbean forever. The pleasant Serbian saleslady explains that the chalice is actually gold-plated and covered in white zirconia instead of diamonds, as it would otherwise cost $1 million. “If you already have everything,” she explains, “this is one more thing you can get.”

I believe that anyone who works for Royal Caribbean should be entitled to immediate American citizenship. They already speak English better than most of the passengers and, per the Serbian lady’s sales pitch above, better understand what America is as well. Crew members like my Panamanian cabin attendant seem to work 24 hours a day. A waiter from New Delhi tells me that his contract is six months and three weeks long. After a cruise ends, he says, “in a few hours, we start again for the next cruise.” At the end of the half a year at sea, he is allowed a two-to-three-month stay at home with his family. As of 2019, the median income for crew members was somewhere in the vicinity of $20,000, according to a major business publication. Royal Caribbean would not share the current median salary for its crew members, but I am certain that it amounts to a fraction of the cost of a Royal Bling gold-plated, zirconia-studded chalice.

And because most of the Icon’s hyper-sanitized spaces are just a frittata away from being a Delta lounge, one forgets that there are actual sailors on this ship, charged with the herculean task of docking it in port. “Having driven 100,000-ton aircraft carriers throughout my career,” retired Admiral James G. Stavridis, the former NATO Supreme Allied Commander Europe, writes to me, “I’m not sure I would even know where to begin with trying to control a sea monster like this one nearly three times the size.” (I first met Stavridis while touring Army bases in Germany more than a decade ago.)

Today, I decide to head to the hot tub near Swim & Tonic, where some of the ship’s drunkest reprobates seem to gather (the other tubs are filled with families and couples). The talk here, like everywhere else on the ship, concerns football, a sport about which I know nothing. It is apparent that four teams have recently competed in some kind of finals for the year, and that two of them will now face off in the championship. Often when people on the Icon speak, I will try to repeat the last thing they said with a laugh or a nod of disbelief. “Yes, 20-yard line! Ha!” “Oh my God, of course, scrimmage.”

Soon we are joined in the hot tub by the late-middle-age drunk guy with the duck necklace. He is wearing a bucket hat with the legend HAWKEYES , which, I soon gather, is yet another football team. “All right, who turned me in?” Duck Necklace says as he plops into the tub beside us. “I get a call in the morning,” he says. “It’s security. Can you come down to the dining room by 10 a.m.? You need to stay away from the members of this religious family.” Apparently, the gregarious Duck Necklace had photobombed the wrong people. There are several families who present as evangelical Christians or practicing Muslims on the ship. One man, evidently, was not happy that Duck Necklace had made contact with his relatives. “It’s because of religious stuff; he was offended. I put my arm around 20 people a day.”

Everyone laughs. “They asked me three times if I needed medication,” he says of the security people who apparently interrogated him in full view of others having breakfast.

Another hot-tub denizen suggests that he should have asked for fentanyl. After a few more drinks, Duck Necklace begins to muse about what it would be like to fall off the ship. “I’m 62 and I’m ready to go,” he says. “I just don’t want a shark to eat me. I’m a huge God guy. I’m a Bible guy. There’s some Mayan theory squaring science stuff with religion. There is so much more to life on Earth.” We all nod into our Red Stripes.

“I never get off the ship when we dock,” he says. He tells us he lost $6,000 in the casino the other day. Later, I look him up, and it appears that on land, he’s a financial adviser in a crisp gray suit, probably a pillar of his North Chicago community.

THE OCEAN IS TEEMING with fascinating life, but on the surface it has little to teach us. The waves come and go. The horizon remains ever far away.

I am constantly told by my fellow passengers that “everybody here has a story.” Yes, I want to reply, but everybody everywhere has a story. You, the reader of this essay, have a story, and yet you’re not inclined to jump on a cruise ship and, like Duck Necklace, tell your story to others at great pitch and volume. Maybe what they’re saying is that everybody on this ship wants to have a bigger, more coherent, more interesting story than the one they’ve been given. Maybe that’s why there’s so much signage on the doors around me attesting to marriages spent on the sea. Maybe that’s why the Royal Caribbean newsletter slipped under my door tells me that “this isn’t a vacation day spent—it’s bragging rights earned.” Maybe that’s why I’m so lonely.

Today is a big day for Icon passengers. Today the ship docks at Royal Caribbean’s own Bahamian island, the Perfect Day at CocoCay. (This appears to be the actual name of the island.) A comedian at the nightclub opined on what his perfect day at CocoCay would look like—receiving oral sex while learning that his ex-wife had been killed in a car crash (big laughter). But the reality of the island is far less humorous than that.

One of the ethnic tristate ladies in the infinity pool told me that she loved CocoCay because it had exactly the same things that could be found on the ship itself. This proves to be correct. It is like the Icon, but with sand. The same tired burgers, the same colorful tubes conveying children and water from Point A to B. The same swim-up bar at its Hideaway ($140 for admittance, no children allowed; Royal Caribbean must be printing money off its clientele). “There was almost a fight at The Wizard of Oz ,” I overhear an elderly woman tell her companion on a chaise lounge. Apparently one of the passengers began recording Royal Caribbean’s intellectual property and “three guys came after him.”

I walk down a pathway to the center of the island, where a sign reads DO NOT ENTER: YOU HAVE REACHED THE BOUNDARY OF ADVENTURE . I hear an animal scampering in the bushes. A Royal Caribbean worker in an enormous golf cart soon chases me down and takes me back to the Hideaway, where I run into Mrs. Rand in a bikini. She becomes livid telling me about an altercation she had the other day with a woman over a towel and a deck chair. We Suites have special towel privileges; we do not have to hand over our SeaPass Card to score a towel. But the Rands are not Suites. “People are so entitled here,” Mrs. Rand says. “It’s like the airport with all its classes.” “You see,” I want to say, “this is where your husband’s love of Ayn Rand runs into the cruelties and arbitrary indignities of unbridled capitalism.” Instead we make plans to meet for a final drink in the Schooner Bar tonight (the Rands will stand me up).

Back on the ship, I try to do laps, but the pool (the largest on any cruise ship, naturally) is fully trashed with the detritus of American life: candy wrappers, a slowly dissolving tortilla chip, napkins. I take an extra-long shower in my suite, then walk around the perimeter of the ship on a kind of exercise track, past all the alluring lifeboats in their yellow-and-white livery. Maybe there is a dystopian angle to the HBO series that I will surely end up pitching, one with shades of WALL-E or Snowpiercer . In a collapsed world, a Royal Caribbean–like cruise liner sails from port to port, collecting new shipmates and supplies in exchange for the precious energy it has on board. (The actual Icon features a new technology that converts passengers’ poop into enough energy to power the waterslides . In the series, this shitty technology would be greatly expanded.) A very young woman (18? 19?), smart and lonely, who has only known life on the ship, walks along the same track as I do now, contemplating jumping off into the surf left by its wake. I picture reusing Duck Necklace’s words in the opening shot of the pilot. The girl is walking around the track, her eyes on the horizon; maybe she’s highborn—a Suite—and we hear the voice-over: “I’m 19 and I’m ready to go. I just don’t want a shark to eat me.”

Before the cruise is finished, I talk to Mr. Washy Washy, or Nielbert of the Philippines. He is a sweet, gentle man, and I thank him for the earworm of a song he has given me and for keeping us safe from the dreaded norovirus. “This is very important to me, getting people to wash their hands,” he tells me in his burger getup. He has dreams, as an artist and a performer, but they are limited in scope. One day he wants to dress up as a piece of bacon for the morning shift.

THE MAIDEN VOYAGE OF THE TITANIC (the Icon of the Seas is five times as large as that doomed vessel) at least offered its passengers an exciting ending to their cruise, but when I wake up on the eighth day, all I see are the gray ghosts that populate Miami’s condo skyline. Throughout my voyage, my writer friends wrote in to commiserate with me. Sloane Crosley, who once covered a three-day spa mini-cruise for Vogue , tells me she felt “so very alone … I found it very untethering.” Gideon Lewis-Kraus writes in an Instagram comment: “When Gary is done I think it’s time this genre was taken out back and shot.” And he is right. To badly paraphrase Adorno: After this, no more cruise stories. It is unfair to put a thinking person on a cruise ship. Writers typically have difficult childhoods, and it is cruel to remind them of the inherent loneliness that drove them to writing in the first place. It is also unseemly to write about the kind of people who go on cruises. Our country does not provide the education and upbringing that allow its citizens an interior life. For the creative class to point fingers at the large, breasty gentlemen adrift in tortilla-chip-laden pools of water is to gather a sour harvest of low-hanging fruit.

A day or two before I got off the ship, I decided to make use of my balcony, which I had avoided because I thought the view would only depress me further. What I found shocked me. My suite did not look out on Central Park after all. This entire time, I had been living in the ship’s Disneyland, Surfside, the neighborhood full of screaming toddlers consuming milkshakes and candy. And as I leaned out over my balcony, I beheld a slight vista of the sea and surf that I thought I had been missing. It had been there all along. The sea was frothy and infinite and blue-green beneath the span of a seagull’s wing. And though it had been trod hard by the world’s largest cruise ship, it remained.

This article appears in the May 2024 print edition with the headline “A Meatball at Sea.” When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.