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namorslut · 6 months

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daddy next door | j.miller (one)

❝welcome to the neighborhood❞

chapter summary: you meet your new neighbor and quickly discover he’s all you’re able to think about.

chapter warnings: MDNI. mostly exposition. no-outbreak!joel. neighbor!joel.foul language. discussions of alcoholism. verbal abuse (readers father). discussions of prior domestic abuse. readers father is a police officer, that gets its own warning. age gap (reader is in her 20s, Joel is in his 50s), pet names. slow burn. tension. female masturbation. no descriptions of race or body type, except implication that Joel is noticeably taller than reader.

word count: 3.5k

series masterlist.

The first time you saw him was through your bedroom window.

Bulging biceps and graying curls stuck to his forehead with sheen sweat under the Texas sun. You wished you could make out the features of his face better. He was with another man, equally handsome from what you could tell in a boyish sort of way, sporting long, raven hair. Together, they unloaded the moving van. You couldn’t decipher what they were saying, but you could hear the booming cadence of their voices and occasional laughter.

There is a perfect view of his driveway from your room. Beyond the picket fence, a beautiful two-story white home that had been otherwise unoccupied for nearly a decade. It’s unsurprising; you can’t quite fathom why anybody would want to live in the poorly populated outskirts, let alone relocate on their own volition. Outside of city limits, things move slower. Everyone knows everyone, and secrets often turn into idle gossip even the innocent cannot escape.

The quaint neighborhood has been your home for a lifetime, and a fresh face — his face — is the most excitement the residents have seen in years.

The next time you saw him was three days after that. You were riding your bike home from the library and noticed the horde of local women on his doorstep. Even with your headphones in, you could make out the grating nature of their boisterous voices. You couldn’t see his face, only the broad shadow of his frame as he accepted the welcoming gifts the women gave him with less than subtle eagerness.

You were admittedly intrigued by the thought of him. You knew very little about the man, other than the web of talk in town: middle-aged, moved in alone, some work in contracting. But the summers got lonely, and the fascination was a welcomed distraction.

The third time you see him is a particularly sweltering Thursday afternoon. You are thumbing the crisp pages of a book, lying horizontal across the sofa, when your father's footsteps descend the stairs.

“Still caught up in that nonsense, I see.”

Never is there an opportunity missed to berate you. To remind you that your hobbies, interests, and ambitions are foolish or beyond attainable for the life you are supposed to live.

You know what that means to him. It means taking the same, dreadful path as your mother. Marrying a man who has too much stake in the community. Giving up your job, your autonomy, to please him. A picture-perfect, Southern doll to fall into the habits of a man's pleasing. It’s why she left. That, and the incessant drinking which often led to sharp words or even sharper blows. She knew she couldn’t defy him; going against his wishes was like abandoning the law itself.

He is a proud man and unafraid to embody it. You often wonder what you may be like if you encompassed a fraction of that trait; to be unabashedly secure in oneself, so much so that it appeared he could bend the will of those that surrounded him.

Perhaps the bronze badge pinned to his chest, proudly displaying CHIEF, has something to do with his choice of demeanor.

Yes, you understand why she left him. You just can’t pinpoint why she abandoned you in the process.

It’s not nonsense, you want to scream. Calling one of the most prolific playwrights in history nonsense is confirmation enough of your father's stance in your interests, but you know better than to argue. Instead, you place the bookmark delicately between the pages. A copy of Othello. Act four, scene two. How seamlessly Shakespeare’s words paint the page, eliciting a clear image in your head:

Desdemona, the wife of the great Othello, seen both as a tragic victim and heroine. You had always favored the latter, her unyielding loyalty to her husband until her last breath — even despite his own accusations of her infidelity — something of admiration. How infatuated one must be with another, how deeply their souls are intertwined to continue to proclaim her love in the face of such aversion. You often daydream about the sort of connection it may take to maintain such sacrifice and—

It’s your father's voice pulling you from your imagination and back into reality again. You set the play down on the coffee table.

“Won’t be back till late,” he says, bending over near the front door now to lace up his boots. He’s never home early when he takes afternoon shifts. Days you look forward to. “Do me a favor and get somethin’ together for the new neighbor — Mr. Miller, I think? Been a week now. We oughta make a good impression.”

You’re unable to define why, but something about your father's mentioning of the man next door rouses your stomach. As if his existence, despite being the talk of the town, is your own hushed secret. It’s a reminder that he sees the world around you, too. That you are not contained to the stories within your fingertips.

You look up from the page you’re on to catch him in your peripheral. “I think he’s gotten plenty of gifts from our other neighb—”

“I didn’t ask for the goddamn attitude, just do it!”

It’s not his voice that startles you. It hardly ever is anymore. You expect him to yell, even when it’s uncalled for in the situation. But the sound of his palm smacking against the front door panel makes you tremble to your feet. When you look at him, his eyes are stern. Lifeless. He would rather be looking at anything else, anyone else, you think. How much his own creation had become such a burden on his precious life.

You don’t move. Simply nod your head and mutter a yes, sir under your breath. It appeases him enough for now. While he’s sober, forgiveness comes easier. You know better than to open your mouth, even if it is with the intent of basic conversation. He isn’t there to converse. He isn’t there to be your friend. Hardly your father. He’s the man of the house. In his mind, the man of the town. And how easy it is for men like him to assert themselves over the closest woman they can sink their teeth into.

It’s why he never let you go away for college.

Never let you leave.

He needed the game to feel like a predator, and you were the next best prey.

The breath lodged in your chest expels as soon as he’s out the door. Some days are better than others. Some days, he’s too preoccupied with his own meaningless life to direct his anger at you. On other days, you’re better at keeping the emotions of anguish, resentment, grief, at bay. But not today. Today, when the door latches shut and your father's cruiser revs out of the driveway, you fall back into the couch cushions and bury your face into the nearest pillow.

Today, you allow yourself to cry.

You spend the rest of the afternoon baking. Muffins are the chosen treat, and the activity is a soothing routine to distract you from your anxieties. Much to your dismay, you discover you are all out of chocolate chips. You scour the pantry and fridge alike for an alternative before happening upon a bag of frozen blueberries in the freezer. They would have to do.

Within a couple of hours, the kitchen is filled with the pleasant scent of fruit and sugar. The recipe makes a dozen, but you keep half on the counter once they cool, plating the other six and covering them in foil. You shuffle on your flip-flops, balancing the treats between the palms of your hands as you begin the short journey across the yard. The sun is blinding and the heat suffocating, your skin instantly missing the comfort of the air conditioning.

It isn’t until you make it up his driveway, stand before his door, and knock three times that nerves find you. Their origin still remains unknown, but real is the frantic beat of your heart against your chest when you hear footsteps beyond the door's threshold. Then, the unlatching of the lock. And finally, the deep timbre of a somewhat distressed voice.

“Tellin’ y’all, I really don’t need any more of that cornbread — oh.” You don’t have time to acknowledge his unabashed complaint. You’re too busy gawking.

The man before you now, despite his image through the window just days prior, is not the man you expect. He’s staring at you, eyes a bit wide through the panes of the black-rimmed glasses that rest on a curved nose, as if he had not expected to see you on his doorstep, either.

You take him in for a moment. Soft brown eyes peer into your very soul, the signs of age lining them in faint wrinkles and peppered freckles. He’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a pale blue button-up, the picture of refinement. Save for his hair that curls up in odd directions, as if he had run his hands through it too many times for the product to stick. He’s tall; you realize very quickly that you are looking up at him rather than at him. And he down at you, the momentary shock melting into something more subdued.

Oh god, he isn’t just handsome. He’s terribly, horribly, painstakingly beautiful.

You blink at him rapidly, clearing your throat when you register that your awestruck silence isn’t boding well for a first impression.

“Um, h-hi, Mr. Miller. I’m so sorry to bother you,” you finally stammer, offering him your name in the process. “I live next door—”

“I know,” he interjects swiftly. You hope he doesn’t hear the way your words catch in your throat. It’s not rude, nor creepy, but matter of fact. He’s noticed you as you have him. Though it’s much less enticing to him, you think, as mapping out your neighbors in a new town seems common practice. Nonetheless, the idea excites you.

“You’re, uh…you’re the Chief's daughter, yeah?” And just as quickly as the thrill fills you, it’s drained to the bone.

The Chief’s daughter. Of course, what did you expect? For your identity to not be reduced to your father's stake in this town?

“Yeah,” you answer, mustering up the politest smile you can find. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Huh,” is all he breathes, and then, his eyes are darting down to the plate in your hands. You hope he doesn’t pick up on the way they tremble.

“Oh!” you chirp, following his gaze. “They’re, um. They’re muffins. We wanted to drop off something to welcome you in, but…” you trail off, peering up at him again through your lashes to find he’s already staring. The quiet stoicism he displays while studying you makes you uneasy; not by means of discomfort, but nearly eliciting a sick sort of fascination.

You have never seen a man exhibit power as delicately as he does.

Your eyes scramble back for your hands, finding it difficult to maintain direct eye contact. “But I – I told my father you probably already have so many other gifts to get through, so if you – if you don’t want them…”

There you go again. Looking up only to be lured into the beast's trance. You try to decipher his eyes, remarkably dark even in the unforgiving sun. Yet despite their color, there remains a gentleness. Warm, welcoming, perhaps even tired.

You watch the way his brows scrunch slightly above his eyes. “You make ‘em?” he asks after a moment, raising one brow.

You nod. “From scratch.”

“Chocolate?”

“No, blueberry,” you frown, but he’s grinning at you then.

“My favorite.” You aren’t sure if it's his words or the way the dimple pops out on his cheek when he smiles that settles you, but regardless, you’re grateful. He looks younger when he smiles, you think. Then, you find yourself questioning just how old he even is—

He’s reaching out for the plate now, nudging the door open the rest of the way with his hip. His entire body takes up the door frame, and you have to work hard to not let your eyes rake over him. Luckily, you have something else to distract you: his hands. They brush yours when he takes the plate. Rough, thick fingers just barely grazing over your skin.

“You saw all them folks out here the last couple days then, huh?” It takes you a moment to register that he’s speaking to you, asking you a question. The plate is stable in his hands now, much to your appreciation.

You breathe out a shaky chuckle, nodding. Your hands clasp bashfully behind your back now that they are free, fiddling with your fingers to ebb the nerves that, regardless of how long you stand there under the intense sun and his even more intense eyes, would not cease.

“Yeah, I did,” you answer honestly. “But I’m not surprised,” you find yourself adding, tilting your head up at him. You’re finding it’s surprisingly easy to speak with him. “If there’s anything the women in this town love, it's shopping, gossip, and something new and pretty to sink their teeth into.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh, the low vibration making your chest flutter in delight. He throws his head back a little bit before shaking it. Then, he returns his eyes to you. This time, a dash of implication clouds them.

“S’that what I am?” he asks. He must see the confusion on your face. “Somethin’ new and pretty?” he clarifies, grin growing wider when the confusion is replaced by mortification.

You feel your cheeks scald with heat, hotter than the sun above.

“Wha—I, well no. No, no I just meant—” You clamp your sputtering lips shut as soon as he breaks into another fit of laughter, wanting nothing more than to melt into a pathetic puddle right then and there.

“I’m sorry,” you try again, flustered. You bring your hands from behind your back up to cover your cheeks. The apology is a conditioned response. “I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean–”

“Hey,” he beckons you softly, and you dare to look. You’re glad you do because he’s eyeing you almost apologetically, balancing the plate in one hand while he uses the other to lean against the doorframe. “M’just teasin’ you. Don’t gotta apologize, you’re sweet for sayin’ all that.”

Sweet.

He thinks you’re sweet. You don’t say anything else, just nod and stifle another awkward bough of laughter, feeling sufficiently embarrassed. And sweaty. You’ve been standing outside way too long, but for some reason, you can’t locate any impending desire to end the interaction. You think it may be the most you’ve talked to someone other than your father all summer.

“What about you then?” he suddenly questions. It appears he isn’t ready for it to be over, either.

You furrow your brows at him. “What about me?”

There’s that smile, again. This time, it reaches so far that the crinkles at the corners of his eyes become more pronounced. “What do you love? Assuming it ain’t the same as the rest of the women in town.”

You’re certain now that your belly has overflowed with the budding warmth. Growing stronger, more intense, and prominent every moment you spend in his presence. How mundane a task it is – speaking to you, directly to you with genuine interest and pure fascination – and yet, you’re not sure you’ve ever experienced it as real and raw as right now.

“Um…” You’re looking for the right words, a bit too lost in the murky sea of his eyes to find them. “Books, old films, art. You know, boring, meaningless stuff like that,” you answer, shrugging. It’s meant to be sarcastic, but you get the sense he understands the validity of the statement. How a town like this could suck the life out of anything that didn’t fit a cookie-cutter standard.

He doesn’t seem to fit it, either.

He observes you for a moment, and you think you see the path of his eyes do a once over the entirety of your body. Is it the first time he’s done so? Or just the first one you’ve caught?

“Well, that answer alone may just make ya the most interestin’ person in this town,” he finally concludes, voice dropping only a few decibels lower, but you notice the shift. Notice the way sincerity floods his features, an invisible string of curiosity and magnetism drawing your gaze to him. This time when you maintain eye contact, you don’t feel inclined to break it. In fact, there is an unanticipated comfort in it. A realization that he is seeing you, just you in all that you are, for the first time. And maybe he even likes what he sees. More so then the women flooding his doorstep the past week, at least.

His lips part, looking as though he is about to speak again when his phone rings from within his pocket.

The unspoken moment is broken by his scrambling for it, careful to set down your plate of treats at the entryway table before fishing it out of his pocket. “Shit,” you hear him mutter under his breath as he examines the screen, tender eyes returning to the same, focused nature they had taken when he first opened the door.

“M’really sorry, I gotta take his. It’s work,” he explains, looking at you apologetically.

You shake your head. “No, no. It’s — it’s alright. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time, anyway.” Your stomach drops upon the loss of his attention, quickly discovering how much you were enjoying it. It frightens you.

“Thank you again for the muffins,” he grumbles to you, but his eyes are on the device, rapidly tapping a message to whoever may be trying to get ahold of him.

You do your very best to not take offense to the distraction. It’s not his fault, he would’ve kept talking to you if he could’ve, you convince yourself. It still does little to shroud the disappointment.

“No problem,” you reply as you begin to back away down his front porch, not wishing to distract him any further. “It was good to meet you, Mr. Miller,” you say as you turn on your heels, returning back to the role of casual, kind, and welcoming next-door neighbor. Lost is the moment of fantasy, of fiction, you had allowed yourself to entertain.

But then, he’s surprising you all over again. “Joel,” he calls out, right when your feet hit the pavement leading up to his porch.

“Hm?” You whip your head around, not entirely sure if you made up hearing his voice again altogether.

“Joel,” he repeats when you face him, his eyes already on you. “Just Joel is fine, darlin’.”

You nearly lose your balance.

“Joel,” you test the name out on your lips, loving the way it sounds, honeyed and masculine. He gives you a final nod of his head, the shape of his smile a picture you capture and store away in memory as he sends you a single wave and shuts the door behind him. Then, with great difficulty, you force yourself to turn around again and carry yourself forward. A sort of haze seems to settle over your mind as you recount the moment prior.

Darlin’. He called you darlin'.

The word buzzes in your ears during the short trek across the yard, having to focus intently on the ground in front of you to keep from toppling over.

Darlin’.

It follows you throughout the entire night, in the shower where you turn the handle to cold in hopes of relieving your burning skin.

Darlin’.

It shamelessly echoes in your mind while you lay in bed that night, urging the hand that slips beneath your night shorts and into your damp underwear. You feel your entire body tighten when your fingers make contact with your core, slick and awaiting. The fullness of your two fingers sinking inside of you sends your feet fluttering into the air, toes curling in delight. You gnaw on your bottom lip to keep the soft whimpers from ringing too loud, worrying the front door could open at a moment's notice.

Darlin’.

You hear it like a chant, a prayer, coaxing you closer to the impending edge until you’re tearing your fingers out of your cunt and feverishly circling your pulsing clit. You bring your opposite hand up to your mouth, biting into your palm as the orgasm washes over you, back arching and thighs littered with tiny tremors. And when you come down, collapsing back into your mattress, with wide eyes and heavy breaths going up towards the ceiling, it is no longer the summer heat causing sweat to pool at your temples.

You think of him as you fall asleep. Warm brown eyes and scruffy cheeks. Broad frame and a presence that should instill fear, but quite the contrary. That’s what scared you the most; how inviting he was, how safe he seemed.

You don’t need any of your stories to aid your imagination tonight.

You hear it in your dreams.

Darlin’, darlin’, darlin’.

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namorslut · 6 months

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Writing Advice: Third Person Point of View - The Problem with Head-Hopping

A personal pet peeve in fanfic—and even some published books, unfortunately—is an author head-hopping.

I understand that not everyone learned about writing point of view in primary school, and many fanfic writers are new to writing and might not even realize they're writing head-hopping.

So, this post is an educational means for those who are interested in learning how to improve their writing.

I'm going to give a quick overview of point of view, a breakdown of third person point of view, and how to spot head-hopping in your writing.

What Is Point of View?

Point of view (POV) is the perspective (voice) from which a story is narrated.

There are three POVs.

First person

Second person

Third person

Third Person: Limited vs. Omniscient

In third person POV, the author is narrating the story through third-person pronouns (she, he, they).

Third person POV is subdivided into two categories: third person limited and third person omniscient.

Third Person Limited

In third person limited, the narrator is an external observer who knows the thoughts and feelings of ONE character at a time.

Here's an example from R.F. Kuang's, The Poppy War, page 341:

The Cike were stretched to their limit, especially Rin. Each moment not spent on an operation was spent on patrol. And when she was off duty, she trained with Altan.

Note that this paragraph—the entire book, actually—is from Rin's POV. We have access to Rin's feelings, thoughts, and observations throughout the book, while also seeing how other characters are acting.

But we are only in Rin's head. We do not have access to the thoughts and feelings of other characters. This is third person limited POV.

Third Person Omniscient

In third person omniscient, the narrator is an all-knowing observer who has access to the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of ALL characters in the story.

Here's an example from Jane Austen's, Pride and Prejudice, page 104:

As they drove to Mr. Gardiner’s door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever.

Notice how we have access to both Jane and Elizabeth's 1) physical locations, and 2) thoughts. Even though Elizabeth is in a carriage and Jane is inside a house, the narrator is all-knowing and can narrate both of them at the same time.

The problem I see from many fanfic writers: they attempt to write in third person omniscient when they're actually writing shoddy third person limited, constantly switching between the POVs of multiple characters.

This is called head-hopping.

Head-Hopping vs. Omniscient

Head-hopping is when an author shifts between the POVs of multiple characters without a scene break. Meaning, the author is inside Character A's head but abruptly—and randomly—shares the thoughts, feelings, and/or observations of Character B.

Here's an example:

Kathy arrived at the cafe in hopes of showing Brittany her completed sweater. It was the first time she had knitted and she was eager to share her hard work with her best friend. Brittany took one look at the sweater and cringed. She hated it, but she didn't want to hurt Kathy's feelings. She didn't know what to say.

In this example, we are inside both Kathy and Brittany's heads. Both characters have distinctive voices, and because of this, the narration of the story is inconsistent.

It's jarring to read, and pulls you out of the story.

Here's the same example written through omniscient POV:

Kathy arrived at the cafe with the intent to show Brittany her completed sweater. After hours of hard work, the opinion of her best friend was important. At Kathy's approach, Brittany observed the sweater in her friend's hand and wrinkled her nose. The sweater was hideous.

In this example, we are inside the head of the narrator. The narrator is telling the story through its voice, rather than the individual voices of Kathy and Brittany.

Remember: Omniscient means the reader is inside the NARRATOR's head, not the characters'.

The Scene Break to Denote POV Switch

Back to my definition of head-hopping: Head-hopping occurs when a writer suddenly switches POV without a scene break.

Like the first example of Kathy and Brittany—there is no scene break between their thoughts. If the author wanted to write from both Kathy and Brittany's perspective, the author would have to include a physical break to alert the reader to a switch in POV. See below:

Kathy arrived at the cafe in hopes of showing Brittany her completed sweater. It was the first time she had knitted and she was eager to share her hard work with her best friend. ~~~~~~~~~~ Brittany took one look at the sweater and cringed. She hated it, but she didn't want to hurt Kathy's feelings. She didn't know what to say.

The squiggly lines demonstrate a switch in POV, and the scene would then continue in Brittany's POV. [Please note that a single paragraph space (as seen in the first example of Kathy and Brittany) is not a scene break. It is a paragraph break, and therefore cannot be used to demonstrate a switch in POV.]

You can write multiple POVS throughout a story. These will all be in third person limited POVs.

For example, each chapter in Rick Riordan's Heroes of Olympus series is dedicated to ONE character. Throughout that chapter, the reader is inside the head—reading the thoughts, feelings, and observations—of that singular character.

Individual chapters can also have multiple POVs (again, these are third person limited POVs). These are denoted by a divider or additional paragraph space.

For example, Timothy Zahn's Thrawn switches between the POVs of multiple characters in each chapter. The switch between his characters' POV is shown by an additional paragraph space.

Why Should You Care about Head-Hopping?

If writing head-hopping makes you happy, then keep at it. It's fanfic, and most readers are so desperate for content they don't care.

But, if you're interested in improving your writing, here are a few reasons why head-hopping is problematic:

It's jarring to the reader, and takes them out of the story. Frequent head-hopping can confuse readers as they struggle to keep track of whose perspective they are currently experiencing. It disrupts the flow of the narrative and can make it challenging for readers to form a strong connection with any one character.

It makes it harder for readers to truly immerse themselves in your story. Consistent use of a single POV allows readers to immerse themselves in the story's world through the eyes of a specific character. Head-hopping disrupts this immersion by constantly pulling readers out of one character's perspective and into another's.

It hinders character development. When the narrative constantly shifts between characters, there may not be enough time or focus on any one character's growth and development.

It takes away the emotional impact of the scene. Head-hopping can prevent readers from fully empathizing with or understanding any particular character's emotions, motivations, and inner conflicts.

Even well-established authors struggle to write omniscient without head-hopping. It's a nuanced subject that can be confusing to understand and difficult to overcome.

Again, this post is simply to inform writers about third person point of view and the subtle differences between its subdivisions. It’s not an attack on fanfic writers.

153 notes · View notes

namorslut · 6 months

Text

Writing Advice: Third Person Point of View - The Problem with Head-Hopping

A personal pet peeve in fanfic—and even some published books, unfortunately—is an author head-hopping.

I understand that not everyone learned about writing point of view in primary school, and many fanfic writers are new to writing and might not even realize they're writing head-hopping.

So, this post is an educational means for those who are interested in learning how to improve their writing.

I'm going to give a quick overview of point of view, a breakdown of third person point of view, and how to spot head-hopping in your writing.

What Is Point of View?

Point of view (POV) is the perspective (voice) from which a story is narrated.

There are three POVs.

First person

Second person

Third person

Third Person: Limited vs. Omniscient

In third person POV, the author is narrating the story through third-person pronouns (she, he, they).

Third person POV is subdivided into two categories: third person limited and third person omniscient.

Third Person Limited

In third person limited, the narrator is an external observer who knows the thoughts and feelings of ONE character at a time.

Here's an example from R.F. Kuang's, The Poppy War, page 341:

The Cike were stretched to their limit, especially Rin. Each moment not spent on an operation was spent on patrol. And when she was off duty, she trained with Altan.

But we are only in Rin's head. We do not have access to the thoughts and feelings of other characters. This is third person limited POV.

Third Person Omniscient

In third person omniscient, the narrator is an all-knowing observer who has access to the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of ALL characters in the story.

Here's an example from Jane Austen's, Pride and Prejudice, page 104:

This is called head-hopping.

Head-Hopping vs. Omniscient

Here's an example:

In this example, we are inside both Kathy and Brittany's heads. Both characters have distinctive voices, and because of this, the narration of the story is inconsistent.

It's jarring to read, and pulls you out of the story.

Here's the same example written through omniscient POV:

In this example, we are inside the head of the narrator. The narrator is telling the story through its voice, rather than the individual voices of Kathy and Brittany.

Remember: Omniscient means the reader is inside the NARRATOR's head, not the characters'.

The Scene Break to Denote POV Switch

Back to my definition of head-hopping: Head-hopping occurs when a writer suddenly switches POV without a scene break.

You can write multiple POVS throughout a story. These will all be in third person limited POVs.

Individual chapters can also have multiple POVs (again, these are third person limited POVs). These are denoted by a divider or additional paragraph space.

For example, Timothy Zahn's Thrawn switches between the POVs of multiple characters in each chapter. The switch between his characters' POV is shown by an additional paragraph space.

Why Should You Care about Head-Hopping?

If writing head-hopping makes you happy, then keep at it. It's fanfic, and most readers are so desperate for content they don't care.

But, if you're interested in improving your writing, here are a few reasons why head-hopping is problematic:

It hinders character development. When the narrative constantly shifts between characters, there may not be enough time or focus on any one character's growth and development.

It takes away the emotional impact of the scene. Head-hopping can prevent readers from fully empathizing with or understanding any particular character's emotions, motivations, and inner conflicts.

Even well-established authors struggle to write omniscient without head-hopping. It's a nuanced subject that can be confusing to understand and difficult to overcome.

Again, this post is simply to inform writers about third person point of view and the subtle differences between its subdivisions. It’s not an attack on fanfic writers.

153 notes · View notes