CHAPTER ELEVEN
POINT OF VIEW:
SECOND PERSON AND THE HANGMAN
“Just wait till your father gets home, young man!” said Mom, rolling her eyes in exasperation.
I was really going to get it. She'd tell Dad and I'd be lucky to see anything but my bedroom walls for weeks. More likely, this time I'd probably swing, twisting slowly in the wind.
Hours crawled by. Finally, the whirr of his Pontiac sliding into the driveway. Please God, let him suddenly remember something back at the office. Slam. Clomp clomp clomp.
Murmurs downstairs, then: “Come down for dinner, children.” False sweetness in my executioner's voice. They're always nice right before they stretch your neck and watch your eyeballs pop. My sisters and I slid into our chairs, me reluctantly, them bright with expectation.
A casserole had never looked so gray, maybe tinged a little green. She let the minutes stack as Dad doused his cottage cheese with Tabasco sauce. I could hear the rope being flung over a high branch, checked for strength, the noose tested. Finally, she spoke: “Well, young man, you've had quite a day today, haven't you?”
Aarrgh. That tightening sensation, breath coming harder.
“You're eleven years old, and should know better, shouldn't you?”
They always start by telling you how old you are.
“First, you sneak the BB gun out of the closet, where it is supposed to stay unless you have supervision!”
Dad chewed his cottage cheese and scowled, a dot of Tabasco sauce on his chin.
Why doesn't she just tell him? Why does she always have to say it to me?
“You could have stayed inside,” she continued. “But oh no, mister smarty pants, mister grown-up. You have to take it outside and shoot it! Were you aiming at Mister Nelson's window, trying to break it?”
Actually, I was trying to kill a bird. Never even noticed the window.
“You hit his living room mirror, too, didn't you?”
Dad sat bolt upright, as though he felt someone going after his wallet.
She knew the facts, and I knew the facts. The girls knew the facts. Dad was the only one who didn't know, so why was she telling me instead of him? More pleasure in the execution?
“And what did he say it would cost? One hundred and seventy-two dollars, that's what!” She sat back, sagging and weak from the burden of having me for a son. My sisters flushed with delight, pulling for the hangman.
Dad reddening and rising. The feeling of my feet leaving the floor, a tightening in my throat, and the sound of the wind in the trees …
Sometimes, lyrics sound like Mom. They seem to be talking directly to you, but are really telling someone else what you already know. Like this:
I met you on a Saturday
Your hair was wound in braids
You walked up and you said hello
And then you asked my name
This sounds unnatural because you already knows all this stuff. The verse is trying to do two things at once: Tell the audience the facts, while pretending to carry on a conversation with you. Technically, we have a point of view problem: second person trying to do first or third person's job. Don't give the facts to someone who already should know them!
Though it's tempting to try to give the audience facts by letting them eavesdrop on a conversation, be careful. You might end up with something as stilted and unnatural sounding as the little gem above. First-person narrative would sound closer to what's really happening:
I met her on a Saturday
Her hair was wound in braids
She walked up and she said hello
And then she asked my name
Third-person narrative is better, too:
He met her on a Saturday
Her hair was wound in braids
She walked up and she said hello
And then she asked his name
Moving into first- or third-person narrative is one way to solve the problem. But sometimes you may be committed to second person. In that case, you have to find a way to make the conversation sound more natural. Do you really want the audience to know that it was Saturday and she had braids and she made the first move? If not, just drop the unnatural verse and write a better, more natural one. If the facts are important, you have to say them naturally, like you would in a real conversation:
I never felt anything quite as strong
As I did that Saturday night we met
You looked so fresh with your hair in braids
And I felt like singing
When you walked right up and asked my name
Including personal information that you couldn't have known makes the conversation more natural. Or this:
I still remember the Saturday night we met
Your hair so pretty, up in braids
You blew me away when you said hello
And asked me, “What's your name?”
Both of these versions work because they include the singer's reactions to the facts. Okay, so it's not great writing. Even so, it still sounds more natural, and once you know what approach to take, you can always polish up the language. The second version also includes the old “do you remember” ploy for introducing information. Put it in your own bag of tricks.
No matter what the point of view is, mothers will always have their modes of torment. This natural use of second person is maddeningly effective. Any mother would be proud to use it.
The point is simple: Make second person conversational. If you want to give the audience a history lesson, either put it in third person or find a natural way to list your facts. If you've gotta swing, make it quick and natural.
As a matter of habit, you should try out all three points of view — first, second, and third person — for each lyric you write from now until you die, just to make sure you are using the best possible one for each song. Read your lyric aloud, each time substituting the different pronouns to see which you like best. Sometimes, a change in point of view will raise a bland lyric from the dead.