You enjoyed Season 1 of Space Love Bunny Terror.
One day your best friend says, "I've started watching Season 2 of Space Love Bunny Terror!"
You had no idea a second season was out, so you say...
You enjoyed Season 1 of Space Love Bunny Terror.
One day your best friend says, "I've started watching Season 2 of Space Love Bunny Terror!"
You had no idea a second season was out, so you say...
Okay there's a 74% chance you trolled the answer, but we think the most likely response would be:
Because we all want to know what is good and bad, what's worth doing and what we should avoid.
In short, we evaluate and judge many experiences in our lives.
Just as we value and judge things in real life, we also do it when following stories.
For instance, just how bad are these pirates?
A more villainous-looking lot never hung in a row on Execution dock.
Pretty bad! Thanks, narrator, for letting us know!
Evaluations like this aren't just a nice-to-have in a story; they can be critical for how we make sense of what's happening.
For example, what do you think of Stanley in this next snippet?
Stanley was arrested later that day.
He looked at the guard who sat slumped in his seat and wondered if he had fallen asleep. The guard was wearing sunglasses, so Stanley couldn’t see his eyes.
Is he good or bad?
It's hard to judge from the details we're given.
We know he's been arrested, but for what?
The specifics would change our opinion, right?
Luckily, the narrator immediately jumps in:
Stanley was not a bad kid. He was innocent of the crime for which he was convicted. He’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
In the narrator's view:
These are all subjective judgments.
And we're happy to have them because these judgments help us decide how we as readers feel about Stanley's arrest.
But here's an interesting technical question: who is making these judgments? Stanley? The narrator?
That's what we'll explore in this lesson.
This lesson has ~11 writing exercises.
To give you some inspiration for the exercises, we suggest using one of the images below (otherwise find your own or take inspiration from your life and imagination).
Once you're confident you have a character you want to follow and a world you want to explore, we can get started.
In this lesson, one of the important things we'll talk about is whose opinion is this: the character or the narrator?
To make it easy, we'll start with examples of first person narration, in which the narrator and the character are the same person.
(Be aware that all of this applies to characters in third person narration as well.)
How does this narrator feel about growing up with younger brothers?
Having younger brothers, we spent much of our time outside, playing games, riding our bikes, swimming in the river.
What do they think?
We don't know: they don't tell us their opinion, they only tell us what happened.
We can guess their opinion from our own experience: if you liked playing outside, then this description probably sounds good to you, but we don't know for sure.
But let's look at the same snippet with more context:
It was great fun having younger brothers: we spent so much of our time outside, playing games, riding our bikes, swimming in the river. The camaraderie we had with each other was great.
Now we know, because the narrator tells us—it was great.
(Also, you might notice that the snippet feels more alive because we're more directly in touch with the narrator's feelings.)
What does this narrator think of their clothes?
We were so pleased to receive the new gowns: de Vries had used the plushest fabrics and stuffed them with pleats and folds. The pose we struck in our sitting room was majesterial.
What does this narrator think of the skating at number 68?
The best skateboarding was in the empty pool at 68: smooth concrete, high sides, varied curves, and a lip that wouldn't cut you off. Any time I could get alone in there was the best.
So a character can like or not like something.
But what causes them to feel that way?
When we say something is good or bad, we're basing that on an underlying set of values.
In this snippet, the narrator likes athletic training—but why do they think it's good?
What kept me going was the empowerment of it. I had found a way to show what was possible outside and alongside my disability. The thing that I loved so much about what I was doing was that I could present ability alongside disability – and that is a whole other kind of cool.
The narrator values empowerment. They probably like anything that provides empowerment.
And they say that, in athletics specifically, they could present ability alongside disability—which is even more cool than normal empowerment.
What values determine how the narrator judges their clothes?
What we most loved about our new clothes was the opportunity to make our neighbours look like trash. We'd been competing with the den Houts since they moved in, but what we really wanted was the chance to take them out of the game once and for all—and these new outfits were like barrels of gunpowder waiting to go off.
What values drive the narrator's attitude toward skating?
It's all about the weightlessness. All you need is a plank and some wheels and you can fly. When I feel like life is too heavy, I love to glide out from underneath it—it's easiest way to escape.
We've seen narrators making valuations of degree, as in: this is good, that's great, that's bad, that's worse.
But there's another type of evaluation we do, which involves classifying things in discrete buckets.
Another way we can express judgments and values about the world is by categorising our experiences.
For example, how does the narrator in this snippet classify their behaviour in their early years at school?
I didn’t really get into that much mischief at school, but I did make some mistakes. I remember once I went on a field trip to the zoo and the teacher specifically told us not to make eye contact with the gorilla. But… well, me and a friend thought it would be a good idea to do the exact opposite of what we were told, so we climbed up on the ledge, looked into the enclosure and made eye contact with the gorilla.
How does Frederik categorise his relationship with his neighbours?
It was less a rivalry than a vendetta. This wasn't about trying to outdo each other from season to season, it was about destroying the den Houts so utterly that they should be shamed into moving to Belgium.
How does Cody categorise her style of skating?
Despite spending most of my time in the pool, I'm more of a cruiser than a vert. One time I went to a comp and faceplanted on my first drop-in. I came dead last with an 8-year old who was padded out like the Michelin man. But I'd say I looked pretty good cruising home.
Categorisation is interesting because it requires thinking about one thing in terms of something else.
For example, on this page we had to think about staring at a gorilla in terms of mischief or mistakes.
But once we start thinking of things in terms of other things, we open the door to the wild possibilities of metaphor.
Another way to classify things is in terms of what we think they are like—which takes us into the world of simile and metaphor.
For instance, in what terms does this narrator view their constantly-complaining neighbour?
She was a master of the art of graphic description; groaning, gasping, doubling up in agony, stamping about the rooms, she would give us such a realistic picture of her suffering that we would find our own stomachs aching in sympathy.
How does this narrator see his dog?
Mr Gustaf, as much as I love him, is a total poop machine: gassy, sneaky, straining, and staining, stashing his noxious deposits in every nook of our house, until he creates a miasma so poisonous that we must pay the City Watch an extra thirty guilders to come in, scrape it up, and then drop it into the water barrels outside the den Houts' house.
How does this narrator see the pool at the abandoned school?
The pool at the abandoned school was the ultimate horror movie set: rectangular, straight, no curves, terrible for skating, but a deep end full of such rank water and rotting garbage that you felt sure it had to contain an unspeakable monster, one that would grab you with a slimy tentacle and drag you down before your screams could get the attention of the distant neighbours.
You might notice we're getting further and further away from expressing an evaluation directly: we started by saying things we good or bad, and now we're talking about association and metaphor.
But we can go further: how can you tell me your opinion without telling me your opinion?
So far we've seen examples where narrators tell us what they think: "This is great, that sucks, I live for the weekend, vegemite is a crime," and so on.
But we can also infer how a narrator evaluates or judges purely from their emotional reaction.
How does the narrator in this snippet feel when they approach the village?
I always get this burst of excitement when we are nearing the village because after we pass a school the country smooths out and to my left I see a dusty soccer field and the familiar faces of children who have grown a few feet taller since I was last there – and maybe some of them are in school now or have morphed into teenagers.
Based on his emotional reaction, how does Frederik evaluate his hat?
I feel a glow of satisfaction whenever I place my giant black hat atop my bald turnip of a head, and hand in hand with Ilse, crowned in her white lace wimple, we parade up and down the footpath outside the den Houts, encouraging Mr Gustaf to do his business, though he always seems to hold It in until we got home, when he skulks off to do it in a basket of eggs or someone's shoe.
How does this Cody evaluate dropping into an empty pool?
There's a tingle before I go over the edge and then a deep jello-like thrill as I drop down, catch the surface, and then glide up into the rim, from where I can do loop after loop, like the perpetual motion machine they say science could never build.
These narrators have had lots of opinions.
Do they ever change their mind?
Stories are often about people learning from their experiences.
One way we show that we've learned is by changing our opinions, judgments, or values.
How has the narrator in this snippet changed?
When you stare at a gorilla, it actually means you are challenging them. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time – I was just doing it because they told us not to – but I later learnt that’s the way gorillas communicate with each other. And so, on that day, the gorilla started beating his chest, running around and throwing bamboo at us. We just laughed because we got a reaction. We thought it was funny. But then the teacher saw what we were doing and we got in trouble. It wasn’t until I found out more about gorillas that I realised it was actually very bad behaviour on our part.
What did Frederik learn about fashion, and how did that change what his attitude and perspective?
Fashion, it turns out, is a weapon. I'd had no idea. My mother and father were devout peat merchants, with no love of ornament. All my life I believed my trusty black sack to be all the clothing a man should need; I even wore it on our wedding day. But once I began browsing the magazines at the merchants' guild gentlemen's lounge, I found myself cultivating an interest first in shoes, then stockings and hose, and finally all elements of couture, an interest which began with art and ended in war. I realised I had not only been depriving myself of one of life's great pleasures, but also missing opportunities to use the most subtle siege engine for toppling one's social enemies.
What did Cody learn about wrist guards and knee pads, and how did that change her attitude?
74% of all skateboarding injuries are on your extremities: hands, elbows, knees. Head injuries are rare. The biggest risk is splitting your kneecap or the delicate pea-sized bones in your wrist. Because I like cruising and I take it pretty easy, I'd always thought I was fine to ride without protection (obviously I was willing to put up with the normal scrapes and bruises). But after Aiden stacked it at Enora Mall, snapping both his wrists and spending two months having to hold a juicebox with his elbows, I decided that I wasn't safe so much as lucky and maybe guards and pads were a good idea after all.
And that's it! We're finished with this lesson! 🎉
So it turns out that some narrators lie. 😤
In all the examples we've looked at so far, we've assumed the narrator is telling the truth.
But sometimes narrators lie, exaggerate, obscure, or simply misunderstand what they are experiencing.
If that's the case, then we, as the audience, can't rely on their version of the truth.
We call these unreliable narrators.
We won't go into them in this lesson because it's almost impossible to tell if a narrator is lying (or even just wrong) from an isolated snippet: you usually the need the full context of the story.
We're just pointing out that they exist.
Or do they...? 🤔
A bit of literary history: an iconic unreliable narrator is Baron Munchausen.
Munchausen was an 18th century German character based on a real-life baron who was famous for his improbable life stories, including his account of riding a cannonball shot from a cannon during a war with a Turkish sultan.
(Baron Munchausen, by Oskar Herrfurth)
Do not trust anything this man says. ☝️
So far we've been evaluating in first person.
Now let's switch to third person.
(An illustration for 1984 by Jonathon Burton)
Everything we discussed about valuing and judging in first person applies to equally to third person point of view.
But there is a crucial difference.
In first person point of view stories, we only have one perspective because the narrator is the point of view character: everything is seen through their eyes and judged according to their values.
But in third person point of view stories, we have two perspectives: the character and the narrator.
This means there are two people who can judge things in the story, which can create some interesting possibilities, because they may not always agree.
Let's look at some examples.
In third person, characters can say what they think about a situation and the narrator can simply report what they say.
For example, here are two characters who disagree:
Bod looked up at Silas, pleadingly, but there was no sympathy on Silas's face. He picked up his bag and said, "You will be in good hands with Miss Lupescu, Bod. I am sure that the two of you will get on."
"We won't!" said Bod. "She's horrible!"
What are Frederik and Ilse disagreeing about?
"You mean the mirror my grandmother gave us?" Frederik said, pointing at the shield-like disc above their bed. "It's a priceless heirloom!"
"It's trash, I hate it, and I want it gone," said Ilse.
Cody and Alonso both have opinions, but are they agreeing or disagreeing?
Cody shook the trucks, roughly, then handed the board back to Alonso. "Your bushings are done, bro. You need to swap 'em before you bust a knee."
"I don't have any money," said Alonso. "It sucks."
It's one thing to report what a character says, but what about describing what they think or feel?
In third person subjective point of view, the narrator has direct access to the character's interior world and can describe their thoughts and feelings.
This kind of interior description starts to sound a lot like first person narration, just with different pronouns:
From behind, he could hear something howl once more and it occurred to him that anything that could terrify the ghoul-folk must itself be even more terrifying than he could imagine, and for a moment he stopped stabbing with the screw—what if he fell from the sack into the jaws of some evil beast? But at least if he died, thought Bod, he would have died as himself, with all his memories, knowing who his parents were, who Silas was, even who Miss Lupescu was.
That was good.
What does Frederik think about Theo van den Hout?
Out the window he could see Theo van den Hout parading in the street wearing a brown felt suit that made him look like an unwashed potato with jewellery. What a dull and clueless man, he thought—what on earth made him think this outfit was impressive? His tailor had to have been a drunk, and his wife perhaps had grown tired enough of him that she was encouraging him towards self-destruction.
Which was perfect.
What does Cody think about the abandoned swimming pool?
In the choked garbage at the bottom of the pool, she saw something move. The moon warbled on the black surface of the water. There couldn’t be anything in there, she thought. What would live in that rank and rotting sludge? A toad? A snake? It couldn't be anything dangerous or evil. Nothing with an intention to slither out and grab her ankle. That was an irrational fear she had, created by the dark and the silence and the eerie sense of isolation.
Really, everything was fine. Completely fine.
At this distance, the narrator describes the character's thoughts in much the same way and that the character might describe themselves.
What happens if the narrator takes a step back, and starts to describe the character in the narrator's words?
A quick note for this page
The ideas on this page are subtle. If you get confused, hang in there and do your best.
Then, once you've completed the following page, come back and review this page and see if it clicks.
In the previous example, the narrator dived inside the character and more or less reported what they were saying to themselves, almost like a verbatim report.
But if the narrator takes a step back, we start to see an interesting effect.
Look at the highlighted evaluations in this snippet and ask yourself, whose opinion is this?
The crocodile passed him, but not another living thing, not a sound, not a movement; and yet he knew well that sudden death might be at the next tree, or stalking him from behind.
He swore this terrible oath: “Hook or me this time.”
Now he crawled forward like a snake; and again, erect, he darted across a space on which the moonlight played, one finger on his lip and his dagger at the ready. He was frightfully happy.
In this example. Frederik speculates on the likely impact of his wife's new dress.
Which opinions are Frederick's own thoughts, and which are from the narrator's perspective?
Frederik gazed at his wife's beautiful dress and admired how obvious it would be to all observers just how expensive—how breathtakingly extravagant—was the entire confection.
Van den Hout's wife would beat him with their cook's bucket, and the stupid man would break down into hopeless sobs and admit once and for all that Frederik Jansen was the all-round superior man. He was embarrassingly pleased with himself.
Which evaluations are Cody's and which are the narrator's?
From the black pool arose a tangled nightmarish thing, with splayed horns, greasy hair, and foglamp eyes, which it cast over the garden, searching.
Cody shrank behind the lawn chair, which offered scant cover.
As the monster climbed out of the pool, Cody crab-walked sideways, not taking her eyes off it, skateboard held in front of her like a shield, working her way towards the side gate. She was mildly terrified.
How are you going? Hanging in there?
What we've seen is that it's possible—actually inevitable—for the narrator to have their own opinions about elements of the story.
The snippets on this page have been subtle because the narrator's opinions have lined up well with what we'd expect the characters to think.
But what happens when they disagree?
In third person, the narrator can have their own opinion about characters and events in the story.
For instance, in Peter Pan, Smee thinks of himself as a terrifying pirate who should be feared and hated by all.
But what does the narrator think of Smee?
There was little sound, and none agreeable save the whir of the ship’s sewing machine at which Smee sat, ever industrious and obliging, the essence of the commonplace, pathetic Smee. I know not why he was so infinitely pathetic, unless it were because he was so pathetically unaware of it.
What does Frederik think of himself and his idea, and what does the narrator think?
The pair of them turned about in their grand home, admiring themselves and each other, and then Frederik had the idea to commission a painting of themselves, dressed exactly as they were, in this exact room. He was so pleased with himself, this tiny man who thought himself big, that he did not see in his grand idea the seeds of his own ruin.
What does Cody think about her future, and what does the narrator think?
She skated through the empty streets watching her shadow dial past under the copper lights. She would be home soon. Except she wouldn’t, because home wasn't there anymore. Home was long gone. Sure, the house was there, but her parents and brother were right now in baskets swinging from the shoulders of a giant witch, who was carrying them into the woods beyond the edge of town. And Cody wouldn't find that out for another 20 minutes.
If you've done the lesson on Point of View, you might remember that in third person a narrator can, if they want, stop narrating the story and just start talking to the audience about their own opinions about... anything.
We saw a little of that in the snippet above ("I know not why he was so infinitely pathetic...") but we can take it further.
When the narrator overlays their own judgment onto a story, the audience often doesn't even notice.
But sometimes a narrator will 'pop out' of the story and start addressing the audience directly.
We saw a little of that in the previous snippet, but here's a more overt example:
But you don’t want to be bitten by a yellow-spotted lizard. That’s the worst thing that can happen to you. You will die a slow and painful death.
Always.
If you get bitten by a yellow-spotted lizard, you might as well go into the shade of the oak trees and lie in the hammock.
There is nothing anyone can do to you anymore.
Here are a couple of examples of the narrator foregrounding themselves for the audience.
Do you think these examples would fit at the beginning or end of each of their stories?
If you're a 15th century Dutch merchant, you don't want to get caught up in neighbourhood feuds. Too many gamblers and risk-takers will want to take bets on your demise.
You need to focus your efforts on trade. Shipping and engineering, that's where it's at.
Instead of obsessing over a new hat, learn about innovations in insurance.
That's how you really make an impression.
Always keep your pool full and clean. The Pool Supply Guy will tell you that, every time. He knows you won't listen, but he tells you all the same because he knows what happens if that pool gets empty except for a mat of rotted leaves.
It opens a Gate.
And while one gate might be easy to close, if the whole neighbourhood gets lazy, then you could have dozens of gates open.
And through those gates will come an army of creatures you never, ever want to meet.
That's all the exercises for this lesson! Let's do a checkpoint!
In this lesson we've explored how you can convey character emotions in both first person and third person points of view.
Below we've combined all of the responses you've written in this lesson. How do you feel about the world you've created?
To create a checkpoint piece, select your favourite 3 responses and delete the rest. (You're only deleting them in this textbox, not from the textboxes elsewhere in this lesson.)
That's it! Let's wrap it up!
The point of valuing and judging
That's it for this lesson!
Where did the snippets come from?
Peter Pan, by J.M.Barrie
The story of a boy who can fly and refuses to grow up, and a family of children he leads to magical island of Neverland. More lyrical and melancholy than you might think.
Holes, by Louis Sachar
Stanley Yelnats is sent to a detention center where he's forced to dig holes for a warden who believes there's buried treasure. Multi-award winning classic.
Growing Up Aboriginal in Australia, edited by Anita Heiss
A collection of personal stories from Aboriginal Australians of all ages and backgrounds, about the shared struggles and joys of being First Nations in a colonial state, and the diversity of individual experience.
Growing up Disabled in Australia, edited by Carly Findlay
A collection of honest, personal, and detailed accounts of what it is like to grow up with disability or chronic illness. A great shared account of experiences that affect many people, but are rarely represented in media.
My Family and Other Animals, by Gerald Durrell
When British naturalist Gerald Durrell was a child, his family moved to the Greek island of Corfu. This is his memoir of the time, about a family out of their element and surrounded by wild animals.
The Graveyard Book, by Neil Gaiman
Modelled on Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Book, this is the story of an orphan called Nobody Owens who is adopted by the undead inhabitants of a local graveyard and protected from the men who would kill him.
Where did the lesson cover image come from?
This is an ilustration for an edition of George Orwell's classic novel,1984, illustrated by Jonathon Burton.
That's it for this lesson. See you next time! 👋