That’s the power—and the trap—of a limited narrator: the narrative style itself is part of the character.

This “limitation” is an incredibly useful tool that can allow you to present the world—and the spaces/locations within it through the character themselves.

Allow me to give you one example. You have two characters both looking at a fictional plaza:

• Character1 is an architect. Therefore, they may do what architect does: they’ll be utterly oblivious to the people (unless they’re damaging a building), they may focus on historical buildings, lament their poor state of preservation, remember obscure details about the infrastructure, and even criticise the choice of colours.

• Character2 is a cook. Standing in the same plaza, they may be utterly oblivious to the architecture but instead notice every restaurant or food stall, may have strong opinions about the food, the cooking style, the serving size, the scents in that place…

It is the same physical space, but both of them notice different details—details that are directly linked to who they are: their profession, their education, their preferences and interests. Therefore, by leveraging the character’s perception, a mere description of a place can actually do a double-duty: it world-builds and character-builds at the same time.

I have a quaint example for you today…

—and it is, again, taken from my upcoming book, The Omens of War.

Given the setting of my book, I put a lot of effort into trying to depict how ominous or big some of the buildings are. Thus, when I was writing it, I had one character walk through a very special corridor, and a few chapters later, his son goes through it was well.

I am a plotter, so I knew very well I wanted both characters to cross through the same place—and thus wrote it while actively asking myself: What does this character focus on? I thought the result (which is two non-spoiler passages) was quite cool to bring it here and dissect it!

Therefore, this essay will cover:

• The father’s paragraph, and what (and why) I chose to make him focus on some specific elements.

• The son’s paragraph, his opinions and my writerly needs.

• What I focused on to clue the reader that it was, in fact, the same corridor as a way to foreshadow what would happen afterwards.

The excerpts I have here do not contain spoilers, and at the end—as usual—I’ll have some homework for you to practice as well.

Let’s get this one!

The father’s point-of-view

The father is called Centurion Juçe Praeto from the Eastern Legions of Firard. He is, by far, one of the character’s I despise the most—but let’s not allow that to interrupt the analysis.

In my world’s setting, and in the nation of Firard, people start training after their 8th birthday… and Juçe is around 60 years old. He has served, quite literally, for his whole life—and so has a very specific worldview and focus.

Let me show you the excerpt:

Juçe walked in the dark, starlight pouring through the Citadel’s broad casements. His footfalls hammered the floor with precision, his armour shifting with restrained menace. Four blind arches decorated that hallway, one statue inside each—Centurions from an era gone by, their armour simpler, their legends preserved in history. They’d be ashamed of what the Emerald Legions have become. He raised his chin as he walked past, turning the corner.

His tone is not precisely clipped, but it is leaner than usual. There are few adjectives, but Juçe pays particular attention to how things are positioned in that hallway. For example, he notices exit points (the “broad casements”), then counts how specific elements: “four blind arches” then “one statue inside each” almost as if he were surveying the hallway and accounting for enemies—something that makes sense, given he was bred for war.

After that, Juçe pays attention to the statues’ armours, by saying:

Centurions from an era gone by, their armour simpler, […]

This fragment of a sentence serves two purposes: (a) it is still describing the places while implying the building is old (or the statues would depict newer legends), and that (b) Firard has endured for so many years that the Centurions’ armours evolved. Thus, you have setting and a world-building detail.

However, the “their armour simpler” is a halved comparative; if it were correct grammatically, I’d written “their armour [was] simpler [than X]”… except I chose not to for several reasons:

• The clipped/lean tone is a bit more military. They say what’s needed and that’s it.

• The comparison is hinted at instead of explicitly put in the page. In the prior sentence, Juçe stated that he is walking armoured: “his armour shifting with restrained menace”. Thus, we can assume he’s comparing the statues’ to his own.

• The comparison is, again, part of that “surveying” Juçe is doing: counting arches, counting statues, assessing their armour. This is almost instinctual to him.

Yet what follows afterwards is more character centric:

[…] their legends preserved in history. They’d be ashamed of what the Emerald Legions have become.

This is also pulling a double-duty! The "bit “their legends preserved in history” hints that not every Centurion gets a statue, just those that became legends for one reason or another. The thought (highlighted in italics) actually discloses Juçe’s political opinion about the current state of affairs: he is not very pleased, and is the classical case of being stuck in the “good ‘ole days”.

However, given that this is a very limited third-person narrator—as a reader—you should take the character’s opinion with a grain of salt. Juçe may think the past was better (“they’d be ashamed” isn’t it?) but another character may even think the nation has evolved, or perhaps not changed at all.

This intersection between the scene (the hallway with the arches, and the statues) and the character having an opinion about the scene (i.e., about the statues) actually pulls a double-duty: world-building (i.e., a bit of history of Firard) and character-building (i.e., Juçe’s opinions about the state of affairs).

But this hallway can look different when described through someone else’s eyes.

The son’s point-of-view

The other point-of-view is Legate Dante Praeto—Juçe’s older son. Dante was also trained since his eight birthday, but as a strategist/politician; by the time of the story, he’s 38 years old.

Now, Dante’s passage had an added “difficulty” I had to deal with: he was not well. Without spoilers, let us say the poor fella just had a terrible, terrible night. Therefore, he describes the corridor as follows:

The pre-dawn light gleamed over the polished floors, rimming the edges of the archways and casting a halo around the statues encased between them. Four towering Centurions armoured in marble—finely sculpted, and faithful to the simpler designs worn several centuries before.

Legate Dante Praeto halted between them, fists clenched as he contained the urge to hurry into the next corner. I can’t submit to this… restlessness. His hands were shaking, his heart galloping out of his body, that whistling ringing in his ears. The events of the day before absorbed his thoughts, […]

Notice the choice of words first. Dante says “gleamed”, “polished” , “a halo”; his vocabulary is a bit more elevated, his sentences are longer and more flowy. Dante doesn’t count exits, doesn’t focus on how many figures/enemies are there but on time—it’s the pre-dawn1, the day is just starting.

Dante doesn’t have the best relationship with his father, and that could—perhaps, who knows—reflect on the fact that he describes the statues as “towering.” Granted, marble statues could be, technically, quite tall—which is another correct read.

However, notice how he refers to the statues’ armours:

[…] towering Centurions armoured in marble—finely sculpted, and faithful to the simpler designs worn several centuries before.

When Juçe focused on the tradition and the legends, Dante is focusing in history—a discipline that concern him as a politician/strategist. After all, history is important because you can learn a lot by studying the causes of prior wars, why some treatises failed, why others lasted, and so on.

Now, if you compare both fragments, there is one blatant lack: Dante has no opinion about the statues. To him, they are just statues; history, that’s it. He doesn’t feel the weight of those Centurions’ legends, doesn’t lift his chin. In fact, Dante is so distressed that he stops between them to chastise himself about how he feels—which was not a minor event, but I won’t spoil it.

Now the question is… how do you do this?

I have said it before but I am a plotter—and sometimes, I can be as extreme as plotting paragraphs sentence-by-sentence, especially in the more imagery-driven scenes. Therefore, what I’ll list below is my own workflow; if you are a pantser/gardener storyteller, you may need to adapt it to your flow.

So how do you do it? Here is a handy list of considerations:

1. List what the character knows: this is their profession, technical knowledge (or lack of thereof), interests, topics that they may know about tangentially (e.g., their mother was a historian, therefore, they have heard of things but don’t know them).

2. Narrow down how much of that character’s knowledge is relevant to your reader: (a) in this specific scene, and (b) at this point in the story.

   1. You may want to consider knowledge that you may need to: (a) hammer down and repeat because it’s important, or (b) begin to foreshadow for future scenes.

   2. Remember: whatever you do, just give the reader the bare minimum. Info-dumping tends to break immersion, and even if a character is obsessive about something, there are other ways to portray that.

3. Understand the scene in question, and what elements of it will make the character react. Because:

   1. In first-person narrations, you can blend the opinion with the text in quite a straightforward manner because everything is assumed to be the character’s thoughts. The reader will understand it immediately.

   2. In a limited third-person, you need to cue in the reader that the narrator is, in fact, limited and no omniscient. Thus, changing tone, sentence structure, focus, and other details will aid you here. If you’re percolating thoughts amidst the narrative, make sure the thoughts come immediately after the thing the character is “having an opinion of.”

4. Once you have the draft and the content mapped out: polish! Let the prose flow!

Over to you!

I have a bit of a homework for you because, as I always say, practice makes perfect. If you won’t practice, you won’t improve.

Therefore, today’s task is to narrate a botanic garden from the PoV of two different characters: (a) a noble with extensive knowledge of gardening, and (b) a bookworm who rather be inside than amidst the wildlife. Two paragraphs, one for each character.

Before we leave, allow me to tease you a bit further.

Lovecraft meets George R.R. Martin meets Marcus Aurelius and Jean-Paul Sartre in this genre-blending cosmic horror fantasy. You can bookmark it in Goodreads, or you can go to Amazon and preorder it.

Happy writing and reading,

Livia~

Let me give you a few examples to clarify what I mean:

• Case 1: The hero just received a concerning wound, and they’re bleeding out. Realistically, the loss of blood has several symptoms, such as: fatigue, pale skin, shortness of breath, a rapid heartbeat, and dizziness. This can escalate to include confusion, lack of focus, sweating, etc. Would a character that’s loosing that much blood narrate coherently? Would they have perfect grammar and elevated C2 words? Even if they normally speak as such, the blood loss will affect their focus, their ability to articulate thoughts, and their reasoning.

• Case 2: The narrator is extremely afraid. Fear triggers the sympathetic nervous system's "fight-or-flight" response (the famous 4Fs), leading to hyperarousal and hyperfocus on a perceived threat. This change will have physical effects, but because the parasympathetic nervous system is overwhelmed by the sympathetic… well, we loose the ability to reason, and we fall into instinct. Would a narrator in this state will be able to maintain a coherent narrative? Would they be able to say things such as “his blood was carmine like the sunset over the river”? Or would they just think: “Red. Everywhere. Blood. Not mine.”?

This is not just about making the narrative physically realistic, but about immersion.

A savvy reader will be able to read the text and say: “Mmm… wasn’t this guy bleeding out? Why does he sound so articulate?” The moment the reader asks themselves such a question, they become aware that they’re reading a book… when, in actuality, you want them to experience the story not to be aware they’re reading a story.

First person narratives (especially in present tense) are great to make someone feel that whatever is happening to the narrating character is happening now—but to achieve that, the narration must be coherent with their mental state.

On today’s post…

—I’ll be showing you a very concrete example of hyperarousal and how that affects the narrative. For those who don’t know, hyperarousal refers to a state of high physiological and emotional alertness often characterized by a persistent feeling of being on edge1.

We will be analysing a concrete excerpt from an award-winning novella published in 2020. I’ll show you the excerpt first, then we’ll break down the analysis into choice of word, grammar and sentence structure, and how that conveys the narrator’s mental state.

Ready? Let’s get this book undone!

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Therefore, today I want to discuss a very specific case: epistolary narratives with a close (or nil) temporal distance. This style has some quirks that allow writers to leverage grammar, sentence structure, and words choice to demonstrate crucial characteristics of the character (namely, show) without actually mentioning them in the prose (namely, tell).

To demonstrate this, we will analyse one groundbreaking novel. Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes.

That said, before getting into the minutiae, we will first introduce some baseline concepts around the style, plot and setting, to ensure we’re all in the same page. After that’s done, I’ll present the analysis and—as usual—conclude with specific guidelines as to what to consider when applying this technique.

Let’s dive in!

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For something that sounds so simple, there’s surprisingly little guidance on how to not tell when you’re, well, telling a story.

This series, The Narrative Voice, aims to push back against that vagueness by offering practical, grounded advice—often paired with close readings of real excerpts. And that’s exactly what we’ll be doing today.

But before we dive in, let me ask you something:

What if a writer tells on purpose… in order to show?

I think the answer to that question depends on how similes, metaphors, and lyrical phrasing are used to evoke something in the reader. From there, it’s easy to assume that a narrative devoid of all of those could be misunderstood as “too telling”.

But what if the narrator’s voice is not flourished? What if they are matter-of-fact?

Let’s evaluate a few hypothetical characters:

• A soldier or mercenary—say, a cyberpunk enforcer or a Spartan warrior—is not likely to think in similes. You might expect short, clipped sentences. Military terms sneaking into daily speech (e.g., using ‘flank’ instead of ‘side’), minimal adjectives, and maybe even active disdain for anything that feels excessive.

• A strategist, FBI negotiator, or chess player—or anyone deeply logical—might focus entirely on the present moment. Their inner monologue could become stripped down, all function, no flourish. Especially in tense scenes, you would get curt, efficient prose.

• A poet or lyricist, someone usually narrating in a verbose or adorned language, may shift to a flat “telling” voice during a tense, panic-riddled moment. Imagine them in a thriller, running for their life—they are not going to be comparing shadows to velvet or time to birdsong. They are just trying to survive.

These are just some examples, but we can draw a commonality: when used with intention, so-called “telling” prose can build up the narrative character, becoming a stylistic strength—one that reflects something deeper about who the character is (e.g., their backstory), or the emotional state they’re in.

In those cases, a clipped, non-flourished prose becomes loaded with meaning. The reader would just need to ask: what does this say about the narrating character?

To explore that further, let’s look at an excerpt that does this brilliantly.

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Yet sometimes we find clues hinting that they may not be entirely trustworthy.

It may be subtle; like a descriptor contradicting what we perceive, a piece of knowledge withheld, an action that doesn’t align with the narrator’s thoughts. Or it may be over: like an explicit lie told to another character, a distortion, something that is nothing but a red flag chanting we shouldn’t take the narrators reliability for granted.

The moment we realise that is when doubt cascades over everything we have read so far, adding—perhaps—new layers of meaning to scenes we once thought in a different, maybe even simplistic way. It is then when we finally conclude the voice narrating the story may be unrealiable.

What are unreliable narrators?

In terms of definitions, a narrator is unreliable if they cannot be trusted because their credibility is compromised1. The term was originally coined in 1961, first appearing in the book The Rhetoric of Fiction by Wayne C. Booth. However, it seems this style actually became popular in Western literature during the Modernist period from the end of the 19th (1890’s) through the 20th century.

It is most commonly associated with a first-person narrative, but it can also be used extensively in third-person limited, and deep third-person. These two cases (namely, third-person limited or deep) are:

1. constrained to one character’s inner world,

2. do not drift into full omniscience (namely, will never describe what another character feels or perceives), and

3. are fully immersed in the character's subjective experience while still using third-person pronouns (i.e., he, she, they).

Yet regardless of which person or verbal tense is used, all unreliable narrators have something in common: they distort the truth of the story… but they do so with a reason that should—ideally—be intrinsically related to the character’s story.

But why are they unreliable?

You see? There are multiple ways in which a character can be unreliable, and so are multiple reasons as to why. These two elements, if correctly used, are tools in a writer’s pocket.

Let’s review some of these more closely. I will recommend books to read for each of the cases we mention.

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Sometimes, they are loud and unforgettable; other times, they are almost invisible, letting the story tell itself. Sometimes they can be incredibly annoying, or so compelling and heartbreaking that we love the book simply because of how it is narrated.

Yet regardless the form, narrators do more than just report events—they are the point of view telling the story and thus deciding how we see, what we believe, and who we trust. It can be a character or a non-character (in the case of omniscient voices), it can be narrating now (present tense) or retelling (past tense)…

Yet it remains so incredibly important that, sometimes, all it takes for a story to flow is just a change or tweak in the narrator.

My series on Narrators is an exploration of that voice behind the voice.

I’m not here to define terms, determine what is ‘best suited’ to specific cases, or even help you pick a narrator. Instead, I want to look at the nuanced, practical, often subtle mechanics of narration as it actually appears in stories.

We’ll see how specific words and sentence structures can affect tone and setting, sometimes hinting at who’s narrating. We’ll analyse what happens when the narrator encounters something they ignore but that the reader knows (or can discover). We’ll ponder about unreliable or biased narration, non-human perspectives, and contradictory points-of-view within the same story. We’ll discuss how narrators affect immersion, how it can misguide the reader, or build a connection with them… and so much more.

Ultimately, the narrator is never just a tool for storytelling. In fiction especially, the narrator is a fundamental piece of it, and understanding that voice might just be the key to understanding everything else.

The narrator’s age is fundamental…

—especially when the narrative voice is shaped by a specific character’s perspective and thoughts. This holds true regardless of tense (past or present) or person (first, second, or third) chosen for the text.

In these cases, the word choice and sentence structure become essential tools to implement the fabled show don’t tell advice. Why? Because by combining these two elements you can reveal key characteristics of the narrating character without stating them outright. Thus, the point-of-view itself because part of a mystery the reader can unravel on their own… and that process of discovery can, in turn, help the reader feel closer to the narrating character.

Let us revisit some examples, each from different books and genres (science fiction and fantasy) to learn by example.

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Books, however, are different things, and literary fiction sometimes takes these details to the Nth degree. Check this example 👇🏻:

To give you some non-spoilery context, this book is highly allegorical, and the meaning of that strike-through text depends on the allegory.

In short (and without spoilers), this book follows Lyra, an enchanted ceramic ballerina doll—the type you find as decorations atop a music box—who was 'brought to life' with elven magic, and is expected to dance ballet when the music box plays.

At first glance, we should already have two red-flags disguised in fairy tale magic: (1) Lyra's innocence (she just came to life), and (2) dangerous power dynamics. After all, the 'elven boy' is 'normal sized' while Lyra is 'doll size' (can size imply power? It certainly does here!). Likewise, Lyra is locked in that cabinet, and cannot even travel to other bookcases or cabinets on her own. When the boy is not there, she spends the day planning nice ballet poses to amuse him.

This is a dark story, since soon after her arrival, the boy becomes more and more rough. He snatches her from the shelf, is brutish when opening the locked cabinet, and even shakes the box when winding up the box's crank.

But Lyra doesn't seem to want to have ill-thoughts about boy... or does she? Early in that screenshot, she describes him opening the cabinet "...with growing frustration fervour until the entire cupboard quakes [...]" What does the strike-through text means there?

Let's break the analysis in two steps.

1. Let us consider this is a first-person present-tense narrative; we are in Lyra's mind—the narrator can be read as her constant thoughts. We can assume that the author actually intended to write both "frustration fervour". Therefore, Lyra thinks both adjectives about the boy.

2. Now, think of strike-through text in a different context. When hand-writing (if anyone besides me still does that), strike-through text is something that was added then removed and/or replaced... which is exactly what Lyra does here. She replaces 'frustration' with 'fervour', and then replaces 'dread' with 'enthusiasm' (when talking about her own emotions).

But why would a character replace their own thoughts?

To answer that, we need to bring back the allegory, and the red-flags we mentioned before. From there, the answer is straightforward: Lyra is very young, she's highly indebted to the boy (his magic brought her to life), she's trapped in his cupboard (!), and she cannot refuse when the boy snatches her (!!).

Conclusion:

1. Lyra is in an abusive situation, disguised as an allegory of enchanted dolls.

2. Lyra doesn't dare to acknowledge what is happening (the boy's violence, her own fears) because doing so would make it more real and, thus, more difficult to deal with.

3. Lyra slowly becomes depressed, and then the positive thoughts appear strike-through because her depression doesn't allow her to feel anything but the gloominess.

In my extremely subjective opinion, this is a very clever use of formatting to achieve a show-don't-tell that is literary in nature, but heartbreaking once you understand what it means.

Now let me tell you a secret…

That book we just analysed is my own book: Dance With Me.

I originally published it in 2023 as a interactive fiction in my app Unearthed Stories; it is still available there. However, it's been two years since the launch of the app, and I chose to celebrate with a Kickstarter project for the novelised version.

But what is there in the Kickstarter?

An illustrated hardcover and paperback, an audiobook, and another literary interactive story. The prelaunch is active now, and the campaign begins May 6th, 10am EST.

If you want to support me, backing within the first ~48h is crucial for the success of the project. Give it a look! 👇🏻

Check the Campaign!

“One of the most compelling novellas I’ve read in a very long time. It breaks and mends the heart in the span of a few pages.” Books with Zara. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“Lyra’s journey is a lesson in empathy, as much for herself as for the reader. It’s so easy to judge her for her naivety or to get frustrated with her refusal to accept the reality, but anyone who has ever suffered (or been close to someone suffering) from the same mental health issues will immediately recognize just how authentic and painfully realistic her struggles are.“ Grimdark Magazine ⭐⭐⭐⭐.5

“Insightful and brilliant. This tale of life, pain and everything in between gives voice to the broken, offering a balm to the heart.” Kay’s Hidden Shelf ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“There are some books that people want to read. I suspect, that for many, Dance With Me is a book they need to read. Because we all know a Lyra. Some of us have been a Lyra ourselves. And alongside the sad and sorrowful, this story has a sweetness and catharsis to it.” H.L. Tinsley (author) ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Check the Campaign!