Which 'person'? First or second?

By Pamela

Recently Julie took on the difficult subject of point of view. I thought it might be fun to compare one piece of writing--in both first and second person points of view. Since I didn't want to seek permission from another writer, I chose something of my own.

I have a particular affinity for first-person, since that's what my current manuscript is in but also found myself moved while reading a wonderful short story written in second person. So, for my personal blog, I wrote an essay in second person. Here I'll show you how it would read in first person, followed by the version in second person. You can decide for yourself which you prefer. Then, challenge yourself by taking a piece of your own writing and changing the POV. If you are most comfortable writing in third-person, take a scene or chapter and try it in first-person. Or change it up another way. Maybe omniscient? Or perhaps another character in the story should be telling the scene from his or her POV. Like your original version better or the revision? Let me know what you discover. 

And This Is How It Begins

First-person POV

It starts on a walk through the neighborhood. I bring along a bag of carrots to feed the horses that occupy a nearby lot and notice a connection. Daughter and horses. She should be a little afraid given their big feet and huge teeth, the aggressive way they bite and stomp when another horse comes close, threatening to take the carrot she offers. But she isn’t.

Long ago she inquired about ballet and tap and tae kwon do and I stalled. Maybe someday. And then she asks about riding a horse, and I think, I can see that. Together we read Black Beauty and talk about what it means to care for a horse. We buy more books that explain tack and hands-high, and she spends hours playing the computer game Let’s Ride! Dreamer, but caring for a virtual horse is not the same.

Then later she spends a Saturday afternoon with her daddy, visiting some stables and asking about riding lessons. They form a connection with a trainer named Kate and ask me to check out some of the stables too. Like Goldilocks choosing her lot, I find one stable too fancy, one too stinky and a third that feels just right. Kate’s place.

And so we sign her up.

But first we must go shopping. Like a dancer with the right shoes or a martial artist with the right gear, she needs stuff—helmet and boots and gloves. I take her to a tack store and a teenage equestrian, with years of riding experience, shows my daughter her choices. Two helmets. One that’s good. Another that’s better. Because this is my daughter’s head and not just anyone else’s head, I figure this is not the time to save twenty dollars. The boots with zippers make the cut and choosing the gloves is easy; only one pair in the store is small enough.

On the first day of lessons, I take her to the stable and meet Kate. Then I see the massive beast my daughter is to ride. Where’s the pony? The gentle little guy who has to be bribed with sugar cubes in order to trot? But then I see the way my daughter walks up and pets this huge animal, talks to Crissy and laughs as the horse’s floppy lips nibble at her helmet. I relax just a little and try not to think about the caveat someone offered me yesterday: She’s not a true horsewoman until she’s been stepped on, bitten, kicked and thrown. Please, not today, I think.

As she mounts the horse in the center of a sawdusty ring, I take my cue to step aside. Kate’s got this. I watch this orchestration: trainer and child and beast while they form a bond. I watch the little girl I sometimes consider obstinate and argumentative and hear Kate compliment her assertiveness and confidence and think, Well, yes. That’s another way to look at it.

Thoughts of dance recitals and martial arts competitions fade away to images of future riding shows. Of one day, my daughter spending time in a barn, mucking stalls and offering apples to her best friend instead of riding in cars with boys of questionable character. I watch a beautiful teenage girl at the barn one day, long legs tucked into tall boots, her hair in a sloppy ponytail as she washes down her horse. Her boyfriend stands nearby, holding a piece of tack, clearly taking a backseat to her true love.

I can see that. I can totally see that. 

Second-person POV

It starts on a walk through the neighborhood. You bring along a bag of carrots to feed the horses that occupy a nearby lot and notice a connection. Daughter and horses. She should be a little afraid given their big feet and huge teeth, the aggressive way they bite and stomp when another horse comes close, threatening to take the carrot she offers. But she isn’t.

Long ago she inquired about ballet and tap and tae kwon do and you stalled. Maybe someday. And then she asks about riding a horse, and you think, I can see that. Together you read Black Beauty and talk about what it means to care for a horse. You buy more books that explain tack and hands-high, and she spends hours playing Let’s Ride! Dreamer, but caring for a virtual horse is not the same.

Then later she spends a Saturday afternoon with her daddy, visiting some stables and asking about riding lessons. They form a connection with a trainer named Kate and ask you to check out some of the stables too. Like Goldilocks choosing her lot, you find one stable too fancy, one too stinky and a third that feels just right. Kate’s place.

And so you sign her up.

But first you must go shopping. Like a dancer with the right shoes or a martial artist with the right gear, she needs stuff—helmet and boots and gloves. You take her to a tack store and a teenage equestrian, with years of riding experience, shows your daughter her choices. Two helmets. One that’s good. Another that’s better. Because this is your daughter’s head and not just anyone else’s head, you figure this is not the time to save twenty dollars. The boots with zippers make the cut and choosing the gloves is easy; only one pair in the store is small enough.

On the first day of lessons, you take her to the stable and meet Kate. Then you see the massive beast your daughter is to ride. Where’s the pony? The gentle little guy who has to be bribed with sugar cubes in order to trot? But then you see the way your daughter walks up and pets this huge animal, talks to Crissy and laughs as the horse’s floppy lips nibble at her helmet. You relax just a little and try not to think about the caveat someone offered you yesterday: She’s not a true horsewoman until she’s been stepped on, bitten, kicked and thrown. Please, not today, you think.

As she mounts the horse in the center of a sawdusty ring, you take your cue to step aside. Kate’s got this. You watch this orchestration: trainer and child and beast while they form a bond. You watch the little girl you sometimes consider obstinate and argumentative and hear Kate compliment her assertiveness and confidence and think, Well, yes. That’s another way to look at it.

Thoughts of dance recitals and martial arts competitions fade away to images of future riding shows. Of one day, your daughter spending time in a barn, mucking stalls and offering apples to her best friend instead of riding in cars with boys of questionable character. You watch a beautiful teenage girl at the barn one day, long legs tucked into tall boots, her hair in a sloppy ponytail as she washes down her horse. Her boyfriend stands nearby, holding a piece of tack, clearly taking a backseat to her true love.

You can see that. You can totally see that.