Choosing a second person narrator is a risky decision. Done badly, it makes for an irritating read and, even done well, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Although I think it’s handled beautifully in Ewan Morrison’s recent novel Close Your Eyes, a ‘you’ narrator is generally confined to the short story where a degree of experimentation is often more welcome.
There are around twenty second-person short stories and pieces of flash fiction in the anthology You, Me & A Bit of We. Seeing them together, if not quite reading them back-to-back, it’s striking how many different interpretations of ‘you’ there can be. Even though English has lost the distinction between the singular/familiar and plural/polite forms of the second person to be found in many other European languages, we still manage some diversity in its application, at least in fiction. Hovering between the more familiar first and third person narration, and borrowing bits from both, the second person pulls the reader closer to the story, pushing the identification with the narrator and/or creating the illusion of being addressed directly from the page. Either way, the fictional events portrayed can seem more real.
There are around twenty second-person short stories and pieces of flash fiction in the anthology You, Me & A Bit of We. Seeing them together, if not quite reading them back-to-back, it’s striking how many different interpretations of ‘you’ there can be. Even though English has lost the distinction between the singular/familiar and plural/polite forms of the second person to be found in many other European languages, we still manage some diversity in its application, at least in fiction. Hovering between the more familiar first and third person narration, and borrowing bits from both, the second person pulls the reader closer to the story, pushing the identification with the narrator and/or creating the illusion of being addressed directly from the page. Either way, the fictional events portrayed can seem more real.
In Close Your Eyes, the second person functions as an alternative first person, perfectly conveying the precarious selfhood of a young mother who has never been able to develop the ego strength to identify herself as ‘I’. The ‘you’ in Annemaria Cooper’s At the Edge Mattress in You, Me & A Bit of We has a similar fragility, all sense of agency beaten out of her by the man with whom she shares a bed. In Home Strange Home by Diandra Linnemann, the second person is employed to express the narrator’s sense of disorientation to good effect. In Charlotte Hayden’s Alvy (published by Words with Jam), I love the way the ‘you’ tries not to register just how vulnerable she is. I opted for second person narration for the adolescent’s bolshy yet underripe personality in What Time It Sunset?, a teenage girl, distanced from herself as well as others in her anger at the unfairness of the world. ‘You’ seems to compensate for the distancing we might otherwise experience with vulnerable narrators who need to protect their privacy, as in Lily by Hettie Ashwin.
‘You’ can also serve as an Everyman/woman narrator, challenging the reader to consider how we would react in their shoes. In That Loving Feeling, Sharon Birch brings an original perspective to the familiar scenario of a woman considering leaving her husband. In Meriah Crawford’s unsettling Gonnagetya, the moral dilemma is not one we can stand back and observe: we, as readers, become cringingly part of the problem and possible solution. The generic ‘you’ can also deliver more general truths about causes and consequences, as in Marathon to Perfection by Margaret Gracie.
In some other types of story, the second person coexists with another narrator, with the ‘you’ adopting some elements of ‘s/he’. Some may disagree, but for me The Bedroom Mirror by Anne Fox falls into that category, with an implied omniscient narrator – perhaps the mirror itself – looking kindly on Emil as he prepares for his new life. This Other is more active in Martin Gamble’s Your Final Engagement, an undefined presence who knows all about ‘you’.
Finally, there are the stories where a first-person narrator is addressing a yet-to-be-identified third person who is nevertheless addressed as ‘you’. The gradual revelation of each character’s identity (including the initially ambiguous gender) and the nature of the bond between them is part of this type of story’s appeal. In Laura Dunkeyson’s You Weren’t Heavy, we share the narrator’s empathy and concern for the fragile ‘you’ she carries over the ice and up the steps. In my story, Had to Be You, published by Zouch magazine, the ‘you’ is more menacing and the tie to the narrator feels unwelcome but hard to escape. In another of my stories, In Praise of Female Parts, appearing on Red Fez I’m assuming that the reader’s life situation will be closer to the hypothetical ‘you’ than the narrator, but I don’t think that leads to any loss of empathy. In Your Famous Pink Raincoat by Susan F Giles the ‘you’ form is highly effective in exploring the arc of a relationship from first meeting to break up – very poignant.
I hope this quick romp through what is apparently a complex area of literary theory, is enough to prompt you to share your own views on reading and writing in the second person. And I hope you’ll let me know what you think of some of the stories I’ve linked to here.
I'm aiming to post again next Wednesday, either on how we organise our literary bookshelves being good enough. Hope you'll call back then.
‘You’ can also serve as an Everyman/woman narrator, challenging the reader to consider how we would react in their shoes. In That Loving Feeling, Sharon Birch brings an original perspective to the familiar scenario of a woman considering leaving her husband. In Meriah Crawford’s unsettling Gonnagetya, the moral dilemma is not one we can stand back and observe: we, as readers, become cringingly part of the problem and possible solution. The generic ‘you’ can also deliver more general truths about causes and consequences, as in Marathon to Perfection by Margaret Gracie.
In some other types of story, the second person coexists with another narrator, with the ‘you’ adopting some elements of ‘s/he’. Some may disagree, but for me The Bedroom Mirror by Anne Fox falls into that category, with an implied omniscient narrator – perhaps the mirror itself – looking kindly on Emil as he prepares for his new life. This Other is more active in Martin Gamble’s Your Final Engagement, an undefined presence who knows all about ‘you’.
Finally, there are the stories where a first-person narrator is addressing a yet-to-be-identified third person who is nevertheless addressed as ‘you’. The gradual revelation of each character’s identity (including the initially ambiguous gender) and the nature of the bond between them is part of this type of story’s appeal. In Laura Dunkeyson’s You Weren’t Heavy, we share the narrator’s empathy and concern for the fragile ‘you’ she carries over the ice and up the steps. In my story, Had to Be You, published by Zouch magazine, the ‘you’ is more menacing and the tie to the narrator feels unwelcome but hard to escape. In another of my stories, In Praise of Female Parts, appearing on Red Fez I’m assuming that the reader’s life situation will be closer to the hypothetical ‘you’ than the narrator, but I don’t think that leads to any loss of empathy. In Your Famous Pink Raincoat by Susan F Giles the ‘you’ form is highly effective in exploring the arc of a relationship from first meeting to break up – very poignant.
I hope this quick romp through what is apparently a complex area of literary theory, is enough to prompt you to share your own views on reading and writing in the second person. And I hope you’ll let me know what you think of some of the stories I’ve linked to here.
I'm aiming to post again next Wednesday, either on how we organise our literary bookshelves being good enough. Hope you'll call back then.
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