Where You Stand
Makes All the Difference
Zipping along the narrow road, flat plains and farmland like sheets of rumpled paper all around me, the sun barely up, I lean, anticipating the curve that curls around a weatherworn house. A blink, a shimmer of blue--a pond, maybe a lake, and I round the curve and there's another, a 
vast expanse of what must be water, a reservoir of sorts except that it can't be (where's the dam? where's the river? why isn't the water cascading across the road?), and as I accelerate out of the turn and the angle between me in my van and the sun in its sky shifts, I realize what I'm seeing isn't water at all, but long stretches of blue plastic strips in tight parallel rows.
I'm so surprised, I turn around and park at the edge of the farmhouse's packed dirt drive and stare. I grab my camera and stalk the edge of the field (ever mindful that this is rattler territory, too), snapping photos from high angle and low, close-up and off-to-the-horizon.
The plastic--it's black, not blue--is about a meter wide. Fist-sized holes punch a perforated line along the length of each strip's center.
When I stand up and look down, it's clear that this is a freshly plowed and planted field, though nothing's sprouted yet. When I crouch and scan across the surface, it's plastic and dirt next to my feet, something rough-hewn halfway out, and beyond that, shimmer-accented dark, capped by sky.
The lake lives halfway between these two postures, a mirage of earth and ingenuity and sunrise. What I see--and my understanding of what I see--depends on where I stand. Depends on my Point of View.
In literature, we think of POV in terms of person, often called the viewpoint character. For example, first person is from the POV of a particular character, usually the protagonist. In first person, the only information available is what that person knows, thinks, and experiences--and shares with us.
Third person comes in several flavors. Two common ones are limited third person, which, like first person, is from the point of view of one specific character but uses "he" or "she" 
instead of "I"; and involved or omniscient author, which is the voice of the storyteller who knows everything that's going on with everyone, everywhere.
Some fiction and a lot of nonfiction, including interpretive writing, is second person: the writer is speaking directly to the reader. Most of what I write in this newsletter is second person--I'm talking directly to you; you is second person.
In living history interpretation, first person refers to an interpreter or actor performing in the role of an historical character. The performer--whether in a formal, scripted, staged presentation or a more informal, even improvisational, performance--speaks and acts from the point of view of the character he or she is representing. The second person living history interpreter--even if in period costume-is a liaison between the history story and the contemporary audience, providing context and information that the first person historic character cannot know.
We can think about POV and viewpoint characters in other ways, too. What happens if you explore your riparian story from the POV of a trout? A mayfly? A towering cottonwood? A feathery seed? A hawk? A finch? The sole (or soul) of a wader? The spinning reel of a fishing pole?
Even if using such uncommon points of view aren't suitable for your situation--perhaps they wouldn't match the tone or style--thinking about them often leads to surprising discoveries and fresh approaches to the material. Knowing how the world looks when you're the seed hidden inside the lodgepole pinecone, hoping and waiting for the fire that releases you, opens up one set of perspectives and possibilities. Seeing the world from the POV of the fire as it rushes the mountainside opens up another set.
So next time you launch into your story, take a moment to think about where you stand. Glance over your shoulder. Get out of the car and walk around. Put yourself--and your readers--in a new place.
