I wrote the first two drafts of my new novel in 1st person. For the first time ever, I was happy using the grand “I,” sticking with one character’s point of view, limiting the scope of the novel to what she (the narrator) sees, thinks, feels, and does.

For the first time ever, the voice of the story was rather slingy and light, loose and jangly, and at first, I was delighted by this, by the fact that I (who usually eschews 1st person fiction) was writing in the voice of my character, letting her tell her story.

But somewhere in the middle of the second draft, an annoying, nudgy feeling began to well up in  me. Though I tried to ignore it, it kept at me, gnawing day and night. When I finally realized what was wrong, I panicked. No, no, no, I thought. In the middle of the night, I sent a frenzied email to my writing partner here in Shanghai that read, “Oh no, I think this is supposed to be in 3rd person.” I tried to ignore the feeling (avoidance is a wonderful tool sometimes), but no matter what, I couldn’t shake the truth. I had to face it.

The story needed to be in 3rd person. First person is just too limiting for me. When I’m writing in it, I feel like I’m in a box so tiny I can’t stand or stretch out my limbs.

In this novel, at least, I need a narrator who can sweep through the town and see things from above, get a good look at the beach and sky. I need a narrator who has access to more than one character.

Darn it anyway.

So a few weeks ago while in the U.S., I began a new draft. This time in 3rd person. And gosh, it feels right. The nudgy, annoying feeling has disappeared. I can breathe again.

Guess I’ll have to save the loose, slingy voice for my essays.