The Stories We Choose to Tell (And How We Tell Them)

the role of point of view in romance novels

I nearly gave up writing romance when the first-person point of view became popular in the genre.

That sounds dramatic, but after years of reading and writing romance, the shift felt significant. I'd found my voice writing from a distance, letting my characters move through their worlds while I played the unseen narrator. When "I" started dominating the bestseller lists, I wondered if my stories had become outdated before anyone read them.

The publishing industry loves trends, and that trend has been first-person for a while now. But point of view isn't a trope like billionaires or brother's best friends - it's a fundamental choice that shapes how we experience a story. The story I’m writing now is in first person, and it prompted enough of an identity crisis that I felt compelled to write this newsletter. What follows are my thoughts about what draws us to particular perspectives as readers and writers.

People often say that the first person creates a more intimate reading experience. I get it. Using "I" invites the reader into the character's head, making their thoughts and feelings immediate and personal. But intimacy in fiction is more complex than pronouns.

True intimacy emerges from how deeply we understand a character's inner world. It comes from voice authenticity - the specific way they think and process experiences. It comes from narrative distance - how close we are to their emotional truth, regardless of whether we're using "I" or "she." Most importantly, it comes from how skillfully the author wields their chosen perspective to reveal the character's heart.

Take Talia Hibbert's Brown Sisters series. Written in the third person, these books drop us so deep into the characters' minds that we forget we're not reading "I":

"Diaries were horribly organized and awfully prescriptive. They involved dates and plans and regular entries and the suffocating weight of commitment. Journals, on the other hand, were deliciously wild and lawless things. One could abandon a journal for weeks, then crack it open one Saturday evening under the influence of wine and marshmallows without an ounce of guilt."

This passage from Act Your Age, Eve Brown doesn't need first person to feel intimate. The voice is so specific, so clearly Eve's, that we're right there with her, understanding exactly how she views the world.

Our preference for particular points of view often reflects what kind of relationship we want with characters. Some readers crave the immediate connection of first person, wanting to experience the romance as if it's happening to them. Others prefer the slight distance of third person, choosing to witness the love story unfold rather than live inside it. Neither approach is inherently more intimate - they're just different ways of connecting with story.

The Power of Perspective

As Christopher Castellani writes in The Art of Perspective, point of view goes beyond whether we use "I" or "she." It's "the unique philosophy behind constructing a work of fiction that applies to that work alone." When we choose a perspective, we make decisions about narrative distance, reliability, and whose truth gets centered.

Readers often perceive third-person narrators as objective, which means they're more likely to associate the views in the book with the author. First-person comes with built-in unreliability - we understand we're getting one person's version of events, shaped by their biases and limitations.

This relationship between third-person narration and authorial viewpoint is important to note. When we write in the third person, readers may interpret our characters' beliefs, choices, and worldviews as reflections of our own. That can make tackling complex themes and challenging situations difficult, knowing our narrative choices might be read as personal statements rather than our character perspectives. The irony is that while many authors write in first person because they feel it’s easier to disappear inside the main character’s voice, all of our books reflect how we see the world, regardless of perspective. Even when we write characters nothing like ourselves, we're still exploring truths that matter to us. The heart of the story is always ours.

Finding Your Voice

Each book demands a narrative design. The Art of Scandal needed third person to mimic a television soap opera's macro-view, small-town drama. August Lane is a third-person country song about regrets, going home, and finding redemption. My work in progress demands first person because [redacted - but trust me, there's a reason]. Each choice reflects not just the technical needs of the story but the complex interplay between the voices I've absorbed and the truths I want to explore.

These story voices emerged from immersing myself in different forms of storytelling. My experience as a Black woman will always inform my work. But reading works by people with different identities than me, listening to music in languages I don’t speak, and forming relationships with people with entirely different backgrounds or worldviews ensures the voices in my head aren’t slight variations of the same person. The most common piece of advice when someone asks how to become a better writer is to write more. However, when I struggle to capture the voice of a character, it’s usually a sign I haven’t done enough listening.

But back to my identity crises. I’ve realized that my voice will always be on the page, no matter what perspective I write from. I will always write about how art shapes identity. I will try to write honestly about flawed characters who feel real. I wholeheartedly believe that romantic love begins with self-love and healing. These elements remain constant regardless of the point of view.

Making It Work

When choosing a point of view, I start by identifying who's telling the story and why this person needs to tell it. This is particularly crucial in dual-POV romance novels, where both characters need complete arcs that further each other's growth and the plot. Yes, it can be challenging. (Yes, it has reduced me to tears.) But when I decide on a framework for a book, it's hard to let go of it just because an easier route exists. (I’m working on this). Part of this is developing a highly specific character that has friction with the world in some way: through their identity, their economic status, their dynamics, etc. Then, something as simple as the decision to wear a form fitting dress to a party (Rachel in The Art of Scandal) or to reveal their favorite country song to a stranger (August in August Lane) becomes weighted with meaning, transforming an ordinary choice into an act of self-definition.

I also figure out who the narrator is talking to. Without this, my third person sounds like a book report, and my first person sounds like a diary entry. That works for some stories but isn't consistent with my voice or the stories I want to tell. Having a specific audience in mind - someone the narrator needs to tell this story to - gives my voice direction and purpose. Instead of just thoughts floating in a character's head, each revelation and observation becomes part of a conversation. The story gains momentum because it's being shared with intent, shaped by the relationship between the teller and their chosen listener.

Finally, I try to remember that writing distinct voices requires more than technical skill - it demands a deep well of voices to draw from. If you never read books by someone of a different gender, or listen to music in another language, or read poetry by someone whose background differs from yours, the only voices in your head will echo your own. Whether your book is first person or third, if you try to write a character with a voice you've never heard, you won't be able to write them in a way that feels true. They'll remain the object of your story, viewed from an uninformed distance.

Our relationship with point of view evolves through reading widely. What feels uncomfortably distant or claustrophobic at first often becomes natural as we learn to move between perspectives, letting the story rather than the viewpoint guide our experience. This flexibility matters because every love story demands its own telling. Sometimes, we need careful distance to appreciate the full scope of a romance. Other times, we want to fall in love alongside our protagonist. The beauty of romance lies in this variety - in our ability to tell and receive stories in whatever form they require.

As romance evolves, these conversations about point of view touch on deeper questions about whose stories we tell and how we tell them. The distance or intimacy we choose, the reliability we grant our narrators, the voices we develop - these aren't just craft choices. They're decisions about how we invite readers into our worlds and what truths we want to explore together.

Words Worth Keeping

"And you understood, finally, that there had never truly been a she or a you but only a terrible, lonely I."

From The Six Deaths of the Saint by Alix E. Harrow

This line captures something profound about perspective in fiction - how pronouns can create an illusion of distance when we're always writing about the self, about our own understanding of what it means to be human and in love.

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There's a common belief that first-person POV creates a more intimate reading experience. Do you agree? What books have proven or disproven this for you?