Exercise 3---POV

I have to preface this by saying that I do not think switching POVs in a scene without chapter breaks works, no matter what that 'expert' in Writer's Digest says. It smacks of amateur. It reeks. I just got done reading a middle grade novel with five characters and mutiple POVs. It was in third person, and it did work, but I didn't like it. It was very noticable. Maybe not as clunky as a lot of stories like that are, but it did clunk a bit. That is my biggest petpeeve when I review on Writing.com, and probably the main reason I don't review much. There's just too much crapola out there.

EXERCISE 3---POV

Five years. That’s how long it’s been. Five years during which I tried to get on with my life, tried to forget the past. I’ve decided that it’s impossible to forget, and nearly impossible to forgive. I like to think I’ve forgiven him, that I can at least offer him that, but I’m not sure. Ever since his mother told me his release date, I’ve been one big mass of confusion.
Now, though, now I’m going to see him. The thought makes my stomach clench, but whether in nervousness or excitement I’m not sure.
“I can’t believe you’re going through with this,” Mom said last night. “I just can’t understand it. Why? After what he did to our family, this should be the last thing you want to do.” She pressed her lips together. “I thought you’d forgotten about him.”
“I tried,” I said, but I don’t think she believed me. I did try, no matter what she thinks.
A blue sedan turns down the street, and I know it’s him. I have no idea what his reaction will be. I haven’t spoken to him since the day of the accident. The last time I saw him was at the sentencing, and that was such a horrible experience I’ve done my best to forget that whole day.
I wonder if he kept the letters I sent, letters full of words I can’t even remember now. He never answered, so eventually I stopped writing. I guess he forgot about me. Or wanted to.
Why am I here? Why am I waiting to see him when I should be home studying for my exam in the morning? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
The sedan pulls into the driveway, rocks crunching beneath the tires. I’m standing beneath the elm tree in the yard, frozen, paralyzed, nauseated. The leaves rustle above my head, normally a comforting sound, now only annoying and distracting. Marcy gives me a little wave through the window, her face tight and distressed. I know she doesn’t want me here.
The passenger door opens and my breath catches a little. I see his head first, that blonde hair so short now, and then all of him as he straightens and shuts the door.
He walks around the front of the car, and now he sees me, and he stops. I can’t move, unable to look away from those green eyes. I can’t breathe. All I can see is him.
“Joey,” Marcy says, shooting me an unfriendly glance. “Come on inside. I know you’re tired.”
Ignoring her, he shakes off her hand and walks toward me. The expression on his face—oh, God. I don’t think I can do this.
I turn away, pressing my forehead into the rough tree bark.


I can’t believe she’s here. I must be dreaming. I have to be dreaming. I stare at her auburn hair, shiny against the back of her green shirt. I want to touch it. I want to feel it slide through my fingers, want to—stop. Shut up. Just shut up. Shut up. It’s been five years. Five years since I spoke her name. Since I touched her. Since I killed her brother.
I have to swallow hard to keep from puking. There’s too many memories here. I clench my fists, forgetting the letters I’m holding. Her letters, the only things that kept me from going nuts in that hole. I’d read them over and over, until her words were etched into my mind.
My hand reaches out to brush the back of her arm. That’s it. That’s all I can do. The feel of her skin burns me with memories I’ve spent five years trying to bury.
She turns around slowly, so that bit by bit I see her face. Fear nearly chokes me. What if she hates me? I don’t think—oh, shit, she’s crying.
“I can’t do this. I can’t.” She doesn’t move, though, just scrubs a hand across her eyes as if angry. That’s ok. Anger I can do. Anger’s what I’m all about.
I need to say something, but I can’t. It’s like my jaw’s locked. So I hold out the letters, hoping that will speak for me. Her expression goes from puzzlement to understanding in an instant. More tears slide down her cheeks and she sniffs noisily.
“You…you saved them? I thought…” she trails off, biting her lip. I’m still holding out the letters like an idiot, and eventually she takes them, carefully not touching me.
I know what she thought. And I did try to forget her, I really did. But she’d crept beneath my skin. She’s still there, crawling to the surface.
“I know,” I say, feeling like a jerk. “I’m sorry, Cass.” God. Are there any other words as worthless as those? I am sorry. I’ve been sorry since I woke up in the hospital and Mom told me Derek was dead.
I wonder what she’s thinking, staring at the letters clutched in her hand.



If I keep my eyes on the letters, I won’t have to look at him. His feet move closer, swishing through the overgrown grass. My arm brushes against the tree, scratching my skin.
“I’m sorry, Cass,” he says, sending a shiver down my neck. Mom was right: I should never have come, should never have seen him. Because now that I have, all I want is to feel his arms around me again. I want—I want him again.
Finally I raise my head, trying to remember to breathe. I see the past in his green eyes, in the set of his shoulders. There’s a hard cast to his mouth now, and a jagged scar across his cheekbone. I want to kiss the hardness away until only the softness remains. I want to erase the hurt and the regret from his face and bring back the boy I used to love.
“I know you are,” I say softly, stretching out my hand to him. When he hesitates, I try to smile. “It’s okay, Joel. I…I forgive you.” Saying the words is easy—too easy. Can forgiveness really be so simple? I pray it is.
For a second he only stares at me, as if he can’t believe it. Our hands touch, fingers twining together, and then he pulls me into his arms.
“Cass, oh, God, Cass,” he mumbles into my hair, holding me tight against him.
I slide my hands around his waist, press my ear against his chest so that all I hear is the beating of his heart.



**I'm not sure about the last scene. Should keep it when i post this in HWG? Or just the first 2?
Plus, I'm worried that last part is too....melodramatic or something. oh well.