Lucy's Experiment on Writing What She's Not

Photo by Steve Callahan

LUCY BURDETTE: Since we had the discussion two weeks ago about whether an author should write from a point of view character that she doesn't know and understand personally, I've been puzzling over that question. I began to noodle around with a short story idea following our African trip, and I decided you all might like to offer opinions and advice. 

It seemed to me that this story could be written from several different points of view. One might be the tour director, who I was imagining as a young-ish white woman. She would know the people on the trip and be able to translate their peculiarities to the local Namibian authorities. (And I could imagine being in her shoes fairly easily.) Another, I imagined might be Bigboy, a local black man who is hired to help with the boat safari and fishing and sightseeing trips. As a native from the nearby village, he would have a very different perspective on the crime and the tourists, while also having experience with the ship and the wild setting. So that's the way I began to write the story. But I wondered if I could ever really understand his POV? Here's a snippet of the story draft and then I'd love to hear from you!

Murder on the Zambezi Queen by Lucy Burdette

It was said by village lore that there were a thousand ways to die along the river. But this time, death appeared to have come by human being, not by an annoyed hippopotamus, not by crocodile snatching the body and pulling it thrashing below the surface of the water to store for a later meal, not by puff adder or black mamba snakes, not by a charging Cape Buffalo.

The body floated in the hot tub, which technically was not hot at all, as the motor had quit earlier in the week and could not be restored. It had been determined by the captain in conversation with the authorities that the body should not be moved since the woman was so clearly dead and evidence could too easily be destroyed. All three of the retired physicians on the tour agreed that there was no sign of life. Much to the dismay of the dead woman’s fellow travelers, she bobbed face up, following the rhythm of the river as it was disturbed by the wake of arriving boats. Perhaps, thought Bigboy, the local tour liaison, the cooler temperature of the dysfunctional tub might preserve the evidence.

The ship’s captain called over the intercom for all passengers to come out of their cabins, take seats in the lounge, and refrain from talking. It was an hour before sunset, the cocktail hour for some, and nap time for others who’d taken advantage of two or even three of the small boat cruises up the river to see the wildlife. Or perhaps drunk too many glasses of excellent rose at lunch.

As they emerged from the lower decks with mussed hair and baggy safari garb in shades of beige and gray, they were escorted to the outside deck, the one on the far end from the body and the tub. Two Namibian police officers, who had raced up to the houseboat in a small motor boat, queried them about their relationship to the floating woman, and asked each in turn what they might have seen or noticed. Bigboy perched in a corner where he could both eavesdrop on the conversations around him and listen to the questions of the Namibian authorities.

The younger of the two officials glanced around the room as if he had never seen such luxury. And quite probably he hadn’t. The only local people who’d seen the interior of this ship were villagers who worked shifts on the boat, providing three meals per day and a river of wine and beer, and ministering to the cabins of the guests whenever they were out viewing wildlife. How was it fair, he wondered, that the people in the villages bordering the river shared one outhouse, while the American tourists had their personal toilets cleaned twice a day?

The ever-cheery tour director sat in for each interview, offering bottled water and cheerful attempts at reassurance. But Bigboy suspected that scratch beneath her surface, sheer panic bloomed. This death was a tour director‘s nightmare, the worst possible nightmare, worse than having to airlift someone out of the bush with a cardiac emergency. Worse even than receiving and then having to break the news of a dead parent or desperately sick child.

Eventually the tour director’s turn with the questioning came.

“Did you know this deceased?”

“We all knew her, we’ve been on this tour for almost two weeks.” She couldn’t prevent herself from a roll of the eyes. “She was not the kind of woman who remained in the background. This morning at breakfast we heard a round up of her hormone replacement therapy right down to the dosages that kept her husband happy and her skin young. Her husband sat there across the table with a dumb grin on his face.” She leaned forward to whisper. "More than once I wondered if there was something wrong with him." She mimicked a whirling motion with one finger and mouthed the word 'cuckoo'.

The Namibian police officers looked perplexed, confused.

She drew back and sat up straight. “What I mean to say is that we’ve been together for two weeks. And most of us had not met each other before this trip. And if you put a cross-section of the human race into a confined space, some of them are bound to turn up annoying. And even if the group is gelling, about ten days into the trip, the people start to get, well”… she paused, “as we say in the business, scratchy. And then once your mind identifies someone as annoying, those same people grow louder and more annoying, or so it seems. And then the daydreams begin.” Her words trailed off, as if realizing she was saying way too much.

Thoughts Reds? Is one or the other possible POV more interesting to you? Would writing from Bigboy's perspective feel like too much of a reach for a caucasian woman writer?