1st Person Or 3rd Person, Which Is Better?

 There are several different ways to write, depending on the perspective and point of view (POV) you want to portray. There's 1st person, 2nd person, and 3rd person. 1st person is the I/we perspective, 2nd person is you perspective, while 3rd person is he/she/it/they perspective. Very rarely is the 2nd person viewpoint used, since it is so difficult to write, with the reader actually being the character. 1st person and 3rd person, however, are both used quite frequently. So, which is better to use?

That really depends on the viewpoint you want to pursue. 1st person is more intimate, allowing you to get directly into your character's head. Popular examples of this are The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee, The Catcher In The Rye by J.D. Salinger, and The Fault In Our Stars by John Green. 1st person POV can raise the emotional stakes, and be conversational. However, it can be subjective and have an unreliable narrator, since you are just seeing it just from one narrator's perspective and the character may not be the most reliable.

3rd person is more flexible, so you can see from multiple characters' viewpoints, as well as places that your character isn't, with an omniscient narrator. Some popular examples of 3rd person POV are Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, 1984 by George Orwell, Lord Of The Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien, and the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling. 3rd person allows the reader to gain insight into multiple characters and allows for objectivity as a result. 3rd person POV also allows the reader to easily jump from past, present, and future tense.

As you can see, there is no clear answer to if 1st person or 3rd person is better? It really depends on you and the voice you want to use in your writing. Both 1st person and 3rd person can be used in your writing, depending on the goal you want to achieve. Don't be afraid to play around and see which fits you as an author better. It is your creation and you can make it do what you want it to. There is no right or wrong viewpoint. Tell the stories you were put here to tell and in the way you want to tell them.

I did an exercise a bit ago where I wrote a prologue to a book I am working on in both 1st person and 3rd person, to see which one I liked better.

So, what do you think, is 1st person or 3rd person better? Which one do you enjoy in your writing or reading?

LIFE IN THE STREETS

1st Person:

Never trust anyone or anything in life to last, for those dearest to you will be the ones that are torn away most harshly.  That’s been my motto my entire life.

I thought I had the perfect family where nothing could ever go wrong.  We were the happiest things there ever were.    Until Mother died.  I was only nine years old when she died in childbirth, giving birth to Little Emily.  Then Father died of cancer, five years later.  Then it was just Little Emily, and me.  We had no relatives, and I refused to have the state separate us, so we faded from existence and I supported us by begging, and doing odd jobs.  Until Little Emily had been caught in the crossfire of a gang fight and died as well.  I was then but fifteen, powerless to change anything. I vowed then, that I’d do everything in my power to prevent tragedies and pain like that from happening again.  

I’ve been alone, on my own my entire life, trying to survive in a cold and unfeeling, heartless world.  So I’ve done odd jobs here and there, the most productive job, or in some opinions, the worst one, was when I became an undercover spy for the police station.  You see, everyone on the streets thought I was a street rat just like them.  Well, it was true.  So it was no problem gathering the information for the latest gang member attack or attempted robbery on the jewelry store.  That occupation was hard, but I learn how to survive and in the very least, able to help and save potential gang victims.  And it was through that job, that the happiest time in my life since my family had died, or the cursed time of my life came to pass.

One day, I had just dropped off some tips at the police station about the newest planned drug deal site. I turned around to leave and was nearly bowled over by this guy rushing past me. My report papers, that had been tucked neatly under my arm, went flying all over the linoleum floor. I cursed as my check I had just gotten got stomped under the unforgiving heel of a policewoman walking by. I ducked under the crowd of pushing shoulders to pick up my belongings. I may not have hardly anything in the world to call my own, but what I do have, I take care of and clung to, keeping it safe and clean.

“I’m so sorry ma’am, I didn’t see you there,” the jerk who’d caused me to drop all stuff apologized in a soft, gentle voice, as he dropped to his knee to help me pick up my things and people in uniforms rushed around us.

“It’s nothing,” I replied, grabbing my check before it got ruined further and pushed my grimy hair back behind my ear.  When did anyone notice?  Why did it matter to him that he helped me?  I thought to myself.

“No really, usually I’m not that careless,” he said as he handed me another sheaf of papers, with an unconscious elegance in those strong tan hands. I’ve had to train myself to look at people. Their hands and eyes. To know when they would try to attack, and with what weapon, and what strength. And he? He had the power to make things happen, just by looking at those hands.

I glanced up at the man and my eyes widened. His sophisticated words and genteel manners did not match his appearance.  He was dressed like any ordinary street rat, just like a hundred other people I saw in a day, but somehow, he seemed different, like he didn’t belong here; like he was meant for and had known a different life. He handed me the last bit of papers. I had to force myself not to recoil from touching his hand to grab and paper and dirtying it with mine. Heck, I couldn’t remember the last time I had been able to properly get all the dirt out from under my fingernails. Living on the streets gives you more important things to do with your time; like, survive. 

“Thanks,” I replied, trying to recover some composure and my tough and collected face. It’s how I’d survived this far, don’t let anyone see any emotion. It’s safer.

“No problem, it’s the least I could do.  Do you need any help organizing that paperwork again?” 

“No thanks, I’ve got it.  I’m sure you’ve got other things to do.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” his chestnut eyes expressing such warmth that it took me aback.  It had been quite some time since anyone had taken the time to talk to me, besides the exchanging of information for them to do their job and me to do mine.

“Um, you too.  Bye,” I spun on my heel with its tattered sneakers, anxious to get back to the world, the place I belonged, where no one noticed, and no one cared. Didn’t have to risk getting hurt and losing anyone, again, or the jealousy come roiling up again like bile, watching everyone else so happy, together.

 “Wait, will I see you again?” he called after me, jogging to catch up.

“Maybe,” I shrugged noncommittally.  The chances were slim.

“Well, until next time, then.”

“Yeah, see ya,” I said as I shoved hurriedly through the glass door.  As I was walking through the door, I heard him call out a question.

“Wait, I don’t even know your name.”

I kept walking through the door, leaving him in the dust, as I lost myself in the sea of nameless faces on the street.  I didn’t have time in my life to be distracted by such nonsense and frivolousness.  I sighed, in frustration, would my life always be like this? 

3rd Person:

Never trust anyone or anything in life to last, for those dearest to you will be the ones that are torn away most harshly.  That had been her motto entire life and the only way she had survived.

She had had the perfect family as a young girl, where nothing could ever go wrong.  They were the happiest things there ever were.    Until Kaylee’s Mother died.  She was only nine years old when her dear mother died in childbirth, giving birth to Little Emily.  Then her father had also died of cancer, five years later.  Then it was just Little Emily and her, all alone. They had no relatives, and Kaylee refused to have the state separate them, so they faded from existence, and she, as the protective older sister supported them by begging, and doing odd jobs.  Then, Little Emily was caught in the crossfire of a gang fight and died as well.  Kaylee was only fifteen at the time, powerless to change anything. She vowed then, that she’d do everything in her power to prevent tragedies and pain like that from happening again.  

She had been alone, on her own her entire life, trying to survive in a cold and unfeeling, heartless world.  She had done odd jobs here and there, the most productive job being, or in some opinions, the worst one, was when she became an undercover spy for the police station.  You see, everyone on the streets thought she was a street rat just like them.  Well, it was true, wasn’t it?  So it was no problem gathering the information for the latest gang member attack or attempted robbery on the jewelry store.  That occupation was hard for her, but she learned how to survive and in the very least, able to help and save potential gang victims.  And it was through that job, that the happiest time in her life since her family had died, or the most cursed time of her life came to pass.

One day, Kaylee had just delivered some information at the police station about the latest gang activity.  As she turned around to leave, a man in a hurry barreled past her, causing her to drop some of her paperwork. 

“Oh, I’m sorry ma’am, I didn’t see you,” he apologized in a soft, gentle voice, as he dropped to his knee to help her pick up her things that had scattered on the floor like a hurricane had hit.

“It’s nothing,” she replied, picking up another sheaf of papers.  When did anyone notice?  Why did it matter to him that he helped me? she thought to herself.

“No really, usually I’m not that careless,” he said as he handed her the last sheaf of papers, with an unconscious elegance in those strong tan hands. She had had to train herself to look at people. Their hands and eyes. To know when they would try to attack, and with what weapon, and what strength. And he? He had the power to make things happen, just by looking at those hands, she thought musing, trying to pull herself back to reality and the situation at hand, to extricate herself as quickly as possible.

She glanced up at the man.  What she saw surprised her.  His sophisticated words and genteel manners did not match his appearance in the least.  He was dressed like any ordinary street rat, just like a hundred other people she saw in a day, but somehow, he seemed different, like he didn’t belong here; like he was meant for and had known a different life. 

“Thanks,” she replied, trying to recover some composure and her tough and collected face. It’s how she’d survived this far, to not let anyone see any emotion. It was safer for her.

“No problem, it’s the least I could do.  Do you need any help organizing that paperwork again?” 

“No thanks, I’ve got it.  I’m sure you’ve got other things to do.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” his chestnut eyes expressing such warmth that it took her aback.  It had been quite some time since anyone had taken the time to talk to her, besides the exchanging of information.

“Um, you too.  Bye,” She spun on her heel with its tattered sneakers, anxious to get back to the world, the place she belonged, where no one noticed, and no one cared. Where she didn’t have to risk getting hurt and losing anyone, again, or the jealousy come roiling up again like bile, watching everyone else so happy, together.

“Wait, will I see you again?” he called after her, jogging to catch up.

“Maybe,” she shrugged noncommittally.  The chances were slim.

“Well, until next time, then.”

“Yeah, see ya,” Kaylee said as she shoved hurriedly through the glass door.  As she was walking through the door, she heard him call out a question.

“Wait, I don’t even know your name.”

Kaylee kept walking through the door, leaving him in the dust as she quickly lost herself in the sea of nameless faces on the street.  She didn’t have time in her life to be distracted by such nonsense and frivolousness.  She sighed, in frustration, thinking, would my life always be like this?