Exploring Tillie’s Voice – Help Me Decide!
Writing Tillie’s Song has been a fun but emotional and challenging journey, and as I shape Tillie’s story, I’ve been thinking a lot about perspective. Should the novel stay in Tillie’s childhood voice, or should I use a hybrid approach, blending her child and adult perspectives?
This will give you a sneak peek at what I have been up to.
I’ve written two versions of the same scene one from my original approach and one with a hybrid style. Both capture the same moment, but they feel different. Now I need your help!
Read both versions and let me know:
Which one draws you in more?Do you connect more with child Tillie’s immediate experience, or does the adult reflection add something meaningful?Which style would you want to read for a whole novel?
Original Version : Young Tillies Perspective
Tillie's response hinted at a deeper understanding. "Auggie, I heard things," she said, "when the grown-ups talk. About our father, Charles."
August's voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. "What things?"
Tillie leaned close, her voice hushed and filled with a childlike wonder. "He shimmers, Auggie," she confided.
Auggie's eyes widened in astonishment. "Like magic?"
She nodded rapidly. "Just like magic! Like the way the creek shines when the sun hits it just right. Or like when you find a perfect, smooth rock and it catches the light in your hand. He’s slick Auggie, and he"s got a shiny silver buckle on his belt, and his shoes are so clean you can almost see your face in them, his teeth and his eyes sparkle when he smiles! He smiles, Oh, Auggie, he smiles like he’s got the best secret in the whole world."
August believed in magic, and Tillie knew in this moment, he was imagining a magical father creating stars in his bare hands or walking without trace.
But the adults saw Charles differently and far less enchanting, from what Tillie had gleaned from hushed whispers behind closed doors. Tillie had overheard them; their words painted a contrasting portrait. "That one’s slick, Slips through a crowd like an eel in a creek." "Smiles too much." "Talks too easy."
They didn’t mean it as a compliment, but Auggie wouldn’t know that. He whispered the word "Slick," rolling it around in his mouth like something golden and rare.
Tillie stated matter-of-factly, "And then, one day, he just up and disappeared."
Confusion clouded August's face. "Disappeared?" he asked.
"No goodbyes, just… gone. Like mist when the sun gets too high," she said softly.
Auggie took it as proof of the magic. "Our father probably turned into smoke and slipped into the sky," he declared.
The adults shook their heads, "Figured," they mumbled. "Slipped away, same as he slipped in."
Tillie, however, kept that thought to herself, letting Auggie believe in the fantastical. For now, at least.
Yeah, and then I heard another thing," Tillie continued. "About William Johnson, the Indian Agent. He wanted Father to sign some papers, but Father wouldn’t. So, William Johnson tried to… trade Father a talking squirrel for a signature!"
August giggled. "A talking squirrel?"
"Yep. A really sassy one, too. I guess it said something mean about William Johnson's hat. The whole thing ended with William Johnson chasing a squirrel up a tree and Father… just… wasn't there anymore."
August's eyes widened with wonder. "So Father’s a… a shimmery person?" he asked.
"Maybe," Tillie offered. "Or maybe he just… went somewhere really far away," she suggested. "Like to a big city."
"But… why doesn’t he come back?" the boy wondered, his voice tinged with sadness.
"Maybe he was waiting for the right time."
"Like a magical moment?"
"Maybe. Come on, let's go see if the creek has any sparkly rocks for us."
"Okay!"
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Hybrid Version : Adult & Child Perspective
I didn’t know much about my father back then, only the bits and pieces I had gathered from overheard conversations. Snippets of voices drifting through walls, murmured over plates of food, or spoken in a way that adults thought little ears wouldn’t understand.
But I understood enough.
"Auggie, I heard things," I told him, my six-year-old voice full of quiet excitement. "When the grown-ups talk. About our father, Charles."
August, only four, leaned in closer, his whisper barely a breath. "What things?"
"He shimmers, Auggie," I confided, my voice carrying all the wonder I felt.
Auggie’s eyes widened. "Like magic?"
I nodded quickly. "Just like magic! Like the way the creek shines when the sun hits it just right. Or when you find a perfect, smooth rock and it catches the light in your hand. He’s slick, Auggie, and he’s got a shiny silver buckle on his belt. His shoes are so clean you can almost see your face in them. His teeth and his eyes sparkle when he smiles! Oh, Auggie, he smiles like he’s got the best secret in the whole world."
That was how I saw him, back then.
August believed in magic, and in that moment, I knew he was imagining a father who could pluck stars from the sky or walk through the woods without leaving footprints.
But the adults saw Charles differently. Their words, low and sharp behind closed doors, painted a different picture.
"That one’s slick. Slips through a crowd like an eel in a creek. Smiles too much, talks too easy."
They didn’t say it with admiration.
But to a child, “slick” sounded special. Mysterious. Powerful.
Auggie whispered the word like something golden and rare. "Slick."
"And then, one day, he just up and disappeared," I said, matter-of-factly.
August’s brow furrowed. "Disappeared?"
"No goodbyes. Just... gone. Like mist when the sun gets too high."
And because he was four, because he still believed in magic, that only made the story better.
"Our father probably turned into smoke and slipped into the sky," he decided.
The adults, shaking their heads, had a different explanation.
"Figured," they muttered. "Slipped away, same as he slipped in."
But I didn’t tell Auggie that. I let him believe in the magic.
For now, at least.
"Yeah, and then I heard another thing," I added, lowering my voice again. "About William Johnson, the Indian Agent. He wanted Father to sign some papers, but Father wouldn’t. So, William Johnson tried to… trade Father a talking squirrel for a signature!"
August giggled. "A talking squirrel?"
"Yep. A really sassy one, too. I guess it said something mean about William Johnson’s hat. The whole thing ended with William Johnson chasing a squirrel up a tree, and Father… just… wasn’t there anymore."
Auggie’s eyes were huge. "So Father’s a… a shimmery person?"
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe he just… went somewhere really far away."
"Like a big city?"
"Maybe."
Even now, all these years later, I can still hear his little voice, still feel the way I let him hold on to the fantasy.
"But… why doesn’t he come back?" he had asked.
I hadn’t known how to answer him then. And even now, as I sit here remembering, I still don’t.
"Maybe he was waiting for the right time," I had told him.
Auggie had nodded. "Like a magical moment?"
"Maybe."
And just like that, the sadness in his eyes was gone.
"Come on, let's go see if the creek has any sparkly rocks for us."
"Okay!"
That was childhood. That was how we survived. One shimmer of magic at a time.
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If you have read this far thank you, but please share your opinions in the comments. I am really struggling with this.
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