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.

A New Beginning: Sharing Stories, Poetry & History

Welcome to this space, where I share my thoughts, stories, and the journey of my writing.

 My name is Shari, and I’m new to blogging. I’m learning as I go, and I hope to grow both my blog and my presence on the internet. If you happen to come across one of my links, I’d love it if you’d subscribe or follow me there as well!

I created this blog to share my writing, introduce the characters from my book, and express my love for family. I may also use this space to discuss current affairs and politics from time to time. I will also share some of my home improvement adventures.

Today, I’m sharing a poem that stands as a poem on its own but also serves as an introduction to two characters from my historical fiction novel, Tillie’s Song (working title). The novel is being written for youth and young adults and follows the story of Tillie and her younger brother, August, as they navigate the harsh realities of a Canadian Indian residential school.

This is not my grandmother’s story, though her name was Tillie (she went by June). I chose to use the name Tillie as a way to honor her and the resilience of so many others who endured these institutions.

---

I Am Not Marie

They call me Marie, but that’s not my name.

They stole it, they took it, they made me ashamed.

Tillie was whispered in soft, loving tones,

but here, it is lost like the wind through the stones.

August is somewhere, but never with me.

They keep us apart like leaves from a tree.

I see him at prayers, eyes hollow and wide,

but I cannot hug him, though once I had tried.

The priest saw my hands reach, my brother held back,

they punished me swiftly, the world turned to black.

Now I just watch him and hope that he knows

I still say his name when the cold silence grows.

Two years have passed—no word, no sign,

no letters from home, though I still call it mine.

Does Mother still miss us? Does she even know

the way that we suffer, the scars that won’t show?

My hands grasp at strands, too short for a braid,

I whisper old stories, but I'm always afraid.

At night, when the dark wraps its arms around me,

I dream of my home and the girl I used to be.

I wake up as Marie, but that isn’t true.

I’m Tillie! I’m Tillie!

I just wish someone knew.

---

Thank you for stopping by my blog!

I truly appreciate your support as I start this new journey. If you enjoyed this poem or have any thoughts to share, I’d love to hear from you in the comments. Let me know what you think about my writing, my new endeavor, or anything else on your mind. I will share more details of Tillie and August in upcoming posts, possibly even excerpts from different chapters. It is still being written but I think I'd like to share parts of it and possibly get some feedback from anyone interested enough.

Looking forward to growing and sharing more with you!

---

Renovation of the Heart

I left behind twenty‐five years

of shadows and toxic echoes.

Now 56 and standing, on the edge of a future

that I didn't think possible,

in the husk of a big old garage.

This space, a gift from my dear Auntie,

once housed his business, again cradles dreams.

With each nail and brushstroke,

I reshape walls and rewrite my story;

my grown children cheer silently

as I build a small haven

a sanctuary of light, love, and self.

Dear Aunt Ruby, From the moment I started in the garage that carries the legacy of Uncle, I knew it was more than just a space, it was a gift of love, strength, and new beginnings. This place will forever hold the spirit of family, and I know his spirit visits here. Thank you for this incredible gift, for believing in me, and for gifting me a place to heal and grow. With all my heart, I am forever grateful for your kindness.

With love and gratitude, Shari and the Tribe.