Getting Close (or Not): Understanding Narrative Distance in Your Writing
Write Better Now
I want to talk about narrative distance, which I talked about a couple years ago.
It’s a really important tool when you’re thinking about telling writing and showing writing.
If you’ve ever read a book and felt like you were right there in a character’s head—or, on the flip side, floating far above them like a camera drone—then you’ve experienced narrative distance in action.
What Is Narrative Distance?
Narrative distance basically is how close your reader feels to the character’s thoughts, feelings, and experiences.
It’s the degree of intimacy between the reader and the character’s inner world, and it exists on a spectrum—from very close to very far.
In close narrative distance, the reader sees the world through the character’s eyes. They experience their raw, unfiltered thoughts.
In far narrative distance, the narrator might describe the character from a distance, with more objectivity or detachment.
Think of it like a camera zooming in and out, right?
Close-up (intimate, immediate): Deep in the character’s thoughts.
Medium shot (personal but not immersed): Some access to the character’s mind, but with narrative filtering.
Wide shot (objective, distant): Observing the character externally, with little to no internal access.
Louise Harnby defines narrative distance as:
“Narrative distance’ describes the space between a novel’s narrator and the reader.
“If we, as readers, feel deeply connected to the narrator and their experience of the fictional world they inhabit, narrative distance is tiny.
“If we feel dislocated from them, more like we’re looking out on the story’s landscape objectively, the narrative distance is wide.”
Or as The History Quill explains:
“When narrative distance is at its greatest, the story is in a distant narration mode. As readers, we’re watching from afar, surveying characters and events with an objective and impersonal eye – think of it as the equivalent of a wide shot in a movie.
“Then, as the distance narrows slightly, a character comes into view. At this stage, all we can know about the character is what we can intuit from external clues (like physical appearance, expressions, dialogue and actions). As the narrative distance shrinks further, we begin to get glimpses of the character’s subjective experience (their thoughts and feelings).
“As the narrative distance is reduced even further, we enter close character mode. The reader is inhabiting the character’s consciousness: seeing through their eyes, thinking their thoughts, feeling what they feel in real time.”
There are different levels of narrative distance. You can zoom in and zoom out, but when you get into YOU ARE TELLING TOO MUCH territory is when you stay far away for a long, long time.
Why It Matters
Varying narrative distance lets you control intimacy, tone, and focus. In fast-paced action, you might zoom out to keep the momentum. In emotional climaxes, you might zoom in to heighten the reader’s connection. It's also a great way to subtly manage pacing and emotional resonance.
COOL EXAMPLES (Well, hopefully cool, but I’m having such a Tuesday so who knows)
Here is an example of distance levels starting from far away to close.
The time was seven o’clock. A woman sat at her desk typing.
Super far away. Totally impersonal.
Carrie Jones couldn’t feel her feet any longer. She’d been sitting at the desk for so long.
We have a couple details about this character now.
Carrie wanted to kill her desk. No, her computer.
Carrie is just Carrie now. She is feeling some things, but we’re not quite feeling them with her.
Why the freaking frig did she become a writer and a journalist and an editor?
Here, we’re starting to feel Carrie, right? Cough. Feel her voice? We feel like the narration is more her own voice.
Computers. Desks. Chairs. All freaking stifling, all freaking claustrophobic. But she had responsibilities, right? Has to sit there, butt in chair, to get it down because who else would?
Oh, no! Carrie is having issues and we feel it, too, right? Suddenly, we might be a bit worried about Carrie’s anger or her mental health.
That last one is a close narrative distance. We are in her head, hearing her voice. And she is having a Tuesday.
We can even put all of that together to see the different elements and the smooth-ish transition from far to close. Sometimes a lack of a smooth transition makes clunky writing.
The time was seven o’clock and a woman sat at her desk typing. Carrie Jones couldn’t feel her feet any longer. She’d been sitting at the desk for so long. Carrie wanted to kill her desk. No, her computer. Why the freaking frig did she become a writer and a journalist and an editor?
Computers. Desks. Chairs. All freaking stifling, all freaking claustrophobic. But she had responsibilities, right? Has to sit there, butt in chair, to get it down because who else would?
Different genres and point of views have different reader expectations. It’s hard to get away with a big narrative distance in a Princess Diary style book. When that happens in a first-person narrative, that far away distance feels like telling instead of showing.
Here, a quick example of when it doesn’t work in first person point-of-view (the I point-of-view).
It was seven o’clock and I sat at my desk typing. I couldn’t feel my feet. I’d been sitting at my desk so long. I wanted to kill my desk. Actually, I wanted to kill my computer. Why had I become a writer? A journalist? An editor. All the tools of the trade required sitting. I have responsibilities. I have to sit there and work because I didn’t know if anyone else could take up the financial slack.
So, it feels . . . stilted? Whiny? I don’t like the voice at all. What a pain in the butt, she is. But do you see how the narrative distance combined with the sentence structure makes this feel TOLD even though it’s in the first person. I’m not feeling it with her. I’m actually alienated from the voice.
A really amazing and detailed discussion about controlling narrative distance is at Kristen Chavez’s blog here. You should check it out because it has all sorts of brilliant bits in there.
Another Example: Same Scene, Different Distances
Once again a single moment with different narrative distances.
Far Narrative Distance:
Carrie walked into the room and looked around. She seemed uncertain, her fingers twitching slightly.
Medium Narrative Distance:
Carrie stepped into the room, her gaze flicking from one chair to the next. Perhaps one of her readers was going to explain to her the meaning of ‘edition’ vs ‘addition’ as if she didn’t know the difference and hadn’t just made a typo.
Close Narrative Distance:
This was a mistake. Carrie hesitated in the doorway, fingers twitching. Should’ve stayed home. Should never write again, honestly. Man, people sucked.
In the far version, we see Carrie from the outside. In the close version, we’re inside Carrie’s sad, little brain, hearing her internal monologue in real time.
So we shift that with punctuation, with internal thought, with word choices, even with sentence length. All the writing tools work together when it comes to narrative distance, right? Kind of cool.
Writing Exercise: The Zoom Lens
Choose a simple moment—say, a character discovering a letter in the mailbox or someone seeing a cat in a window—and write it three times, each at a different narrative distance:
Far: Describe the action as if you’re an outside observer.
Medium: Narrate with some insight into the character’s thoughts, but keep a narrative filter (“she thought,” “she wondered,” etc.—all those distancing words).
Close: Drop right on into the character’s direct experience. Use interior monologue, fragmentary thoughts, or sensory impressions.
Then think about:
Which version feels the most natural ?
Which version best suits the emotion of the scene?
How does the shift affect your sentence structure and word choice?
Final Thought About This
Narrative distance is a tool, not a rule. Once you understand it, you can wield it to shape your readers’ experience with precision. Whether you’re writing a sweeping epic or a claustrophobic thriller, knowing how close your reader is to the story’s heart can make all the difference.
PLACE TO SUBMIT
The HG Wells Short Story Competition
The annual HG Wells Fiction Short Story Competition offers a £500 Senior and £1,000 Junior prize and free publication of all shortlisted entries in a quality, professionally published paperback anthology.
Theme: The Middle Ground
Winners to be announced Sunday 16th November.
If you cannot find the answer to your query there, you can email hgwellscompetition@gmail.com Enter
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Also, there will be typos. So many typos. But I do know the difference between “edition” and “addition.”