Theme

To discover a theme in an existing book is challenging enough, but to find one for your own story, well, that’s like extinguishing a fire with a handkerchief. The theme expresses a universal message and I’ve been taught that a theme is very important. You need to know what you want to say with your story, even if a book isn’t literary fiction, or maybe especially then.

There is a difference between the subject of a book and the theme. A subject is what it’s about, while a theme is about what you want to say with your story. A subject can be: loneliness. A theme can be: loneliness is just a state of mind. You then use your story to prove your theme. That is why a theme is a good thing to have, it keeps you on track and reminds you of why you are writing your story.
That is easier with literary fiction, because that usually deals with universal dilemmas, but what if you want to write a different genre, what if you just want to write something light and fun? What if the story just dropped in your lap without a yellow post-it that tells you the theme? 

With me, usually the story comes without a clear idea of its theme and I never used to think about it. Until I learned that the theme is really important, it’s the soul of the story. And even if a story is written because it’s cool or fun, doesn’t mean it doesn’t have a theme. Every story has a theme, but it doesn’t always explore it or say something about it. And that’s the difference between a fun book and a good book.

So now, when a fun story comes to me—as they so often do—I write down what the characters are struggling with and make that into a subject and then into a statement about that subject. And then I make sure I prove that statement with my story. It sounds easier than it is. Especially since most of the time, but especially with the first draft, I just want to get the story written. I follow the scent in my brain that leads me to the ending. Where my reward is cheese. Hmm, cheese. But at the end of that maze I want to be able to look back and see that I’ve written something with substance. When I wrote a lot of poetry during my teen years, I always had a message in my poems, so why not with my stories? I have plenty to say and I would love to be able to reach out to people and make them think and debate. After all, isn’t that one of the wonders of books?

With theme also comes symbolism, because symbolism is a great way of hinting at your theme. For instance, if your theme relates to freedom, you could use birds to represent freedom. Also, buildings can represent strength. Darkness can represent evil. Flames/fire can represent anger, etc. Symbolism is fun, because it’s like you’re winking at the reader. And who doesn’t like being winked at? Well, unless it’s a creepy wink, but that’s not the case here. So feel free to wink at your reader all you want and throw some symbolism in your story cauldron, along with the theme. ;) 

Ninja Readers

Ah, the sweet sound of applause in your head. The euphoric feeling that settles around you like a warm, comfortable blanket. The proud grin that you can’t seem to shake, even when you walk your dog and pick up his doodoo. No, nothing can stop you from feeling on top of the world when you’ve typed THE END at the end of your story. It felt like a very long labour and you’re both sad and elated. Sad that your precious baby has to face the harsh world on its own and elated that you’ve managed to drag a whole story out of your head and onto your laptop screen.

And so you call all arms, even though you have all your arms, and request some ninja readers (beta-readers, but my term sounds cooler) to read your final version and comment. With flushed cheeks and trembling fingers you send out your story and hope for the best. Before, you thought the hard part was over, but this is the hard part. It's FREAKING scary. I always realised it would be scary, but I never thought I’d compare it to jumping out of a plane with no parachute. And I’m afraid of heights.

Still, I’ve been diligent, worked hard and have been well prepared for this battle. An MA in Creative Writing has taught me how to deal with criticism. As well as, you know, write creatively. But that was in the safety of a loving classroom as opposed to the jungle out there. Writing is art and art is personal. The rules change, you change them, or someone else. Someone will love your work, someone will hate it. We’re all different and that’s okay. All I know is that this book wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for me and that means nobody could have written it but me. Somehow, that’s comforting. It helps that so far I’ve heard good things from my ninja readers (and only one person talked to me like I was a four-year-old). No fundamental mistakes, only a few differences of opinions, but that’s why you need to sort out for yourself if what someone tells you is their opinion or a structural error on your part. I guess I just have to go for it and have a little faith in myself. A literary agent was already interested in the idea and that’s a good start, now I just have to use my fear to push me forward, instead of hold me back, even if it’s right over the edge of the cliff, without knowing how deep it is and if there is a giant bouncing house at the bottom. Just in case, I’m taking my shoes off. 

Outline VS No Outline

I’ve read that Charles Dickens never knew what would happen as he wrote. Have you ever seen how big his books are? And everything connects with each other. I think that’s amazing and it proves you don’t need to outline every single thought that contributes to the plot. However, I also believe that it depends on the writer, because there are writers who have the story in their heads from beginning to end and make it work too.

I’m definitely a wing-it-person myself, I try to outline as much as I can, but it doesn’t seem to work for me. It’s like the story is already there, all I need to do is write. So that’s what I do. I just write. It starts with a basic idea, then the characters (sometimes the other way around) and then the words just flow onto the paper. Alright, it’s not always that easy, but for a first draft I just tell myself to keep going, writing for the sake of writing. Then I can always edit later on. Plus, by forcing yourself to write you usually come up with great ideas. At least, that’s the case with me. Of course I do take a little break sometimes to assess different plot turns and see which will work best, but once I know which direction I want to head in I’m good to go. And when I find that I have no idea which way to go, that’s where I just write the first thing that comes to mind and usually that sparks great ideas later on. Pressure can be a good thing, I’ve learned. If you’re stuck it’s also a good idea to write the ending, or a future scene so that you know what you’re writing towards.

The pros of outlining are that you know exactly what to write and why you’re writing it. If you do it well, then you basically already have the roadmap of your story and all you have to do is follow it to the end. Then comes the editing and you can see how well you’ve done. The advantage of this is that you’ve already decided where you’re going and figured out what works and what doesn’t. You’re focused and have a clear vision of your final destination. Now all you have to do is drive there, which goes much faster if you know where you’re going.
The cons of outlining are that there is no room for creativity, you’ve already thought about which scene goes where and after hard work you’ve come up with the perfect full circle, but what if you discover something along the way? Oh, what is that? Another character just popped up? No, that can’t happen because it’s not planned. But it can happen, because in the imagination anything can happen. Writing is a creative endeavour and no matter how perfectly planned the story is, you still never know until you actually write. You might also get tunnel vision and at some point lose track of the big picture because you’re so focussed on what your outline told you to write that it might take you a while to notice that it’s not working. I’ve heard stories of writers that had an outline and started writing, but then realised something wasn’t working and they weren’t sure what. It could be something in the plot that looked good on paper but just isn’t right, or it could be the lack of soul. Sometimes, because you don’t have a clear goal, you go places that you wouldn’t have discovered otherwise. Something that doesn’t necessarily contribute to what you had in mind, but does in fact benefit the soul of the story in some way.

The pros of no outline are therefore that you have more freedom. You’ve packed your bags and are ready for the road trip of a lifetime. You know roughly in which direction you go, but anything is still possible. Predicting what lies ahead can’t always be done and sometimes you need to react on something along the way, something that’s unpredictable. Let’s just stick to the driving metaphor and say that there’s a road block, then you need to find a way around it at that moment and who knows where that might lead to? And that can be a good thing. You have room for creativity and you find that your original idea may lead you to a completely new and better idea.

The cons of no outline are that you can get lost along the way. Without a clear destination you might end up driving in circles. If you don’t at least know what you’re trying to say and what you’re writing for, it’s hard to determine what should be written in the first place. A book needs some structure in order to make sense, so it’s good to have some things planned, even if it’s just one scene at the end and one in the middle.

What works for me is the middle ground. Somewhere between plotting like a villain and winging it like a politician that was just caught cheating. However, it is up to the writer. Everybody has their own system and what works for me, won’t work for them and vice versa. So which are you? Plotter? Winger? Or plonger? 

Generating inspiration

Some writers have trouble finding an idea for a story.

I have nine ideas for novels and I plan to write them all, so I’m safe for now. But even though that's the case, it is still fun to come up with new ideas and to exercise those creative muscles. So this is something handy (and fun) I've learned in one of my classes:

First I wrote down a question that interests me, like; what would drive someone to murder someone?

It can be a lighter question than this, but you get the idea.

Then I wrote down what I thought is funny like; when someone is distracted and walks into a wall.

This is because humour is important in any story, especially in stories that have a serious or dark theme.

Next I wrote down any special skills I have. I guess this is to give your character something extra and to write about something you know. I didn’t really think of anything that special except for touching my nose with my tongue. Who knows, it might become super important in a story. And yes, that was sarcasm.

Then I wrote down the first title of a novel that came to mind; Veiled in Darkness. It can seriously be anything you think of and it doesn’t have to be the title for the story you’ll work on. Like I said, it’s just to get the creative juices flowing.

Lastly you write down where the story will be set. I chose Chicago, US. 

I made up four names for characters and then for each of them I wrote down:

Something I (the writer) am or have been (can be anything)

Something I have felt recently

An exciting or interesting event

A boring event

An animal, plant or object that I like or find interesting

And there you go; by answering all of these things you already have an idea for a story. The only thing left to do is to put it together. The challenge is to use every element at some point, and you can decide how. It can be funny, weird or just extremely normal. It’s your story.

The thing about this exercise is that you also learn to write about what you know, which is always a good start with any story. You can even add other things for your characters, like; locations you know well, problems you’ve faced, worries you have, etc. The paper is your playground, have fun!

Upside Down

“Take that, you bastard,” Amy said out loud. She threw the last of Jay’s clothes out the window of her appartment. Not many clothes were lying around but she had searched for anything belonging to him. It was the only thing she could do to hurt him back.

            “Whatcha doing, there?”

            Amy turned around, her heart nearly jumping out of her chest. “You scared me,” she said.

            “And you are throwing stuff out the window,” Melanie replied. “We may be best friends but if I find anything of mine down there, I might have to kill you.”

            Despite everything, Amy managed a slight tug at the corner of her lips.

She looked at the floor and took a deep breath. “It’s Jay, he kind of – ” She shrugged.

            “What? What did he do?” Melanie took off her jacket and walked towards Amy.

            “He cheated on me.” As soon as the words escaped her lips she felt the tears well up in her amber eyes.

            “Oh, no.” Melanie hugged her tight and gently patted her back.

            “How could he do that to me?” Amy asked a bottle of wine later. They were sitting on the couch and were surrounded by tissues. 

            “Because he’s a man,” Melanie said.

            “Good point.” Amy took a sip of the glass of red wine Melanie had poured for them.

“So how did you find out he was cheating on you?”

            “I found a bra in my bed. It wasn’t mine.”

            Melanie gasped. “You’re kidding?”

            Amy shook her head. Apparently he took her back to my place, don’t know why. Probably closest to where he’d picked her up. I threw down the sheets as well. Might have to burn my matress.” She took a sip of her wine.

            “What will you do when he comes over and sees all his stuff on the ground?”

            “Won’t have to do anything, I put the bra on the doorknob, so he’ll know. Trust me, he won’t knock on the door if he knows what’s good for him.”

            And he did.

            The next day Amy woke up at noon with a slight hangover. She hauled herself out of bed and nearly tripped over her fuzzy slippers. Her blonde hair hung over her face like a veil. She blew some strands out of the way. “This is going to be a great day.”

            “This is the worst day, ever.” Melanie sighed and stared ahead while Emma and Norah ran around her chair with their jumping rope in their hands.

            “Children, it is bad to tie up your babysitter! Stop it!” Melanie shouted and tried to wriggle out of the rope. “I don’t get paid enough for this crap.”

            Emma and Norah stopped. “What does crap mean?” Norah asked.

            “It’s another word for…puppies. It means puppies.” Melanie took the distraction as an opportunity to wriggle her hand free. She took the rope from one of the girls and started pulling herself free.

            “Want to play hide and seek?” Norah, who was the eldest, asked.

            “We could, but I’m afraid I’d be too tempted to not look.”

            The girls looked at each other, puzzled.

            “Don’t worry, this kind of sarcasm is for teenagers only. You’ll get there.”

            At that moment the key in the lock of the frontdoor turned.

            “Yay, mummy and daddy are home,” Melanie said dryly.

            The kids rushed to greet them while Melanie grabbed her bag with her schoolbooks since she’d come straight from school. For some reason it felt extra heavy now.

            Mr and Mrs Briggs were wearing jeans and shirts that probably were for special occasions, such as date night, but were nowhere near special. Mr Briggs pants even had a hole in it. Luckily not in any awkward place.

Their clothing wasn’t a surprise, really. Mr Briggs was a funeral undertaker and Mrs Briggs taught sowing at different middle schools. No wonder they needed date nights.

            “There you go, Melanie,” Mr Briggs said. He handed her a ten pound note.

            “Thanks,” Melanie mumbled. She closed the door behind her, but not in time to miss the words: “Mummy, can we have a crap, please?”


 Melanie took the short way home, which meant she had to walk through poorly lit park that lead to the street they lived in. The air was cold even though it wasn’t winter yet. She zipped up her jacket and picked up the pace. She wanted to get home to Amy as soon as possibly. Who knew how she was taking her break up?

            A weird noise made Melanie turn around. She studied the path behind her, at least, she tried to. She took out her phone and used the light to see somewhat better. She turned back around and walked faster as before, occasionally turning around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary so far. The leaves on the bushes and oak trees shivered ferociously as the wind swept through them.

            Melanie heard the noises again and stopped in her tracks. It almost sounded like a sort of crunching. She turned around, ready to hit the weird crunching person with her fist, only as soon as she turned around something flew in her face. She screamed and stumbled back and after a few seconds of making spastic movements, she gathered the courage to grab whatever awful thing was on her face.

It was a piece of paper.

            I have to remind myself to never ever become a police officer, she thought to herself.

            She was about to throw the paper away until she noticed what it said. It was an advert saying they looked for an experienced babysitter. Her hazel eyes sped back and forth over the paper, soaking in every word. Then she ran all the way home as if her life dependent on it. Although to Melanie, it kind of felt that way.

            “Amy! Amy!” she shouted as soon as she entered their appartment.

            Everything looked just as Melanie had left it this morning. The small kitchen was clean, the countertops still shining. A few glasses in the sink. The dark red couch with a few cushions on it and the coffee table had spread out magazines and a newspaper. No tissues, no wine, no empty chocolate wrappers.

            Melanie nodded with approval at the realisation that Amy was stronger than she’d thought.

            She opened Amy’s bedroom and nearly dropped the piece of paper.

            Her bed was filled with tissues, ripped up photos of the happy couple and an empty bucket of icecream. Amy sat behind her desk, her laptop in front of her, the screen blank. Her hair made it seem like Amy had been in a tornado and she was somewhat relieved that Amy’s back was turned towards her.

            “Well, now I feel sorry that I didn’t bring any birdseeds for the birds in your hair.”

            “Very funny,” Amy mumbled.

            “Have you been writing?”

            “Trying to. For some reason I only come up with stories that involve killing boyfriends.”

            “You probably shouldn’t tell your agent that.” Melanie sat down on her bed, using a clean tissue to move the dirty ones out of the way. “Usually when you have writer’s block you need some distraction to clear your head.”

            “How do you know that?” Amy looked at her with puffy, red eyes and chocolate around her mouth.

            Melanie had trouble keeping a straight face.

            “Because I’m brilliant. Now, tomorrow night we are going out to a big mansion and stay there overnight.” She nodded enthousiastically.

            “Why?”

            “To make money,” Melanie answered.

            “What? My boyfriend cheats, I have writer’s block and now we’re prostitutes?” Amy rested her head on the keyboard in dispair.

            “No, of course not. It’s a babysitting job. There are five kids and the single father needs to go away on a short business trip. They need experienced people and I probably can’t do it alone, I think it will be alright if it’s the both of us. We’ll probably get paid a lot.”

            “How do you know that?”

            “The guy lives in a mansion. And it says so on this flyer.” She held up the yellow coloured flyer with the bold black letters.

            Amy grabbed it from her and read it.

            “It sounds like the lure of a serial killer. Plus, even it was true, you’re not that experienced. It seems these kids are trouble, which is probably why he pays so much. You get tied up everytime you babysit.”

            “That is not…that true,” Melanie said, twisting her fingers on her lap.

            Amy raised her eyebrow.

            “Look, we need the money. I’m sure we can do it together.”

            “I don’t know, I think I’d rather stay here and jump out of window or something.” Amy went back to staring at her blank screen.

            “Don’t make me do the face,” Melanie said in a flat voice.

            Amy’s eyes widened for a second. “No, that’s not going to work,” she said. Her voice trembled slightly.

            Melanie sat on her knees, raised her hands to below her chin and looked up with wide eyes, occasionally blinking and pouting at the same time. Nobody was as skilled in this as she was. As a kid she got more birthday presents than her friends and she was glad she had never lost that skill. Never know when you might need it.

            The next evening they were sitting in a cab and drove through Wellington Forest to get to Halliwell Mansion. It was situated on a hill, overlooking the river and the town they lived in.

            Melanie smiled as she glanced at Amy. She was staring out of the window with her arms crossed. She had spent all day getting from bed to shower to closet to front door. It was a long process. Melanie was just grateful Amy had succeeded. Even though she had circles under her eyes, she did look slightly more like herself. She had her hair tied up and a bit of make up on. She wore her latest pair of jeans and a long-sleeved, black shirt. Beats PJs with chocolate stains. 

The Same as it Never was

The gentle tapping sound of raindrops smashing against the window of the car was a reassuring one. Even though I was staring out the window I didn’t really see anything. I was in another place. I was still in the hospital. The first place I can remember. Not because I was born there, in fact I don’t even know if I was born in a hospital. My earliest memory ever was only a week ago.

            I looked to the right and observed the man who was driving the silver Sedan that was apparently ours. His hair was dark and sleek, his lips full and his dark eyes seemed empty. He was my husband, or so I was told. Nothing about him seemed familiar.

            We drove on in silence as my thoughts returned to the previous days. The hospital room I had been in had felt like home and leaving with a stranger that claimed to be married to me felt like walking blindfolded at the edge of a cliff. What the hell did I get myself into? Physically I may have recovered from the accident, but I can’t even remember who I am, let alone remember who I am around these people.

            We pulled up in front of a red bricked semi-detached house. It had large windows at the front and a wooden door that was painted black.

            “Are you ready?” Jason asked.

            I stared at the house and tried to see if I recognised anything.

            “Ashley?”

            I turned to him. “Oh, right. Yes, I’m ready.”

            Jason got out of the car first and walked back to my side to open the door.

            The cool autumn breeze was welcoming and I closed my eyes for a second. When I opened them again I was still staring at the house that was my home. My husband got the bag from the trunk which held some of my stuff that I’d used when I was in the hospital.

            I studied the front yard that was surrounded by a picket fence. Stone steps lead to the front door and alongside it were planted hyacinths. The rest of the garden was made up of grass that was neatly trimmed. I wondered if I always took care of the garden. Did I even like plants or flowers? I shook my head in an attempt to dismiss my thoughts. I just had to take it step by step.

            The frontdoor flew open and a little red-headed girl with freckles dashed my way.

            “Mummy,” she called as she held out her arms.

            I stood frozen and watched as she hugged my waist. I had been preparing myself for this moment since I’d found out I was a mother, but in my mind I always figured my mother instinct would kick in and I would remember my own child. My body trembled with the realisation that I did not. 

            “Alright, Daisy, let Mummy get inside first.” Jason took Daisy by the hand and led her inside.

            I looked back at the car and had to fight the urge to get in and drive back to the hospital. I did not belong here. I didn’t even know them.