Finding Your Themes© by Holly Lisle
All Rights Reserved
Writing fiction is about telling stories . . . but what is telling
stories about? When you tell someone a story, why are you doing
this? What compels you to create lies that have about them the ring
of truth; what drives you to invent people and places and events
and create a context that pulls them all together and makes them
seem real?
When you're creating fiction, at heart you are searching for ways
to create order in the universe. You are digging into your core
beliefs on how the world works, and running imaginary people through
a trial universe built on these beliefs to see how both the people
and the beliefs stand up under pressure. People who write fiction
tend not to accept the world at face value -- in general, they are
the people who always got in trouble when they were little for asking
"Why?" one time too many about something that, to everyone else,
seemed pretty obvious.
When you started writing fiction, you probably did so at about
the same time that you discovered that not only did your parents
not have all the answers to the universe, but neither did anybody
else. You discovered that, if you wanted an answer to that still-nagging
"Why?" you were going to have to find the answer yourself.
Writing fiction is the act of questioning the silent, unanswering
infinite and demanding that the infinite cough up a reply . . .
and hurry up about it, too. It is the ultimate defiance of that
stock parental response, "Because I said so." Writing fiction is
standing on the edge of the abyss of ignorance, looking across at
the cliffs on the other side, and saying, "With nothing but words,
I am going to build myself a bridge that takes me from here to there
. . . and when I'm done, other people will be able to cross over
that same bridge." It's an act of ultimate hubris, but of ultimate
courage, too, because the abyss can eat you, and will if you slip.
So which bridges are worth building? You can't cover the whole
abyss. You can run a thousand lines from one side to the other if
you live long enough, and you won't even cast a shadow on the voracious
ignorance that lies beneath. All you can do is span the darkness
with your slender threads, and build them strong enough that people
can traverse them, and make them interesting enough that people
will take the risk.
Which bridges are worth risking life and limb and hope and soul
to create? Only those that take you to someplace you have not yet
been.
And how do you decide which bridges those might be? You ask yourself
the following question: To what questions in life have I not yet
found a satisfactory answer?
These are some of my answers to that question:
Why do good things happen to bad people? Have you figured that
one out yet? I haven't. Why do bad things happen to good people?
I've struggled with that one through a couple of books, and I have
a couple of angles on it now, but certainly not the definitive one.
Why do we get old and die? Would living in these bodies forever
be better? I've run with that one a couple of times now, too.
Why do we fall in love? Why do we fall out of love? Why do we hunger
for the place that is just beyond the next horizon? What is evil,
and why do some people choose evil? What is good, and why do some
people choose good? How are the first group of people different
from the second group? How are they the same?
Is there a God, and if there is, does he or she know I'm here?
And if he or she does . . . what is going on with my life?
Is there a heaven? Is there a hell? Is there anything that lies
beyond the realm of this moment, this breath, this place and time?
Do we have souls, and if so, what does that mean? Do we have a purpose
for being here? What do we mean to each other? What constitutes
living a meaningful life? What is love, and why does it matter?
These have all been my themes. Perhaps they are the same questions
you have wondered about. Perhaps your curiosity and doubt run in
completely different directions. In either case, your themes will
define the power of your work, and its meaning not only to you but
to everyone who reads it.
If you choose to work with safe themes -- with questions to which
you already know the answer -- you'll write safe books. You can
have a very successful career writing safe books; after all, you
won't drive too hard into the core of anyone's comfort zone, you
won't force your readers to question the meaning of their own lives,
you won't upset yourself or anyone else by reaching conclusions
you don't like or find frightening.
But you won't grow as a writer, either, and you'll risk becoming
bored with your characters and your stories and your work.
You can have a successful career writing about the questions you
haven't answered, too. Mark Twain, my favorite writer, is also my
favorite example of a man whose themes challenged the pat answers
and asked the scary questions. He was a marvelous entertainer and
a brilliant raconteur . . . but he also dared to look even God in
the eye and say, "This doesn't make sense to me. Explain yourself."
In books and short stories and articles and essays and letters,
again and again he held a mirror up to the world of his day and
said, "Your actions belie your words, people. Your beliefs don't
fit the facts. And your hypocrisy shames you . . . you deserve better
of yourselves than to act the way you do." He wrote with everything
he had. He dared the tough themes. And now, long after his death,
when his colleagues who chose to write safely are nothing but footnotes
in unread texts, Mark Twain continues to talk to us. His bridges
across the abyss are still strong, still in use, still vital to
those who want and need to get to the places he explored.
Every writer has something to say, but those writers whose works
endure have dared to say something about the things that frighten
them, confuse them, challenge them, and occasionally delight them.
They have not gone across the bridges built by others. They have
dared to build their own.
You can find your own themes, and add power and depth to your work
by daring to explore them through fiction. You can leave a worthwhile
series of bridges into unknown territory, a solid series of roads
away from ignorance and into knowledge that your readers can continue
to use long after you are dust. In a world that cannot offer you
physical immortality, you can leave something of your spirit, your
courage, your hope and your integrity behind.
Find your themes -- your REAL themes -- and write them. I dare
you.
What themes reach out and grab you?
In Search of Impossible Goodness>>
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