Breaking theme

As you're aware, I’m a novelist. Published. Traditionally. Three Sherlock Holmes adventures. But I’m not here to hawk them (not today). I just wanted to get that out of the way, because this post is about my fourth novel, which I’ve just finished, having finally discovered something crucial—my theme. I discovered it after adding one word to the text:

Pinocchio

(We’ll get back to that.)

You might think I’d have figured out theme before setting down word one. Or you might think the exact opposite, that theme is just a word cooked up by college professors to make reading a chore. Don’t hit me with them theme waves, man.

Don’t hit me with them negative waves.

Wikipedia says this: a theme is a main topic, subject, or message within a narrative. This is a useful definition as far as it goes. But this description ignores the invisible elephant in the room. What it leaves out is the crucial word: underlying. Because theme is rarely directly discussed, or even referred to in fiction.

The first rule of Theme Cub? We do not talk about the theme.

We slip theme into a reader’s drink like a Mickey Finn, between the lines, behind the words we choose, so that by the end, the reader, if he’s a clever detective, can unmask the author’s intent like the identity of a Scooby Doo villain.

Well, well, if it isn't our old friend, Theme of the story!

So is theme  just what the story’s really about? Is the author pulling a fast one, dressing up their( likely subversive) message with plot and character in a game of misdirection and subliminal suggestion? I suppose some writers do keep a theme or two up their sleeve. But not me, and I suspect not most writers. 

Because the thing which lured us into reading, and then writing, in the first place was the story itself. This thing happens. And then this thing. What happens next? That's the meat.

If you want to send a message, call Western Union, as Samuel Goldwyn famously said. 

 If you think a writer always has their theme set in stone before they begin, you’re falling prey to the fallacy of intentionalism, which is a fancy literary term that means making the mistake of thinking the author’s always in control of what they’re writing. If you’re a writer, you’re already laughing at that one. Writing is like an iceberg. The conscious mind only accounts for about 10% of what gets written. The rest is all subconscious.

Writer at work

Here’s my thesis: theme is really what's gotten under the author’s skin, even if they don’t know it—especially if they don’t know it. I think a book is written because of an itch that has to be scratched. It's the undertow. And the author is the first detective on the scene, trying to uncover what his book is about, why he set pen to paper, what’s the unifying theme that knits together story, plot, and character.

At least that’s the way it works for me. At least that’s the way the novel I’ve just finished worked. Every book is different.

A confession: I’m currently between agents, between publishers. Things didn’t work out. We both moved on. Neither of us got custody of my editor. It’s sad when a marriage falls apart. But here’s the bright side: like any divorce, it gave me the chance to play around. No deadline. No Sherlock Holmes (though I’m not done with him). I’ve spent two years luxuriating with this one. 

(Longer, actually. This novel first started out as a screenplay, written years ago.)

What's the novel about?

I'm going to tell you without telling you. The title is 6 Characters in Search of a Killer.

. Think Luigi Pirandello meets Raymond Chandler. Yes, the main character is a private detective, a gumshoe, a flatfoot. And he expends a lot of shoe leather on the case. But the real clues are contained in five books, all written by the same (fictional) author.

Can you see the problem? I had to write five books.

Not five complete books, thank God. But I had to plot the books, create and flesh out the main characters. And decide, as Bob Seger says, what to leave in, what to leave out. In other words, how to give my readers five books without giving them five books.

Could I have gotten away without all that extra work? There’s none of that in my lean, mean screenplay. You’ve probably read novels about books, or authors, or writing, that slide right past all those details. The work, constantly name-dropped, is a Macguffin, a plot device.

I hate those books.

(I’m reading a book about a book called Theo right now, and preparing to be disappointed.)

But the problem, I could tell from the beginning, was weaving all these stories together in a coherent whole. There was one plot element they all had in common: the protagonist in each has lost a loved one in a freak accident. 

(Think: any John Irving novel.) 

And they shared a few other incidental commonalities. But, after more drafts than I care to admit (psst!—nineteen), there seemed to be something missing.

What was missing was Pinocchio.

I knew it as soon as the word wandered into my mind last week. I flipped open my laptop and immediately added it to this passage:

"The demigod (Cuchulainn, Christ, Hercules, Dionysius, Karna, Pinocchio) always advances through a series of trials, groping not toward divinity but toward humanity."

Once I added it, I knew what had been staring me in the face all the time: the unifying theme which would lock all six stories together with a satisfying click.

(I should perhaps add for clarity’s sake that this passage is from one of those books-within-the-book; an Irish grad student is explaining his thesis proposal to his professor.)

The theme: sacrifice.

Each of my protagonists (including the private detective) are faced with the necessity for sacrifice and atonement. The crux is whether they face up to that sacrifice, or refuse to confront it, and the consequences that ensue.

After that, with a handful of edits, I was done. Knick knack, paddy whack.

Now I just need to find a new agent and publisher. And marry them.