The Theme is Out There

I smiled when I read Katy’s Monday post about truth. My husband and I are currently watching through the X-Files TV series on Netflix. Mulder and Scully’s search for truth is fraught with lies which, when taken together, lead to truth. How is that possible?

Someone once said that truth is the version of events the majority agree upon.  Especially when it comes to murky events like history (Churchill famously said, “History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it.”)

Fiction is about telling the truth via the valley of the shadow of lies.

So what sort of truth are we talking about here?

My dad loves to tell me that Louis L’Amour stories are accurate. “If, in one of his stories, he says there’s a rock in such and such a place, if you go to that place that rock will be there.”

Dad tells me this often, using the voice and posture of one truly impressed with L’Amour’s precision. It is, my dad seems to think, important not to mess up a good story by throwing rocks around willy-nilly.

Look around any bookstore and you’ll see heaps of fiction based on “actual events,” or “real history,” or “inspired by the author’s experience.” There’s something enticing about the story being real.

Real is true, but that doesn’t make it Truth.

When we talk about truth in fiction, what we mean is how affecting is the story’s ability to examine strings of small truths that lead up to the unveiling of a singular large truth?

This is theme at work.

As a story swims upstream to its end, the writer endeavors to explore as many facets and versions of the singular truth as possible within the limits of character and story.

Doesn’t that sound lovely?

So, if theme is the exploration of deep truth, why do writers struggle with theme? (And we all do)

In my journey from fly-by-my-pants to full-fledged planner, the one aspect of outlining I’ve resisted hardest has been writing a theme line. A single sentence that encapsulates the life-essence of the story I am creating.

It’s taken me years to surrender to the theme line. Why? At first, I thought it was because theme is supposed to be organic, something that springs out of my characters and their interactions.

Wrong.

Then, I was convinced that theme was too multifaceted to truly be captured in a sentence. After all, why write a whole novel about it if a single string of words does the trick?

Wrong again.

Recently, I discovered the true root of my resistance: theme lines read like clichés.

To quote a famous saying, writers are to avoid clichés like the plague.

Flee from them! Curse them. Expunge them from the sacred carvings.

So, when I sit my writer self in the chair and hammer up the scaffolding for my precious, profound story, writing a pithy theme line feels close to treason.

Insert Valium here.

Theme line is not an end unto itself. It’s a guidepost pointing to the ultimate large truth that lingers with the reader after they have finished the last page.

It is the meeting place for the moral conflict between characters.

It is the high bar the hero must clear (or fail to clear) in order to change from who he is at the beginning of the story.

Cliché though it may sound, a theme line is important (critical?) to your story.

There’s a pile of reasons why, but mostly it’s because the theme line encapsulates the Truth you desire to tell in your story. Without a clear vision of the central truth you wish to convey, you are in danger of writing a story that contains a cluster of small truths that lead the reader nowhere.

I’m working on two novels*. One is a complex story that includes time jumping. I’ve been thinking about this story for about 2 years. The theme line: Only when we accept our true self can we find peace.

Deceptively simple. Hedging close to the cliché line (if it doesn’t just stomp all over it), and it doesn’t begin to reveal the complexity of the story. But look what it does:

1)   Tells me where to start my main character reveal: she does not accept her true self. She’s hiding something specific from herself.
2)   Points toward the protag’s weakness and need.
3)   Guides me toward the ways in which my protag will act (especially the kinds of immoral actions she will take)
4)   Reveals the first point of attack by my opponent and by allies (a good ally will attack the protag out of love and a desire to fix the problem).
5)   Helps me develop all my other characters as variations of the same theme.
6)   Informs the unique method I will use to tell the story and reveal the hidden secrets in the plot.
7)   Gives me a moral ending to the story—something to prove or, in some cases, disprove. It tells me what my hero will learn at the end (to accept herself, and to stop lying to get what she wants)

When it comes to crafting your novel, the theme is in there, and getting it down on paper will help you get the truth out there.

*For interested parties, the theme line for the second novel I’m working on is still in process, but at this point in time it reads: Sometimes a great love must be sacrificed for the sake of the greater good.

Interview with Aria - The Protagonist of Unraveled by Sharon K. Souza

You’ll be glad you stopped by Novel Matters today. Our special guest is Aria Winters, the protagonist of Sharon Souza’s new release, Unraveled. Also, you can win a Kindle or hard copy of the book by leaving a comment. We'll contact the winner tomorrow (9/6) after 5 PT.

Aria is fresh out of Bible college, desperate to put some miles between her and her family, so she accepts a missions assignment to Moldova. When a student under Aria’s care goes missing in the human trafficking underworld, her faith threatens to shatter. Now, with the help of the very people she wanted to flee, Aria must rebuild her faith and rediscover her mission.

P - Aria, I've been looking forward to this chance get to know you better since I first read Unraveled. Your story mesmerized me. I appreciate the honesty you bring to the story, but before we talk about your adventure, I'd like to find out more about the Aria from before the first page. Ready? What is your biggest fear and who have you told about that fear? Who would you never tell and why? Sorry, I guess that's more than one question.

A - Well, Patti, you don't waste any time. This is going to be as painful as I feared. Ha, there's that word, fear. I'm going to pretend that none of this is for public consumption, and that this is nothing more than a journal entry -- a journal I plan to burn before the day is out. My biggest fear is that my family will learn the truth about the Aria Winters they believe can do no wrong. Because I did a terrible wrong, and I've spent the last eight 8 years making excuses for why it wasn't really my fault. And who have I told? NO. ONE. Who would I ever tell? Absolutely NO.ONE. Not even Kari Zalasky, who's been my best friend forever.

P - Maybe I did jump out of the starting gate a bit prematurely. I’m new at this interviewing thing, but you did a great job answering the question. Let's go back to your childhood. At the beginning of Unraveled, you're eager to stretch the boundaries of your life. That's understandable for a 24-year-old. Tell us something about where and how you grew up.

A - People laugh when I tell them I grew up/live on a compound -- and, okay, I realize I convey a distorted image, because where I live is truly beautiful -- but let them try living in a square fishbowl. I love my family. I really do. But I've been under the watchful eye of my parents and grandparents all my life, and I'm expected to remain under their watchful eye FOREVER.  We're like granny squares, connected, at the compound, and one of those squares is mine. How do you and your brand new husband, for example, skinny dip outside your grandparents' bedroom window? Not that I have a brand new husband, or expect to any time soon, but still ...

P - I remember having the same feelings at your age, and I didn't live on a compound. Still, I could hardly wait to get out on my own. Strangely enough, you went from one "compound" to another rather crowded living situation in Moldova (I had to look it up on a map!).  And you're so young. Tell me how you were prepared for living and working overseas. What do you wish you had known before you left?

A - How prepared was I? Well, let's just say I had plenty of mousse, but no work boots or gloves; not even an appropriate outfit to wear as "Teacher." And as for what I wish I'd known ... I wish I'd known how catastrophic my presence in Moldova would prove to be.  

P - Since we don’t want to give away too much of your story, let’s sidestep in another direction, just so we can get to know you better. People have preconceived notions about California girls. In what ways do you live up to those notions and how do you diverge from them?

A - Well, I love being a girl from California, but I don't want to be perceived as a "California girl." I don't fit that mold at all. For one thing, I'm not blonde. Ha. I've never been on a surfboard, and Hollywood isn't my Mecca. Okay, I did hope Ryan Gosling was in the top 10 in People's "50 Most Beautiful" countdown magazine that I took to Moldova ... and left in Moldova. That was a bummer. I do come from a privileged family, but only because my dad and grandfather worked hard. And I could have been from any of the 50 states and made that claim. It just happens that I come from California -- the best of the best when it comes to places to live. I do wear flip flops all year, and I've been known to wear shorts up till Thanksgiving, but then I get serious about winter. Which we do have in California. Well, in northern California anyway. I don't think there's winter in San Diego. Have you ever been there?

P - It just so happens I grew up an hour north of San Diego in San Clemente. I live in Colorado now, but that doesn't stop me from living by my new motto: I'm a beach bunny. I'm funny. I'm trusting Jesus with my future. What's your motto?

A - San Clemente, huh? And blonde? Who's the real California girl here? Well, Patti, I like your motto. Celie -- that's my mom -- would love it. The Shunk-Winters' family motto is: "We're Nuts!"  And let's just say this nut didn't fall far from the tree.

P - Very appropriate! But you'll have to explain your answer to our readership, or they'll think the compound is code for asylum.

A - The compound is 120 acres of prime farmland in northern California where my family and I live. We grow nuts! Walnuts, almonds and pistachios. In the center of that 120 acres are four 1-acre parcels. My Mam and Opa live in their house on one of the acres, my parents, sister and I live in another, my sister and her fiancé are building on the third parcel ... and the 4th belongs to me, where I supposedly will live with my husband someday. But I wouldn't mind letting the stitch slip on one of the granny squares and let my parcel unravel from the clan. I love my family. I do. But I need some space. Lots of space.

P - Thanks for clarifying, Aria. I heard recently that the people we know the best, the ones we are most intimate with, can be the most irritating. Parents and grandparents would certainly fit that category. Oh, the stories I could tell!

Let's move on to a topic central to your story. Many readers will relate to your spiritual angst in Unraveled. In this quote you're experiencing a tender time of fellowship with God: "The journey I'm on is like riding a carousel. Up one minute, down the next. Inflated with faith, then, whoosh, all the air is gone. I'm a leaky vessel, but can't see where to patch up the holes. So I fill and fill and fill, hoping one of these days it'll hold."

What would you say to someone who told you this?

A - I guess I'd have to tell them what Opa would tell me. "Baby girl," he'd say, -- of course, I'd leave off the 'baby girl' part -- "you may not be filling with the right kind of wind. The Wind of the Spirit is what you need. It tends to hold when nothing else will."  Then he'd wink.  I doubt I'd say it with the same conviction Opa has, but the words are right, that much I know. 

P - Opa is very wise, and it seems he’s passed that wisdom on to you.

We're all about reading and writing here at Novel Matters, so our readers would be interested to know what you're reading these days. What was your favorite read-aloud book as a child?

A - I loved the Eloise stories by Kay Thompson, loved her sass. And imagine -- living at The Plaza. As for what I'm reading now, One Hundred Years of Solitude, because of the great endorsement from your latest Author Interviewee, Athol Dickson. When he said it was the best novel ever written, I had to see for myself. I'm not far enough into the story to agree with him, but I will say I'm glad he recommended it.

P - I'm glad you caught that interview with Athol Dickson. Have you considered writing more about your experiences? I find your voice so compelling and honest.

A - Thank you for that comment. If there's one thing I learned from spending time with Andy in Moldova, it's to be honest. Or at least real. Your pretenses don't stand a chance with that guy.  And who knows, maybe there's more to my story -- or will be.

P - Ah, Andy, I was wondering if you would bring him up. Any updates on your relationship?

A - Hamilton Andrews -- Andy -- is about the most exasperating guy I've ever known, but when you talk about honest, they don't come any more honest than Andy. I admit there's a fascination there, but it's tempered with a whole lot of angst. Part of the fascination is that he plays the guitar almost as divinely as Opa -- and I'm a sucker for guitar. Say I were interested in Andy, it's highly unlikely he'd be interested in me. Johnnie -- she's my sister -- tells me I'm nuts not to see a two-way attraction there. But remember, everyone in the Shunk-Winters clan is nuts.

P - I wouldn’t sell yourself short, Aria. You have much to offer someone like Andy.

And with that, let me thank you for chatting with me today. Your story stirred me with its beauty and integrity. I’m more hopeful knowing there are young women like you charging into the darkness.

Say Something True

I keep a paperweight on my office bookshelf with a single quote preserved beneath the glass:

"Good writing is clear thinking made visible."

- Bill Wheeler

I keep it there because it reminds me of the one rule I'm most likely to forget, the Law of Writing that was whispered, bellowed and nagged into my psyche by my writing professor in college:

Tell the truth in the fewest, simplest words possible. 

If, like me, you love the most succulent kind of literary fiction, you might guess how I could forget this rule. If, like me, you also aspire to write the same, you know my struggle, because you share it.

Aspirations to succulence entice a writer to wordiness and wish-wash.  An author who wants her writing to be "beautiful," "poetic," or "magical" is tempted to build her descriptive muscles at the expense of her truth-telling ones - for understandable reasons. The adverbs and adjectives in true writing are often exquisite. Consider this out of Marilynne Robinson's Gilead:

"Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like transfiguration. You don't have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see.  Only, who could have the courage to see it?"

It's easy to be so dazzled by a word like "transfiguration," that something you felt keenly in the reading, the shock of truth, gets obscured when you sit down to "write like that." And how does it get obscured? Why do we hang up on the descriptor, "like transfiguration," and miss the punch: "who could have the courage to see it?"

Because there's no Thesaurus for truth. Adverbs and adjectives lie scattered around us. We think truth does, too, but that's an illusion. What we call truth, those warmed over lumps of pre-packaged words that lie closest at hand have come to us from movies and greeting cards and songs and sermons and talk shows and cute little poster things on Facebook and Pinterest.

Understand: those non-truth's may actually be true. On occasion they may even be good theology in a way that succulent truth is not.

It's hard to see and accept the difference, and believers struggle more than most. We want to be right - especially in our theology. We want to transmit to our readers something we hold precious. It takes courage and faith to loosen our grip on what comes to us packaged and approved.

But the kind of truth that is organic to the author, the kind drawn - often painfully - from her own chest, brings a gift that theology neglects. It draws the reader to the quick of her own truth - her own Book of Job questions, and her Jacob-ish drives - to the place where she wrestles with angels. There's no holier ground.

So how's it done? How do we tell the truth in the fewest and simplest words possible?

Don't laugh.

We write a lot of words.

We throw words on a big page, the way Jackson Pollock used to dash paint onto a big canvas. When he finished with the dashing, he would stand back for a long look, to pick out the "painting within the painting." When he'd found it, he'd cut out that bit of canvas and stretch it onto a frame.*

His method reminds me of a scene in Dead Poet's society, in which the teacher, John Keating, helps the student, Todd Anderson, to pull the succulent truth from his chest:



Personally - much as I love this film - I wonder if Todd Anderson would have found those words, self-conscious as he was, in a classroom full of his peers. But he might have found them if he'd spun circles round words upon words - more words than if he only longed for succulence. Words and words and words till his skin snapped with the shock of truth, and he knew he could cut the rest.

Now your turn:

Have you struggled as I have with telling the truth? (Please say yes.) What have you brought back from the fray?

Do tell. We love to read what you have to say.


*I learned this from Jocelyn Lieu's chapter titled Circling the Unsayable, in Words of Thumb, edited by Michael Martone and Susan Neville.

Touchpoints

Why do we keep writing when our lives are frustrating and difficult?

A friend called me tonight, bearing a load of sadness. She’d been talking to an acquaintance whose husband was cheating on her. For my friend, just hearing another person’s experience brought back her own memories of being betrayed.

In a sense, two timelines intersected, two universes collided. My friend has never met her acquaintance’s wandering husband, and her own betrayal happened years ago. And yet that intersection uncorked long-stored emotions.

I understand that. I understand not because my life has ever been marked by marital betrayal. But it has been marked with sadness for lost opportunities, lost relationships, lost time.

Maybe that’s why my favorite movies are about situations that overcome impossibilities of time and space: Ladyhawke, The Lake House, and most recently, Source Code. One of my favorite books is an old, old and not-so-famous anthology: Science Fiction Adventures in Dimension.

Someone else called me tonight. “I want to give my life to Christ,” she said, “and because you were the one who reached out to me, I want you to come to my baptism tonight.”

Before she was immersed, our campus minister talked of burying her, of raising her to life, of new beginnings.

I want to believe that time can be redeemed. That there are no truly lost causes. That something can be dead and can live again. I believe in resurrection.  I believe I will be resurrected – and there is no more lost a cause than that.

And that’s why I write. I believe that the lives of many people who’ve never met intersected over a table as two people tangled in their stories spoke to each other tonight. I believe that a young woman pictured the death of Jesus, pictured His rising, in her watery grave – though she was separated from His events by two thousand years.

That’s what writing does too. In much the same way, I have the privilege of creating touchpoints with people I’ll never meet.

But I yearn to create touchpoints of hope, not despair. I want to redeem time for them – lost time, time that can’t be relived but can be restored like locust-gnawed years. I want to join with Jesus, making all things new, of showing hope that overcomes the world.

That’s why I write. 

Of Befuddlement and Theme

It’s not enough to know how to do something. You have to know how to speak and/or write it, meaning that you use the correct vocabulary. And then, if you know how to communicate it, you can teach it to others.

When I taught 4^th and 5^th grade, mastery of multiplication included vocabulary words like factor, multiple, and product. Easy!

No one asked me to teach calculus. Reason #1: I didn’t know how to do calculus. #2: I didn’t know calculus-ese.

For the last year, I’ve been focusing on mastering the concept of story structure.

This should be straight forward. Stories have been around since people formed language, and much of what the ancients wrote about story—Plato and Aristotle, for instance—is still true today. Good stories share common attributes.  And there are lots and lots of books out there to teach me everything I need to know.

A smidgen of frustration (understatement) entered my quest for knowledge because people who write about writing, don't use the same vocabulary. For instance, there's "theme." Theme influences character arc and the internal and external conflicts of a story. In fact, theme should influence absolutely everything in a story.

Again, talking about theme should be straight forward.

It’s not.

Especially if you read more than one book on the subject. Maybe I should have been a mathematician, specializing in elementary math skills. There’s not an ounce of ambiguity about the definition of a sum or what a rhombus looks like.  (Polygons rule!)

But I’m a writer. I should have read ONE really good book about structure and been satisfied. Instead, I read five, which has landed me straight into the category of befuddlement. (The Category of Befuddlement would be a great book title. Dibs!)

I’ve experienced this befuddlement because each author presented different definitions for theme that were enough alike that I could eventually say, “Ah-ha! They’re talking about theme!” But two of the authors gave theme a new name. 

Is theme a bad word?

The first book I read, of course, was John Truby’s book, The Anatomy of Story, strongly suggested by Bonnie. Truby says at the beginning of the “Moral Argument” chapter that “a great story is not simply a sequence of events or surprises designed to entertain an audience. It is a sequence of actions, with moral implications and effects, designed to express a larger theme.”

I get that. Tell me more!

Theme is the author’s view of how to act in the world. It is your moral vision. Whenever you present a character using means to reach an end, you are presenting a moral predicament, exploring the question of right action, and making a moral argument about how best to live. Your moral vision is totally original to you and expressing it to an audience is one of the main purposes of telling a story.

This was a new way for me to look at theme, but it made sense. When I tested the idea against stories I’d read, it worked. Suzanne Collins must believe that personal sacrifice is the highest form of love. Lisa See believes traditions can tie a family together and rip them apart. Anne Tyler believes that what we may think is loving, others see as belittling and settling.

Alan Watt in The 90-Day Novel comes up with his own name for theme. He calls theme the dilemma.

There is a dilemma at the heart of every story…It is the core struggle around which every character in the story revolves. Some people call this the theme (Thanks for the hint, Mr. Watt.) or the dramatic question. It is personal to the hero yet universally relatable to the reader.”

Most recently, I picked up The Moral Premise by Stanley D. Williams, Ph.D. He’s talking about theme as the moral premise. This is how he introduces moral premise:

Every…physical obstacle that the protagonist confronts is rooted in a single psychological, spiritual, or emotional obstacle. And to overcome the many physical obstacles, the protagonist must first overcome the singular psychological obstacle that his journey…is really about…Moral Premise—a statement of truth about the protagonist’s psychological predicament.

These authors are saying very similar things about theme. It’s up to me to create a working definition of theme for my writing. I’m very tempted to go back where I started, with Truby—“theme is how the author believes the world should work.” While these other writers on theme have deepened, corroborated, and expanded my understanding, I prefer this simple yet widely applicable definition. 

Distilling down the themes of books you’ve read—or written—is a great exercise. I’m a bit tardy, but I’ve done just that for my novels, plus my work in progress:

Like a Watered Garden: Expanding our perception of others allows us to grow and gain independence.

Always Green: Friendship is the best foundation for romantic love.

In Every Flower:  Being a family requires more courage than love and the ability to bend and stand against resistance.

The Queen of Sleepy Eye: Harsh judgment of others leads to self-incrimination. Forgiveness leads to personal growth and deeper love.

Seeing Things: We hang on to those we love by surrendering our desire to control them.

Goodness & Mercy: Running away from guilt only brings us back where we started.

Ring!: To free ourselves from regret, we must live without excuses and embrace living in the present.

Notice that theme is not the storyline (plot) or premise (one sentence that tells what happens to start a story and what the protagonist is going to do about it). Theme is the underlying truth of the story from the author's perspective.

What are the themes from your stories? What frustrations have you come across as you’ve learned the craft of writing? Is there a danger in reading too many writing books? What contradictory advice have you been given either by a teacher or in a book? And by the way, if I've got this theme-thing all wrong, tell me now!

Guest Author Interview with Athol Dickson

As you've learned by now, this year Novel matters is asking the question "Why does the novel matter?" We're asking this of ourselves, and of you our readers. We've also asked a few special authors to tell us about the novels they write, how they go about writing them, and why the novel matters in their opinion.

We are privileged to present Athol Dickson, author of The Opposite of Art, the Christy-Award winning River Rising and The Cure, as well as his non-fiction The Gospel According to Moses.


Novel Matters: Your latest novel, The Opposite of Art, includes an indepth knowledge of the world of art, and of painting in particular. What is your art background?

Athol Dickson: My mother was a good artist, and saw artistic potential in me when I was young, so she enrolled me in private art classes. I also took all the art classes available in the public schools, and then went to college to study fine arts for two years before transferring to architecture. My wife and I collect art, mainly oils and pastels. I used to paint a lot in my spare time, but that stopped when I started writing.

NM: When you did paint, what were your subjects, and what medium did you prefer?

AD: I worked in acrylics. I painted landscapes, still life, and portraits. I'm a much better writer than painter, which is why I focus on novels now. But I'm still passionate about paintings. Nothing inspires me to write more than a visit to a museum where there are paintings by great masters.

NM: This is the first of your novels that draws on your talent for painting. What was the seed of your story idea for this novel?

AD: I don't remember where this idea came from, but one day I suddenly started thinking about what it would be like if the greatest painter on earth saw God's face in a near-death experience and came back to life determined to paint what he had seen. It seemed obvious to me that no painter who ever lived has been that good, so I wondered how his failed attempts to paint it would change him and what he would paint in the end.

NM: What did you gain from writing The Opposite of Art?

AD: It's something of an epic story, spanning 25 years in a man's life as he travels across four continents. It was good to find out that I can write that kind of scale. It was also lots of fun.

NM: What do you want readers to take away from reading this novel as well as your other books?

AD: My first goal in every novel is to entertain.

NM: Sorry to interrupt, but all too often that's not an answer you hear. Authors, particularly Christian authors, tend to speak about a "higher purpose" or a particular message they want to get across, and we understand that. But if a novel doesn't first entertain, those other things won't be accomplished.

AD: I agree. I first want readers to have a great time. After that, if my novels bring new ideas to mind, if they make you think about things in new ways or open up a part of life you haven't considered before, then that's all the better. In this case, I think The Opposite of Art offers some valuable insights on the fact that we were created by our Creator to be creators.

NM: If this were an audio interview, that would be a great soundbite.

AD: That's a huge part of what it means to be made in the image of God, and it carries huge responsibilities, which many of us fail to understand. What is creativity about? What does it mean that it comes over us sometimes as a kind of urge, like our desire for food or sleep or sex? Why do so many of us resist that urge, or pretend it isn't there? Is there a proper way to respond to it, and is there a wrong way? These are just a few of the questions that The Opposite of Art explores.

NM: Having read the novel twice, I feel the depth with which you explore these issues through the storyline makes this a very thought-provoking novel. The affect it has on your protagonist -- which both kills and gives life -- is profound. Which novels have informed you as a writer over the years? In what ways have they influenced you?

AD: Thornton Wilder's work taught me not to worry so much about what "they" say, because he very often broke the rules, yet his novels are just wonderful. Gabriel Garcia Marquez just blew my mind with his One Hundred Years of Solitude. It's the finest novel ever written in my opinion, and he opened my mind to the fact that the novel is uniquely qualified to weave the spiritual and physical realities of life together. I also owe a lot to Flannery O'Connor, who showed me it's okay to make characters larger than life, and to Walker Percy who showed me readers will follow along with you if you think deeply.

NM: If you could sit down with any writer in history or living today, who would it be and why?

AD: Someone else asked me this same question earlier today. I'll answer the same way. I'd like to spend time with Ernest Hemingway, to talk him out of suicide.

NM: That's really a great answer. There are so many unanswered questions that surround the lives of any number of artistic masters whose work we've had the privilege to enjoy.

AD: Whenever I read Hemingway's novels, that fact is always a shadow of sadness in the background.

NM: Getting down to the specifics of your own writing style, do you outline your novels before you write, or are you a feel-your-way-through kind of writer?

AD: Mostly I outline, although it's really more of a list of scenes.

NM: Which comes first for you: plot, characters, themes, or something else?

AD: I've started with all three of those things. But wherever I start I soon switch over to thinking about one of the others. For me, they're so interwoven it's impossible to think of stories without bringing them all along at once.

NM: What is the one non-writing thing you do that helps you be a better writer?

AD: Road trips help a lot. They get me out of my rut and help me remember how big the world is. Also, going to art museums, which always inspires.

NM: How are you navigating the changing tides of publishing?

AD: I've decided to jump in with both feet. I've created my own imprint, Author Author. I have an excellent cover designer; a developmental, line and copy editor; an interior designer (what used to be called a type setter); and an outstanding publicist who is working nearly full time for me. Author Author is publishing the re-release of four previously published novels, in electronic and print editions, which I'm calling "The Christy Series" because two were finalists for that award and two of them won it. They each have new covers and new forewords or afterwords, and I've done major rewrites on all four of them. All the characters and plots are the same, but what I've learned has guided thousands of subtle changes I made to these four books. In some cases, I've also made larger revisions, such as combining scenes or changing the order of them. They are much improved versions of the original award-winning editions.

NM: Week before last, Latayne's and Debbie's posts on Novel Matters dealt with the changes that have taken place in their writing because of what they've learned along the way. I doubt there's an author alive who wouldn't rewrite every book they ever published, given the chance. You're making your own opportunity, and we applaud you. What is the worst piece of writing advice ever offered to you and why?

AD: They say the theme "must" arise organically out of the characters and plot. I think that's one way to write a novel, but definitely not the only way. Sometimes characters and plot can arise from theme. All that matters is how the novel reads in the end. It can't be preachy, which is why they give that advice. But it also can't be superficially driven by too much attention to action without underlying purpose, or dreadfully boring because of droning on and on about a character back story. There are many ways to write an awful novel.

NM: (laughing). Can't we all attest to that?

AD: The preachy-ness of an overbearing theme is only one of them. And if we say we "must" write in a certain way to avoid preachy-ness, we open ourselves up to the same mistakes in other areas. There's no such thing as a great novel without a theme, therefore it's silly to insist that one must not think about theme when planning a novel.

NM: What is the best piece of writing advice you have to offer aspiring authors?

AD: Keep writing.

NM: Okay, and on that note, what keeps you writing despite setbacks?

AD: I was given a gift for this. It would be a sin not to use it.

NM: That's an honest answer, and that's much appreciated at Novel Matters. Our final question to every author we've interviewed this year is this: Why does the novel matter? How does Athol Dickson answer that?

AD: Art is one of the objective proofs that human beings have a soul or spirit, and novels, of course, are art, so novels matter for that reason, the same reason all art matters: novels prove we're made in the spiritual image and likeness of a Creator.

But I think novels have an added importance because of the unique way they communicate to us. Artists using other art forms either speak directly to us in a kind of conversation, or else they focus our attention on something external to ourselves and ask us to observe that external thing. Only the novel (or other forms of literature) allows the artist to insert us into the art itself by using the first person point of view. Only in a novel can we become a kind of proxy for the work of art itself. What I'm saying is that music, film, stage, dance and other fine arts may seem to draw us in, but in reality we always remain outside, observing. Only the first person novel can literally draw our minds into the art itself by allowing us to "see" with a character's eyes and "hear" with her ears, and "act" with our own hands. No other art form offers the same virtual reality of living as another human being, thus no other art form can instill the same intense empathy for others. Of course, not all novels are written in first person. But I think even a third-person novel has an advantage over most other art forms, because of the amount of active participation required of the reader.

NM: You've given a lot of thought to the importance of literature.

AD: I really have. Film makes very few demands on our imaginations -- almost every detail in them is actually seen or heard; whereas the vast majority of details in a story must be provided by the reader's mind. Music is essentially the opposite. It stimulates emotional responses based on indirect contact with memories or subliminal associations. So visual arts like film leave little to the imagination, while music provides little space for rational ideas. Third-person novels occupy a middle ground between the visual and audible arts, in which the writer can communicate specific truths on a rational level while also communicating subliminally with a reader's emotions.

NM: Athol, we so appreciate the depth you put into your answers for this interview. We wish you all the best as you move forward with Author Author.

Who In The World

"Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness, but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day." ~ Ernest Hemingway

Don't listen to him. Remember that Hemingway took his own life. Trust me: a writer can palliate her loneliness and feel just fine about it.

I remember too well how it felt, in those noble, lonely days. I had a few encouragers, but they faced formidable foes, both inside and outside my skin.

You've heard the inner voices: "Look at your work: it's amateur stuff. Why waste your time on it when you could do something useful? Something profitable? Something practical? Something normal? 

Then there are the outer voices, notable not so much for what they say but for the way they say it. I remember telling people I wanted to be a writer, and they'd get this wonky look on their faces and say, "oh, really?"

To be fair: those folks may have been giving me encouraging looks. Perhaps it was those voices, those endless voices in my head that turned the whole thing ugly.

But it was ugly. I faced eternity, or the lack of it, each day. And nothing got written.

Then I met a miracle: one dear friend who talked about literature and thought as though they were the most important things to talk about. One day I ventured six timid words: "I want to be a writer." She took me seriously, urged me to attend my first writers conference, walked with me my first steps toward publication, and dear writer friends - toward you.

And what is the good of writer friends? Please take out your Bibles, and turn to Hebrews 10:24: "Let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good works..."

That's what we're here for, all of us friends. To urge one another on to good writing. To provoke each other to love for our readers, for our craft, for the God we write for.

For further reading: Garrison Keillor has a great page about famous literary friendships.