Charlotte Lesemann

Happy New Year! I hope this post finds you and your family well. For this holiday week, I thought that we’d take a break from our look at different Gothic styles and instead talk about some Gothic books. In specific, here are some of the Gothic books I’m planning on reading in 2022.

Some of these are older Gothic works, some are contemporary, but hopefully they give you some great ideas!

1. Child of God by Cormac McCarthy

This is a chilling story of a man, Lester Ballad, who is falsely accused of rape. After he is released from jail, he becomes a recluse, living underground in caves and haunting the people of Sevier County, Tennessee. According to one reviewer,

“Lester Ballard becomes a sick, twisted child, a fiend dwelling in caves and haunting the townsfolk. Who among us would stoop to this? Precious few, thank God. But there still is the theme: it could be you, but for the grace of God. Yes, there are moments throughout this novel of cruelty and barbarity and psychopathy/sociopathy; but there are also heart-rending moments of tender clarity–yes, I mean for Ballard. A broken vessel can cry to the heavens; McCarthy makes this monster human, all too human, like us, and that’s the real horror.” (Robert Jacoby)

2. Outer Dark by Cormac McCarthy

In this story, deep in the Appalachian mountains, a woman bears her brother’s child. He takes the baby and leaves it in the woods to die, telling her that the boy died of natural causes. But when she discovers his lie, she goes in pursuit of the child with her brother and a band of evil men on their trail.

This is a highly symbolic story. It’s acclaimed as being deeply impactful and thought-provoking. However, it’s also very dark. Reader beware.

3. The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux

Within the depths of the Paris Opera House, a dark figure resides, a masked figure who hides his true face from the world. This is a story of obsession but also so much more. According to one reviewer:

“It is more than a love story, it is a study in psychology. Leroux makes us search the depths of his creations’ souls. Who is really wearing the masks? Is there a single, universal definition for evil or is it based upon our perspective? And as we search for these answers, we begin to ask questions about ourselves. What would we do for love? How do we define evil? Are we hiding behind a mask so that our true character can’t be seen?” (DyingAnubis)

4. The Hunger by Alma Katsu

I’m not sure that everyone would classify this as Gothic. Amazon calls it a supernatural thriller or supernatural suspense. However, I suspect that this may have a very Gothic theme.

Katsu blends the historical account of the Donner party with the supernatural. “As members of the group begin to disappear, the survivors start to wonder if there really is something disturbing, and hungry, waiting for them in the mountains…and whether the evil that has unfolded around them may have in fact been growing within them all along.

Effortlessly combining the supernatural and the historical, The Hunger is an eerie, thrilling look at the volatility of human nature, pushed to its breaking point.” – Amazon

5. Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury

On an October night, two young boys witness a carnival as it rolls into a small town in Illinois. Cooger and Dark’s Pandemonium Shadow Show offers a plethora of disturbing entertainment. But the grand feature is that the show offers the townspeople their deepest desires…for a price of course. When the two boys discover this, the evil comes for them.

It’s a book about the importance of father figures, resisting temptation and the loss of innocence. This is a classic that has impacted many other writers including Stephen King. (In many ways, the story sounds like a carnival version of Needful Things.)

6. The Haunting of Brynn Wilder by Wendy Webb

“After a devastating loss, Brynn Wilder escapes to Wharton, a tourist town on Lake Superior, to reset. Checking into a quaint boardinghouse for the summer, she hopes to put her life into perspective. In her fellow lodgers, she finds a friendly company of strangers: the frail Alice, cared for by a married couple with a heartbreaking story of their own; LuAnn, the eccentric and lovable owner of the inn; and Dominic, an unsettlingly handsome man inked from head to toe in mesmerizing tattoos.

But in this inviting refuge, where a century of souls has passed, a mystery begins to swirl. Alice knows things about Brynn, about all of them, that she shouldn’t. Bad dreams and night whispers lure Brynn to a shuttered room at the end of the hall, a room still heavy with a recent death. And now she’s become irresistibly drawn to Dominic―even in the shadow of rumors that wherever he goes, suspicious death follows.

In this chilling season of love, transformation, and fear, something is calling for Brynn. To settle her past, she may have no choice but to answer.” – Amazon

7. The Bloody Chamber: And Other Stories by Angela Carter

In this collection of stories, Carter rewrites classic fairy tales such as “Little Red Riding Hood,” “Bluebeard,” “Puss in Boots,” and “Beauty and the Beast,” in Gothic fashion, imbuing them with dark sensuality.

8. The House of Salt and Sorrows by Erin A. Craig

“Annaleigh lives a sheltered life at Highmoor with her sisters and their father and stepmother. Once there were twelve, but loneliness fills the grand halls now that four of the girls’ lives have been cut short. Each death was more tragic than the last–the plague, a plummeting fall, a drowning, a slippery plunge–and there are whispers throughout the surrounding villages that the family is cursed by the gods.

Disturbed by a series of ghostly visions, Annaleigh becomes increasingly suspicious that her sister’s deaths were no accidents. The girls have been sneaking out every night to attend glittering balls, dancing until dawn in silk gowns and shimmering slippers, and Annaleigh isn’t sure whether to try to stop them or to join their forbidden trysts. Because who–or what–are they really dancing with?

When Annaleigh’s involvement with a mysterious stranger who has secrets of his own intensifies, it’s a race to unravel the darkness that has fallen over her family–before it claims her next. House of Salt and Sorrows is a spellbinding novel filled with magic and the rustle of gossamer skirts down long, dark hallways. Get ready to be swept away.” – Amazon

9. The Shining by Stephen King

I have seen the movie and I’ve been a Stephen King fan since childhood, but for some reason, I’ve never read this book. It’s time to make up for lost time!

When Jack Torrance, a writer with a violent history takes an off-season job as a caretaker for a hotel, he believes that he’ll finally be able to bury the past and focus on his novel. But it’s there in that isolated hotel, snowbound from the rest of the world, that his demons rise to the surface. Soon Jack loses control of himself and his gifted young son Danny must fight to survive his father’s true self.

10. In Cold Blood by Truman Capote

It’s non-fiction. It’s a novel. And yet…it’s categorized as Gothic. This is Truman Capote’s account of the strange happenings in the small town of Holcomb, Kansas, in 1959 when four family members were gunned down, shot in the face with a shotgun.

As Capote recounts the brutal murder and subsequent investigation, he peppers the story with wisdom and insight about the trend in American violence.

I hope to share my thoughts on many of these along with some of the Gothic books I’ve enjoyed throughout 2021. Let me know what you’re reading and loving. I wish you all the best in the coming year!

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It would probably surprise most people to hear that there is a German subgenre of Gothic writing. It’s rarely discussed often overlooked and hard to research. And yet, there is such a thing. And it’s distinctly different from all of the other Gothic subgenres.

English Gothic majors in suspense and Romanticism. Southern Gothic capitalizes on dark humor, the struggle between history and the modern era, and the use of the grotesque. And then there’s German Gothic.

What on earth makes a book German Gothic? And why is the genre so obscure?

I’ll answer the second question first. In my opinion, the genre is so unknown for two reasons. The first is a simple one: it’s overshadowed by the extensive number of quality Gothic works in other subgenres such as traditional English authors and later American writers in the Southern Gothic tradition. There are certainly vastly fewer German Gothic works, so it’s no wonder that the other subgenres tend to steal the show.

The second reason is more complex. The German Gothic genre is a muddied one. The German equivalent of the Gothic novel is referred to as “schauerroman,” which translates literally as “shudder novel.” The name refers to the sense of horror that Gothic often evokes. However, this definition is used to encompass three different types of novels.

1. Ritterroman (“Chivalric novel”) – Stories that are set in a medieval period and which feature the actions of heroic knights. We might classify these as historical novels.
2. Räuberroman (“Bandit novel”) – These stories may be fiction or true crime. They’re about the actions of an outlaw who’s a good guy, helping the poor or fighting against corrupt leadership. This is essentially the German equivalent of the classic English story, Robin Hood. We might classify this type of novel as action adventure or true crime, depending upon how it’s written.
3. Geisterroman (“Spirit novel”) – These books are about demons, ghosts, hauntings and other unseen elements. We would generally classify this type of book as Gothic, although some could just as easily be Horror.

It’s easy to see how confusing the German Gothic category can be. Of the three types of German Gothic novels, only one translates into what we think of as Gothic. I believe that this confusion makes the genre less navigable for Gothic readers.

That said, there are some German novels – specifically those in the Geisterroman category – that look a lot like what we love in a Gothic story. And these have their own unique approach to the Gothic genre.

Geisterroman – Unique Characteristics

What sets German Gothic novels (those we’d call Geisterroman) apart from other Gothic subgenres is that the novels tend to be darker and to focus on things that are hidden and/or supernatural.

For example, German Gothic books tend to focus on demons, especially demonic possession, and incest. And the conclusions tend to be more pessimistic than in English Gothic works. Take for example one of the most well-known German Gothic works – The Necromancer by Peter Teuthold- which concerns itself with the art of communicating with the dead. The book, also called The Tale of the Black Forest, was written in 1794.

The story jumps around from tale to tale, telling the story of various characters’ interactions with a necromancing wizard by the name of Volkert. It has a somewhat disjointed feel about it, with each tale only nominally related to the others. Jane Austen mocked it in pseudo-Gothic novel, Northanger Abbey. To be totally fair though, The Castle Otranto, England’s foray into Gothic writing thirty years prior is just as awkward.

However, it highlights something that has become a trend in the German version of Gothic writing: a focus on the occult.

Another novel Austen mentions in Northanger Abbey is The Castle of Wolfenbach by Eliza Parsons. The tale tells the story of a young woman who, in fleeing from the dark intentions of her Uncle, stumbles upon a castle in which another man hides his own dark secrets. Without giving anything away, the story is told in classic Gothic style albeit gorier than English Gothic ones.

Which is why I mention this story: it’s an example of the fact that German Gothic tends to be raw and gruesome in ways that other Gothic subgenres circumvent.

German Gothic tales also tend to feature things like secret societies and their occult activities. A good example of this would be The Horrid Mysteries (or “Der Genius”) by Carl Grosse. The story features a man who becomes involved in a secret society which is attempting to bring about communism by secretly promoting violence and civil unrest.

The Brothers Grimm

Let’s not forget, of course, that the Grimm brothers – Jacob and Wilhelm – were German and that their approach to storytelling is often referred to as Gothic. As you may know, Grimm fairy tales are generally dark – much darker than what we’re used to in our sanitized, Disney culture. In Grimm tales – stories which were generally not considered to be appropriate for children – Snow White’s mother wanted to eat her daughter’s lungs and liver and Cinderella’s stepsisters attempt to fit into the glass slipper by cutting off pieces of their feet.

Though we could argue that the Grimm brothers didn’t actually write these – they were collators of ancient folk stories – it demonstrates quite clearly the German appetite for darker, more morbid tales than we see among other Gothic audiences. [I’m excluding Modern Gothic, which we’ll discuss in the next post.]

Contemporary Works?

I became acquainted with this Gothic subgenre when I was researching and writing my first novel. My particular Gothic style tends towards the German Gothic style I described above, which was simply a coincidence (are there any?) since I had already set the story in Bavaria in the 1880s and had planned and begun writing the book when I discovered this.

I mention that because it’s hard to find German Gothic tales today. I suspect that that has more to do with the modern melting pot of literary genres than a literal dearth of these. There are very likely other authors like myself whose Gothic tales share more in common with the German subgenre than any other. For example, some people have referred to English Gothic works such as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein as being an example of the German Gothic despite their origins.

That said, I don’t yet have any good contemporary examples. But I’m looking for them, so if you know of any, please comment below!

The German style, with its darker approach, comes closest to the Gothic-Horror crossover that we see quite often today. It’s a framework that modern audiences would love. If that appeals to you, join me in writing in this little-known but fascinating tradition.

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It seems a little strange to call English Gothic a subgenre. After all, Gothic literature was birthed among English writers. Our earliest Gothic examples are all English. And for some people, the Gothic genre is synonymous with English Gothic writing. All that to say, I could easily make a case for the fact that English Gothic is anything but a subgenre.

However, in another sense, Gothic writing’s English roots have impacted so many writers around the world and have given rise to so many variations and subgenres, that it’s hard to discuss the English version without using the word subgenre.

So that’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to talk about what’s different about the English form of Gothic writing – versus its offshoots such as Southern Gothic, German Gothic or Modern Gothic literature. Each of these variations has taken its own spin on the Gothic tradition, leaving English Gothic as its own entity.

We could hardly discuss any English Gothic writing without acknowledging Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto, potboiler though it is, as the origin of the Gothic genre. Awkward – with giant, ghostly helmets falling from the sky, clueless older women and desperate maidens who can do little for themselves – the book contains much of what has become known as English Gothic.

Let’s look at several of these truly English components.

Suspense

It may surprise you to think of suspense as specific to the English category of Gothic literature. Many people think of suspense as something intrinsic to all Gothic writing. However, if you examine the later offshoots of the Gothic genre, this isn’t always the case. German and Modern Gothic are both more likely to employ horror. And Southern Gothic tends to use neither and instead focuses on a tone of dark humor.

It’s the English variety that majors in suspense. That subtle undertone of dread. The slow build to a devastating end.

• The fire that nearly destroys Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre and leaves him blind
• The near destruction of the Englishmen who fight against Dracula’s presence on their native, English soil. A fight that does claim one of their own
• The extent to which Mr. Hyde subsumes and permanently annihilates Dr. Jekyll’s existence within his own
• The dark secret that Maxim finally reveals to his wife – the second Mrs. de Winter – and which threatens to destroy everything that they’ve almost gained for themselves

All of these climactic events come after a long slow build of suspense, a signature trait of English Gothic writers. There are exceptions of course. The Monk by Matthew Lewis and The Italian by Anne Radcliffe are both particularly dark (in part or in whole). But by and large, understated is the word that comes to my mind. Rather than using a lot of horror or even the grotesque elements that are common features in Southern Gothic writing, the English version of Gothic is subtle.

If you’re looking for a contemporary example of this level of subtlety, see Sarah Waters’s writing. The Little Stranger is particularly in keeping with the English capacity to build slow suspense without any of the gimmicks.

Romanticism

English Gothic writing is also heavily indebted to Romanticism. We’re going to talk about Gothic Romance in a few weeks, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. By Romanticism, I mean the Romantic Era. This time period – beginning in the late 18th century – tended to romanticize the medieval era (over the contemporary roots in Greek classicism). It placed a greater value on emotion and nature rather than on reason and technological progress.

This is particularly in keeping with the Gothic genre’s focus on irrational themes – themes that explore those things that can’t be reasoned and which those who over-emphasize reason tend to reject. Romanticism, of which Gothic writing is one of its artistic expression, is also a response to the Age of Reason.

However, the English writers of Gothic literature remained true to this to a greater sense than subsequent offshoots did.

Wuthering Heights is a wonderful example. From start to finish, the book sweeps readers up into a storm of emotion, a setting of wild nature, and histrionic characters that is perfectly in keeping with Romanticism. Readers can’t help but feel every gust of excess as it blows across the moors from the Heights to Thrushcross Grange. Heathcliff is often out on the moors – as a child with Catherine and as a man with the ghost of her memory. The characters are often subjected to the weather – whether it’s Mr. Lockwood trapped in the blizzard or Catherine who caught a cold out in the storm when she and Heathcliff crept over to the Linton house to spy on them. This is an excellent parallel for the characters’ psychological states and for the story’s drama.

And all of this emotional emphasis and focus on nature adds up to a particularly Romantic (with a capital “R”) story.

In contrast, we don’t see that to the same extent in any of the subsequent Gothic genres. Even later English Gothic writing such as the works of Dickens – who was extremely interested in and influenced by Gothic writing – features less of the Romanticism.

Hauntings/ Madness

Speaking of Wuthering Heights, or Jane Eyre, or The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, hauntings and madness tend to be a dominant element of the English Gothic. This is something that I’m seeing more of in some Modern Gothic writing, but we’ll address that in a couple of weeks. However, in general, the English have a leg up in this area.

Is it the foggy English weather that conjures up the idea of ghosts? Or some of the tempestuous English history that sparks romantic ideas of madness?

My theory is that this goes hand-in-hand with the English understated approach to Gothic writing. Rather than beasts looming large, English writers focus on the inner workings of the character’s psychological state. Victor Frankenstein’s obsession with and then subsequent regret over his creation is a study in man’s heedless pursuit of technology. Whereas other sub genres of Gothic writing (and the Horror genre) would place more emphasis on the creature, in Shelley’s book, the beast that Frankenstein manifests is nothing but a prop. Rather, it’s the madness of the doctor – and the madness of all who take science to such extremes – that takes center stage.

Contemporary Examples

There are many contemporary writers who attempt to write in an English Gothic style but who don’t have the steady hand for slow-building suspense or the depth of character that we see from the historical English writers. It’s even rarer to find one who can write from the perspective of the Romantic Era.

That said, their work is still good and has enough of an English flavor that I’d classify them as English Gothic. I mentioned Sarah Waters, who is one of the best. But Kate Morton and Diane Setterfield are also worth checking out. If you’ve found others whom you’d recommend, let me know!

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Welcome to the first part of our exploration of several Gothic subgenres. If you’re relatively new to Gothic literature, you may not realize how expansive the genre really is. If you’ve been a lover of Gothic for some time now, you most likely know – at least at some level – that Southern Gothic is a distinct subgenre. But perhaps you don’t know how many authors are part of this category.

But in either case, I think it will astound you to learn how much depth there is to the Gothic genre and how pervasive it has been in American literature. Many of our most loved authors and playwrights wrote in the Gothic genre. And many of us didn’t even know it.

Plays like A Streetcar Named Desire, by Tennessee Williams; the writings of William Faulkner (such as The Sound and the Fury) and Harper Lee (such as To Kill a Mockingbird) and Cormac McCarthy (The Road) are all Gothic – Southern Gothic to be precise.

Southern Gothic – Themes

But first, what makes a book part of the Southern Gothic tradition? The subgenre existed prior to the twentieth century, but is said to have gained its roots in that historical period, in which writers such as Faulkner, Williams and Flannery O’Connor gave it the attention and foundation that it deserved.

These works are generally set in the American South, especially in the Southeast. But works by writers such as Edgar Allan Poe are said to embody the spirit of Southern Gothic even though they’re set outside of the South.

Southern Gothic writings feature those irrational themes that we’re used to seeing in European Gothic writing. But they also feature themes that are unique to America and in particular, the American South.

For example, Southern Gothic writing often focuses on themes of repression – whether due to race, gender or sexuality. Forms of subjugation that are most most associated with southern history. We see this in To Kill a Mockingbird with Lee’s focus on racial tensions in the south.

We also see themes that feature the juxtaposition of the idyllic and romanticized view of the old South with its harsh realities. For example, much of Faulkner’s work sets the beauty of the Southern ideal against themes of hardship and poverty.

This blends over into themes of Old South vs. New South such as in the play, A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams. In the play, Blanche DuBois represents a southern belle – a carryover from a world that’s long-gone – trapped in a harsh, modern world.

Southern Gothic – Elements

In Southern Gothic writing, expect to see elements such as:

• Old, possibly crumbling plantations – representing the loss of what was supposed to be a romanticized South, but which was built upon repression
• Undertones of repression – especially racial repression, which pits this romanticized ideal against its foundation: one of slavery and oppression
• A general tone of anxiety – one which mirrors a region in which the Civil War and the South’s resultant dispossessed aristocracy have left its inhabitants uncertain of their identity
• A reflection on America’s inexplicable appetite for violence. See much of Cormac McCarthy’s writing for examples of these.
• Characters with physical deformities that symbolize a corrupt moral compass
• Ghosts that bring to light the unsaid realities of the South’s history
• A deterioration of wealth – symbolic of the South’s loss of itself and a deterioration of its standing in American culture
• Characters with deep moral flaws. See Flannery O’Connor’s short story, A Good Man is Hard to Find, for a superb example of this.

Southern Gothic – Notable Authors

It still amazes me to discover how many authors I’ve loved over the years fall into the Gothic genre. It’s easy to understand that the Brontë sisters and Mary Shelley are Gothic. But in school I loved Faulkner and Flannery O’Connor, never realizing that this was so consistent with my other preferences.

Even Poe, whose writing I would never have categorized as Gothic. However, his use of characters whose madness stems from anxiety and his focus on racial and sexual subjects that are often deemed to be taboo situates his work solidly in the Southern Gothic camp.

In addition to the aforementioned authors, consider Anne Rice, V.C. Andrews and Truman Capote. Check out The Color Purple by Alice Walker, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt (which is actually nonfiction) and Beloved by Toni Morrison. Not to mention dozens of others. For a more comprehensive list, take a look at the following link:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southern_Gothic

Southern Gothic – An Example

For a very contemporary – and well-executed – example, pick up the novel The Gates of Evangeline, by Hester Young. The novel features a young woman who, in the wake of the loss of her child and the dissolution of her marriage, begins to dream prophetic dreams of children suffering. One vision in particular leads her to accept a writing assignment at an old plantation in Louisiana.

There she hopes to uncover the story behind the disappearance of a young boy named Gabriel, the youngest son of an old aristocratic family, who went missing without a trace thirty years prior. On one level there’s a very dominant theme of motherhood in this book, in specific: how far a mother will go to protect her son.

But the book also features some of the Old South-New South themes we’ve discussed, along with themes of sexual repression, a loss of place in American society and a strong tone of anxiety – particularly from the oldest brother, Andre.

I didn’t expect to enjoy this book as much as I did. It’s solidly written and is an excellent contemporary example of what is categorized as Southern Gothic. If you’re interested in the genre, this is a good place to start.

Regardless, as you can see, there are many writers throughout American history – especially within the last century – whose work falls within the Southern Gothic category. They’re usually rich with social commentary and a juxtaposition of history with the modern era. I highly recommend the subgenre for its quality and uniquely American approach to Gothic literature!

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Bjerre, Thomas Ærvold. Southern Gothic. Oxford Research Encyclopedias. 28 June, 2017. https://oxfordre.com/literature/view/10.1093/acrefore/9780190201098.001.0001/acrefore-9780190201098-e-304. Accessed November 2021.

Hello! I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving (for my American compatriots) or late November if that’s more your cup of tea. I’ve been particularly busy with my new puppy, playing with…and training…and housebreaking…and teaching her not to chew/ destroy everything in sight. Not to mention celebrating with family and friends.

It’s been a busy couple of weeks!

In the upcoming weeks, we’re going to delve into five different types of Gothic writing:

• Southern Gothic
• English Gothic
• German Gothic
• Modern Gothic
• Gothic Romance

When I wrote my first work of fiction, I learned that what I was writing belonged in the German gothic category. It wasn’t something that I set out to do. Rather, I had a very specific story to tell and it just so happened that I discovered a largely unknown sub-genre where it fits. That sparked my interest in understanding more about how to differentiate between the different styles under the Gothic umbrella.

Of course, there’s some overlap between these, but there are also some distinct differences. There are the superficial differences such as crumbling castle or plantation or old house on the outskirts of town. But more importantly, there are differences in what the authors in each of these sub-genres is attempting to explore.

I think it will surprise you (it surprised me) to discover the many -often mainstream- historical writers who are considered to be part of the Gothic genre. For example: authors such as Tennessee Williams, William Faulkner and Flannery O’Connor, all of whom wrote in the Southern Gothic category.

I’ll keep it short for this week – I have to go check on the puppy – but come back next week for a look at what makes the Southern Gothic genre so distinct!

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The Three Strands of Storytelling

Welcome! This is the last week of our three-part series on storytelling. You can find the first part here. And the second part here.

This week we’re going to address what I believe to be the most important of them all: theme. Yes, you have to have a plot. And yes, characters are crucial to engaging with your readers and creating a story that they can relate to. But theme is the reason we write…or should be.

And yet, I think it’s the most misunderstood, overlooked, and poorly executed part of storytelling. If we want our stories to endure and to really speak to people, we have to master theme. So let’s look at what’s going on there.

What Is a Theme?

When I ask people what the theme of their work is, or I listen to authors talk about theme, I often hear things such as “my book is about friendship;” or “survival,” or “community.” Now, those might be true on one level, but friendship, survival and community are not themes.

Think of a theme as a thesis, but in fiction rather than non-fiction. So a theme is essentially the question you’ve set out to explore, or the point you’d like to put forward.

Here are some examples:

• No friendship can survive the consequences of betrayal
• In order to survive in a post-apocalyptic landscape, every person becomes a killer
• Community is founded upon subsuming one’s differences beneath the umbrella of unity

Do I agree with every one of those? Do you? Not necessarily. That’s the point. A theme is something that an author is exploring. It stems from a question: can friendship survive the consequences of betrayal? The more personal the question, the better! We’ll get to that in a minute.

A theme is a writer’s way of influencing the world, of saying here’s what I’ve discovered and believe to be true. And here’s why. We just happen to use fiction as our medium. Now, there are lots of books out there that don’t address theme at all, or only very nominally. Especially in certain genres. And you know what? There’s a market for that. But those stories don’t last. They don’t impact people. They don’t change the world. If you’re just interested in the next dollar, you can write a book without a compelling theme. But if you’d like to say something that causes people to think about something in a different way, you need a theme.

But before you jump to the natural follow-up question: doesn’t that make my writing preachy? let’s talk about that. Because the answer is actually, no. It shouldn’t.

Is a Theme Preachy?

Like every other aspect of writing, there’s a way to do it well. And a way not to. So yes, a theme can come across as preachy, but only if it’s not handled well.

In order to present the theme well, even if it’s handled very subtly (which is generally more powerful), it’s important to do the following things:

1. Write as if you haven’t yet found the answer that you believe is true. That means that, as a writer, you have to keep a humble mindset. Picture yourself in your earliest days with this question. Let’s say you’re asking the question: is every person obligated to defend his family? This question could take many different angles.

Are we talking about physically defending one’s biological family? Verbally standing up for a family member’s reputation? Lying under oath in court? Ahh! You see how this can suddenly look terribly different from what we might have initially assumed.

Now, you might have come to a strong opinion on this subject, but your readers may not have. And you want to explain what you believe in such a way that they can understand how you got there. But to do so, you have to write, through your characters, as if you were backing up to the beginning, exploring the issue all over, without a knowledge of what you would ultimately believe.

2. Explore the whole picture. In order to do what I described in number one, you have to give weight to multiple sides of the issue. The fastest way to come across as preachy is to lay down the answer you believe without opening your characters up to the alternative.

If you’re looking for examples of how to do this well, check out any book Jodi Picoult has ever written. She loves to explore super-charged issues. The sorts of things that can erupt into strong disagreements. And yet, most of her readers would probably agree that she handles the subjects with immense care. How? She shows both sides of the issue.

However, if you read between the lines, you can see that, in every one of her books, she leans just slightly to one side or the other. She has an opinion. She has something that she wants to say about that issue. And an answer that she believes is the best. Do I always agree? Nope, but I appreciate the way she handles the subjects.

And most importantly for this illustration, I’ve never read anything of hers that sounds at all preachy.

3. Show why your opinion is true. As I just mentioned, every author is going to come down on one side of an issue versus another. And I’m not suggesting that your book has to be politically-charged. You can be exploring the effects of adult-interaction on a child’s development or the consequences of homelessness on a family’s identity. But you have an opinion about that issue. A reason you’re writing about it in the first place.

Show your belief by having your character(s) struggle with the issue as they navigate the plot. Show why, in the end, those characters come around to believe what you believe about the question at hand.

Make it Personal

I’ve heard some authors recommend things such as “write so much truth that it embarrasses you.” Or, “write about what makes you uncomfortable.”

What they’re eluding to is theme and the need to say something that’s so deeply true that it exposes a piece of ourselves. That’s the hard part of writing. The cringy, agonizing part. But it’s that part that really matters, because if we’re willing to be vulnerable, we’re able to speak to some of the deepest concerns of those around us. The things that our readers secretly fear or question.

It also makes our writing less likely to be preachy. Because vulnerability, assuming we can keep the defensiveness out of our writing, keeps us humble.

To find a personal theme that matters to you, start by asking yourself things such as:

• What are the things that have impacted me most?
• What deep-seated pain still sits with me no matter how old I become?
• What problem do I see in my family, community, people in general, or the world that really eats at me?

In other words, what really bothers you? What do you constantly revisit? Look at those things and you’ll find your theme.

That’s how many of the greatest authors crafted such memorable works. Dickens wrote about the plight of the poor in nineteenth-century England. Austen crafted witty commentaries on the role of women in an era in which their only hope was to marry well. Steinbeck wrote about the abuses and hopelessness that plagued many of the rural poor as they attempted to navigate early twentieth-century America. These writers wrote about what troubled them most.

Writing the B-Story

Once you have that theme, you have to bake it into your novel. How do you do that?? Well, unfortunately, that’s actually an entire writing class in and of itself, but let’s look at a few things here that will point you in the right direction.

As I mentioned in the first part of this series, every scene in a book should contribute to all three strands of storytelling. Each scene should advance the plot, the character arc of your protagonist (and any other characters with defined arcs), and the theme.

That means that every scene you and I write should examine the theme that we’re exploring and should move the protagonist along towards a more complete understanding of that truth that we’re putting forward.

This is where good writing and bad writing diverge.

Because this is the hardest part of writing: managing all three of these strands simultaneously. But you can do it. The key is to break it down and work with each scene by itself, while maintaining an eye for the overall picture. Let’s work with an example. We’ll start from a wider perspective and then narrow our vision.

1. Choose a Theme

Let’s use our first sample theme: No friendship can survive the consequences of betrayal

There are a lot of ways that this can go. It could be a platonic friendship between a man and woman, or between two women or two men. It could be a childhood friendship that seemed invincible, but which suffers a terrible hit (the betrayal) at some point. It could be a familial friendship- mother and daughter. It could be a romantic relationship.

I’ll use the example of a childhood friendship.

2. Choose a Plot that Shows the Effects of Betrayal

We want to structure a plot so that it works with our theme. As you can probably tell, I find it a lot easier to start with the theme rather than the plot, but it’s possible to start with the plot instead. Whatever you do, you’re going to need to work with both almost simultaneously so that you have both sides of the story.

Ok. Let’s assume that you enjoy writing historical fiction and that you’re particularly interested in 20^th century American history. Maybe you’re really into the history of WWII.

You could write about a couple of young boys – a Japanese boy and his Caucasian schoolmate – who were inseparable as children around the turn of the century in Seattle.  You’ll want to show their friendship and its seemingly unbreakable bonds. They grow up and start families of their own. But then WWII starts and President Roosevelt declares that all Japanese people are to be evacuated to internment camps.

You know where this is going. The Japanese man and his family attempt to hide and avoid this decree. Perhaps it’s even his lifelong friend who hides them. But something happens. One of them betrays the other. The obvious example would be for the Caucasian man to face some personal duress and, in response, turn in his friend’s family so that they’re taken to a camp.

Most of the Japanese survived the American camps, so our protagonist comes out the other side physically sound. But of course, there are emotional scars. Fear, insecurity, and a distrust of other people and the country as a whole.

Perhaps his friend who betrayed him is deeply remorseful. It could even be a situation in which readers don’t know what they would have done. Maybe his own family was at great risk. Regardless, he attempts to make amends with his Japanese friend.

They try to patch things, but there’s a terrible rift there. Something that won’t heal. As the author, you want to show that things look like they’re back to normal…except that they’re not. The relationship is forced. The trust between the two of them is gone.

That leads to some terrible event. Perhaps the Caucasian man comes into financial hardship. He’s taken up with a group of back-room gamblers. Things progress to the point that he is a target. Now the tables are turned. He’s the one who needs to hide and avoid notice. For a while his friend, who knows where he is, says nothing. But eventually the past eats at him so much that he can’t bear it any longer. He blows his friends cover. His friends’ enemies find and execute him. And his family.

It’s a terrible testimony to the damage that betrayal causes even many years after the fact. Of course, all of these things need to flow out of each of these character’s deepest values. This is something that you’ll learn about if you read the book that I recommended in Part II about Character: Getting Into Character: Seven Secrets A Novelist Can Learn From Actors, by Brandilyn Collins

3. Work with Each Scene

But now you have to make sure that your theme advances in each scene. You have a strong plot here. The key is to work with your protagonist as if he’s learning the theme from the very beginning.

I like to start with a simple bullet-point list of how my character might progress along the lines of this lesson. Ask yourself questions such as:

• Where does your protagonist start?

In this case, what does our young Japanese boy believe? (Usually we start our protagonists on the other side of the spectrum from where they need to end up.) Perhaps he has a very idyllic vision of his friend. He either thinks that his friend would never betray him, or better yet, he does suffer a small foreshadowing – a precursor – of what’s to come and he blows it off. It’s probably some sort of childhood playground spat. It’s easy to let go of. He thinks that their friendship could never fail.

• Where does your protagonist end?

Generally this is the point at which they’ve evidenced the theme and have internalized the belief that you, as the author, have about the issue. In our case, he definitely learns that his friendship couldn’t survive the effects of the past betrayal.

• What mid-event threatens his initial belief system?

Remember, your protagonist is not going to accept the theme, at least not 100% at this point. But perhaps he learns something important here. In our case, he’s stunned and dismayed by what he experienced (his friend’s betrayal).

But when his friend is terribly remorseful after the fact, especially given the circumstances, perhaps our protagonist can understand why he did it. No matter how terrible it was, he thinks that he can forgive what happened and move on. And they sure try to.

However, from this point on, readers should see cracks in the system. Our protagonist is desperately trying to hold onto his former belief system. He wants to believe that his friendship can rebound. He doesn’t see that it’s suffered a fatal blow.

• What ending/ climactic event finally causes him to believe the theme?

It may be a shock even to him that he betrays his friend at the end. He tried so hard to fix the past, but it was irremedial.

• How are you going to get there?

This is when you plan out the scenes that show their relationship moving either away from (before the midpoint), or towards (after the midpoint) an understanding of the theme.

We can’t get into scene planning here, but I hope that this gets you started on the road towards building a strong theme into your writing.

Also, notice two crucial things:

1. This story doesn’t sound at all preachy. Why? Because our protagonist is quietly learning the theme through the events of the story. He believed one thing to start with and life showed him that the opposite was true.
2. You may never actually state the theme. In fact, writing is usually better if the theme isn’t overtly stated. However, the readers still see what’s happening. They may not be able to articulate it, but they’ve still internalized what you believe about betrayal in friendship. They see it in action. And that’s a lot more powerful than just telling them.

Lastly, if you’d like a resource to help you address themes in your writing, I recommend The Moral Premise: Harnessing Virtue & Vice for Box Office Success, by Stanley Williams. It’s written from the perspective of screenwriters, but is equally helpful for novelists.

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The Three Strands of Storytelling

Last week, we began a three-part series on storytelling. You can find the first part here. This is the second part, in which we’ll take a look at building characters readers will love.

If there’s anything that causes a story to succeed or fail most readily, it’s the extent to which the author writes enjoyable but complex characters with well-rounded character arcs. We all know that flat characters are a death-sentence for an author. And yet, that’s what I see in most genre fiction. And I’m talking about traditionally published works.

Building a character who’s a responsible young woman, but who’s also a tomboy is a good start, but it’s not enough. Our characters have to have many more layers than that. The kind of complexity that only shows its face under pressure. We’ll talk about what that looks like, because if we want our work to really stand out and to endure the test of time, our characters have to be unforgettable.

In more recent years, I’ve given considerable thought to some of the TV shows that appeal to me the most. (Television characters are a little easier to analyze simply because of the duration of their character arc.) Of course, it’s the characters that make those shows so successful. In specific, it’s the complexity of those characters. Let’s look at a couple of examples.

Complexity

First, consider The Walking Dead. I remember when I first heard about the show, prior to the first season. My initial reaction was, A show about zombies? How on earth are they going to make that one work? Because zombies are by far the most boring undead creature. Vampires, werewolves and ghosts have complex characters. They can act in so many different ways and can symbolize so many different things. Zombies growl and stumble around. They have no personality, no motive other than to feed. And yet, TWD has come to be one of my favorite shows of all-time. Why?

Because it’s not about zombies. It’s about the people who are left to survive in this post-apocalyptic landscape. And those characters are so interesting, so complex and full, that the show has endured for ten seasons already with no break in its interest-factor.

If we look at two fan favorites: Daryl and Carol, that’s exactly what we see. On the surface, Daryl is a rugged, rural bad boy. He says what he thinks, does what he wants, and never apologizes for it. He’s independent and self-sufficient. Carol is a battered, submissive victim of domestic abuse. She wears her hair as short as possible to give her husband no way to pull it or use it against her. She’s quiet and careful.

But over time, we see so much more to these characters. Daryl is also very loyal and has one of the strongest drives to protect those he cares about. He’ll go through the worst zombie hoard and risk his life over and over to save his adopted family, especially Carol. And over time, we see a strength in Carol that most women would only dream of possessing. She’s fearless. And she’s wise.

Or consider The Vampire Diaries. Normally I wouldn’t go for a young adult show, but the characters of Damon and Stefan and their interactions with Elena, are extremely fascinating. Both of the young men seem to be one thing on the surface and yet are something else (if not several things) beneath that façade.

At first, Damon seems to be the ruthless killer. But it’s Damon who forms the tightest bonds with others and who, like Daryl, will risk everything to save those he loves. And the screenwriter presents Stefan as the sweet, lovable good boy. But in reality, Stefan stiffly adheres to this façade in an attempt to hold his darkest inclinations and the consequences that follow him at bay. Not just from the notice of others, but also from himself.

Notice that all of these characters seem to be one thing at first and yet have another side to them. I think that’s what appeals to me the most, because doesn’t that reflect reality most accurately? Even if we’re not trying to be duplicitous, there’s a part of ourselves that we hold back at first. Some of us more than others. And it’s that side that makes our characters so relatable. And interesting.

And the writers don’t tell us these things. They build the action so that viewers (or readers in our case) can see the characters’ multi-faceted natures.

Exposure

That’s what all of our plot and its inherent conflict should do. It should show your character’s true colors. When you build your plot, consider what the conflict will do to your characters. If you remember the story I talked about in part one, you remember that my character has two primary goals:

• He wants the Vienna Conservatory to recognize and appoint him as the lead violinist (this story is set in the mid-1800s), and
• He wants his father to respect him

Recall that I said that these two goals are naturally in conflict (though my character doesn’t realize that). He doesn’t know that his father, who makes a great show of appreciating the arts, doesn’t actually respect performers. That means that my character can’t accomplish both of his goals. He can achieve one or neither of them.

I talked about how these refined and conflicting goals gave my plot direction and naturally build conflict from start to finish. But what I didn’t get into in that post was the extent to which this conflict will force my character up against the wall.

That’s what we want in our writing. We want our characters to be in situations in which they don’t get what they want, their dreams are frustrated or even destroyed. Because that’s when we (and readers) see what they’re made of.

One of the fastest ways out of a flat character arc, is to put your character under constant and increasing pressure. Does she become angry, manipulative, sullen, withdrawn? Does she cheat and cut corners to attempt to get what she thinks she’s about to lose? Does she play other characters off of one another? Does she resort to smooth-talking or people-pleasing in an attempt to win over everyone around her? (Hopefully not too successfully. This is a novel, after all. Make it hard.)

The point is, back your character(s) into a wall as often as you can and make the consequences significant for them so that they have to show who they truly are. What are they willing to do to get what they want?

At the same time, your characters should be growing and changing in some way throughout your story. Even if that’s a downward spiral.

Change

Of course, there are a million different ways to go about this. If you’re writing a traditional, positive character arc, your character is improving as the book goes on. The terrible, or self-defeating, or just generally not-helpful things the character was willing to do at the beginning don’t work out so well.

And she learns. She makes changes. She tries better tactics over time. Her initial tendencies are still a temptation and, in the direst moment (at the climax), she almost resorts to them again. But then she rises above her prior self and shows readers that she’s really changed. She knows how to make the best choice, no matter what it costs her.

But the opposite can also be true. I’m a sucker for a really well-written negative character arc. I often find them to be more interesting. And of course, they’re also true. Lots of people become a worse version of themselves as their lives progress. We don’t want them to. We do what we can to persuade them to take the high road. Still, they run themselves down to the bottom of the barrel.

[Note: a while ago, I wrote an article about how to write a negative character arc and still give your readers hope that they can take away from your novel. Check it out if this is a direction you’d like to go.]

Whichever you choose, make sure that your character is changing.

And don’t tell readers about it. Show us how your character is responding differently. Readers may not overtly notice this happening until after the fact. That’s ok. In fact, it’s more powerful writing for the change to be subtle. If the character’s changes seem natural, if they flow from the accumulation of their hard-won lessons, gains and especially the extent of their failures, the readers won’t step out of the story long enough to think about the change.

That’s good. Keep them in the story. Build your conflict and the character’s responses so that, in the end, the character’s great win (or loss) will make perfect sense.

If you’re looking for a great resource on building characters, I recommend Getting Into Character: Seven Secrets A Novelist Can Learn From Actors by Brandilyn Collins. In the book, she talks about how to understand your character’s motivations by getting to the heart of who they are – by understanding their deepest core values. Out of these all of the character’s actions and even their smallest mannerisms, fall out naturally.

Of course, throughout all of this, we’re trying to say something. We’re exploring some larger meaning. That’s what I mean by theme, which we’ll talk about in the next part.

The Three Strands of Storytelling

If you’re a prolific reader, like I am, you probably know what it’s like to pick up a constant stream of books, finish each one and think, well, that was ok. Maybe even good. But to find a book that really sits with you, that you exclaim over to everyone you know, that you want to reread periodically…that’s hard to find.

Why? Because most stories usually only do one or two things well. Most literary fiction majors in character and theme, but falls flat on plot. Most genre/ commercial fiction excels in plot. Some of the better ones also feature well-crafted characters. But brilliant storytelling will always do all three of these things well:

Plot + Character + Theme

Every part of a story – every scene even – should contribute to the advancement of the plot, the growth (or decline) of your character(s) and the examination of your theme. Since I’m a writer, and simply because I love understanding good quality literature, I make it my business to grow in all of these things. Sounds obvious, right? Except that it’s much easier said than done. Then where do we start? That’s what we’re going to dig into.

I started writing this post and quickly realized that there’s too much to talk about in one entry. Instead, we’re going to look at this in three parts, one for each of our storytelling components. Today we’ll look at plot. In the next two weeks we’ll examine character and theme.

Plotting or Pantsing?

Plot is probably the easiest of the three strands to understand. And it’s the one about which we find the greatest number of resources. Countless books and websites are devoted to plot structure and timing. Whether we like it or not, whether we’re a plotter, a pantser, or something in-between, the pacing of our stories needs to ebb and flow in a way that resonates with readers.

I once read a quote by someone who basically said that it’s extremely rare for a book to disregard the rules of plot structure and still be successful. And your book won’t be that book.

I have to agree.

Even lifelong, devoted pantsers like Stephen King follow the rules of structure. Take a look at his books. He uses all of the plot points, at roughly the pacing that the plotting guides recommend. And yet, he speaks scornfully of plotting as if it would ruin his craft of writing.

How can that be? How does he manage to have well-structured books and still eschew any intentional plotting?

Well, there are only two options. Either he uses his pantsing methodology for the first draft and then fits the story into the structure on a subsequent draft. Or – and I suspect this is the truth in his case, given what he has said about the subject – he has an innate understanding of structure so that his stories automatically fall out with a sound structure intact.

If you’re a pantser, you can do either of these. But if you don’t have that innate ability to write in a structured way (don’t feel bad; I certainly don’t), you’ll have to edit the structure in your second or third draft. Because whatever you do, you have to get that story’s bones in place. Otherwise, it’ll wobble and collapse. Trust me on this.

I used to think of myself as a consummate plotter. And then I observed myself in practice and gave my technique some more thought. Now I know that I’m actually something of a pantser-plotter-pantser-plotter. Something in-between both extremes.

I start with a story idea. It’s probably incomplete in some ways, but overall, I have allowed it to gestate in my mind to the point at which I have the overall story relatively intact. Then, somewhere around the eight-to-nine-month point, metaphorically, I take it out of my mind and put it on paper. I clean it up. I make sure that all of the structure is in place. I build in all kinds of nuance or simply clarify the shadowy nuance that’s already in my mind. Then I write a first draft. Then during the rewriting process, I go back and analyze each scene-sequel sequence for structural soundness. Then I write a second draft…etc.

It’s an ebb-and-flow, a back-and-forth between that loose ability to create and a critical eye for structure.

I’ve found this to be phenomenally freeing. I still have the ability to create freely without limiting the story. And yet, a knowledge of structure and how to fit that story into a framework actually gives me more of a sense of limitless storytelling. Rather than stifling me, it helps me to fill in the gaps, to diagnose what isn’t working in the story, and to produce a book that’s a powerful and satisfying tale.

All that to say, if you’re a pantser, don’t let structure scare you. It’ll actually give you more guidance and help than you expect. And, if you’re a natural plotter, don’t forget to allow your characters room to breathe and to show you the heart of your story.

If you’re looking for more resources about structure, K.M. Weiland is one of, if not the best, resource out there today. I’d recommend starting here:

The Secrets of Story Structure (Complete Series)

Her website is incredibly comprehensive and helpful, especially when it comes to understanding and building story structure.

The Goal

But first, you have to know what your character wants. It sounds insulting to even say that. But I’ve learned from myself that it’s very easy to approach writing thinking that I know exactly what the character wants, when what I really know is some stuff that will happen. Meaning: I know where the character is going. I know lots about the scenes that will occur. I even know the ending to the story. But I don’t always know the concrete goal that the character has.

I cannot begin to tell you how much harder that makes the entire process of writing. And in the end, you’ll stand back and find that your character is either more of an observer, or is simply an accidental participant in the action. Instead of driving the action itself.

Our characters have to drive the action. They have to act and react based on what they want.

I’ve heard that for years, and yet I didn’t know how much I didn’t know about crafting character desires until I attended a writing conference led by a well-published author. She and I were discussing the book I was working on and she asked me what my character wants. I felt very confident in my response and told her that it’s two-fold:

• He wants to be a great violinist in Vienna (this story is set in the mid-1800s), and
• He wants his father to respect him

I thought that those were concrete goals. The kinds of goals that would drive my storytelling, and yet I was having some significant problems writing the story.

She taught me that what your character wants should never come in the form of a “to be.” Why? Because it’s too vague. It doesn’t give you any direction. And it doesn’t create conflict. And she was right. So right! I’ll show you why.

First, what defines a person as “a great violinist?” Is this simply a level of contentment within him? Meaning: how will he know when he has reached it? Will he just feel that he’s great?

Second, how does this goal drive his actions? Sure, he’ll study the violin, but to what end? What is he shooting for? Is this just a book about a twenty- or forty- or sixty-year series of violin lessons? (And how boring would that be?)

And third, how does this goal naturally result in conflict? Is there any natural conflict in taking music lessons?

She was right. My goal was too vague to be any help to me. After that point, I refined the goal to be something very specific. He wants the Vienna Conservatory to recognize and appoint him as the lead violinist. From that point on, all kinds of [positive] things happened. All of a sudden, I had more concrete direction. Clearly, the character is going to spend the entire book attempting to gain that position and there are lots of ways that he can and will try to do so. Ways that go beyond simply taking music lessons.

At the same time, I can think of a lot of conflict that will prevent him from doing so, which will show us more about who he really is. It’s not going to be easy. There’s already a lead violinist. His idol. But there are also other very gifted young men.

And his family, who will also get in the way, which we’ll get to next.

Conflicting Goals

You may have noticed that I had a second goal for this character: to gain his father’s respect. Did you think I’d leave you hanging with that one? Nope. In my character’s case, his father appreciates the arts – or, to be more accurate, what he really wants is to be seen as one who appreciates the arts. In reality, he views all performers as existing for his entertainment. He doesn’t respect them at all.

What that means is that my character can’t be the lead violinist and gain his father’s respect. He will either accomplish one of them or neither. It will be impossible to have both. Something will have to give.

This naturally creates conflict. Lots of conflict. And having this sort of natural conflict makes it very easy for you, as a writer, to set up situations in which the character will have to choose between the two, or will find himself sorely disappointed because his efforts to gain one of the two will naturally create a chasm between him and his desire for the other goal.

And that’s the point. We want conflict, because it makes the story interesting. But, most importantly, we want conflict because it forces the essence of the character into the light.

We’ll talk more about why that’s the case and what that looks like in the next part.

But, for now, note that it is extremely important to give your character conflicting desires. Desires that stem from different core values he holds. Find a way to pit these values/desires/goals against one another and you’re going to be able to generate an incredible plot full of shifting conflict and escalating odds.

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Magical swords, books of the dead, cursed rings – occult objects are actually quite prevalent in writing. But how can we use them effectively, particularly in writing works in the Horror or Gothic genre? And why would we want to?

That’s what we’re talking about today!

It may surprise most people to realize that they’re probably well-acquainted with the idea of occult objects. After all, how many of us haven’t seen the Disney version of The Sword in the Stone, in which a young Arthur pulls the enchanted sword out of the stone and secures his right to the throne?

Or how about the family movie, The Mummy, in which The Book of the Dead is used and accidentally calls forth the evil mummy Imhotep. And the Book of Amun-Ra, which they successfully use to combat the evil in the end.

How about the magical One Ring in The Lord of the Rings – a cursed object that must be destroyed before it can be used to enslave all of Middle Earth.

Before we go any further, note two things. One: an occult object is something that supposedly contains some magical powers, something that links the physical world to the supernatural one. (Occult technically refers to those things that are hidden or secret; the things that can’t be seen or sensed physically.)

And two: there are different ways to handle objects like these. They can be treated as objects of wonder and blessing, as a source of beneficial power to the recipient. Although of course, there may still be consequences to the use (or overuse) of them. That’s essentially how The Sword in the Stone presents such things. Or they can be treated as dangerous tools that, though powerful, should be avoided. That’s how Tolkien presents the One Ring. And lastly, there’s a middle ground, such as that in The Mummy, in which some occult items are beneficial and others should be destroyed.

Regardless of your opinion of these things, there’s a way to incorporate them into your writing. I would even go so far as to say that doing so reflects reality more accurately. Why? Because I believe that the supernatural world is real. And to represent it in our writing imbues our stories with more truth than they would otherwise have. For me, the real question isn’t whether they should be in there, but what should we say about them?

Regardless of how you want to present these things, my goal is to show you how to use them in your writing.

[Minor plot spoiler ahead.]

This post came about because of a book that I recently featured on my YouTube channel: Summer of Night, by Dan Simmons. In that book, he uses an accursed object: the Borgia Bell as the source of the evil in the town’s schoolhouse. The bell, an object that had come pre-cursed, grows in strength over the years in the bell tower of the school until it has the power to call forth all kinds of evil and with that, to ensnare a number of the townspeople.

To the best of my knowledge, there’s never been a Borgia Bell. I tried to find a reference to one, but so far, haven’t found any such thing. However, there was a Borgia family, of which many of us are at least nominally familiar. This Spanish family came about during the Italian Renaissance and has been suspected of many crimes, including adultery, incest, simony, theft, bribery, and murder (especially murder by arsenic poisoning).¹ In short, the name Borgia has become synonymous with immorality and crime.

The Historical Link

Which is why I mention it. Though it’s not necessary, tying an occult object to a historical person or event can give it an enormous amount of weight. Tolkien pulled his idea for the One Ring from Wagner’s four ring operas. Wagner, a man who was interested in the occult, took his idea from several Scandinavian and German sources, primarily The Saga of the Volsungs.[2]

Even though, as with the Borgia Bell, such a thing may have never existed, the Borgia name lends credence to the object itself. And because of the Borgia reputation, readers immediately view such an object with suspicion. That response that will imbue your story with more terror.

In addition, with the historical link, there’s no need to be too specific about how the object gained its magical power – for good or evil. Sometimes less of that backstory carries more power with readers. Regardless of whether your object is tied to a historical figure or incident, what you don’t want is for your extensive understanding of how the object became cursed to result in a technical manual that breaks the tension of the story. Keep it to the bare minimum that readers absolutely need to know.

But what object should you choose?

What Object?

The object you use should tie to the central point of the story. In Summer of Night, the bell makes perfect sense because the story is focused on the beauty of childhood and the extent to which modern society has resulted in a loss of the kind of freedoms that children used to enjoy. Thus, the bell – an object that resides in a schoolhouse that’s set to be boarded up and never used again – parallels the central theme.

In The Lord of the Rings, a trilogy that sets out to showcase the battle between good and evil, it makes perfect sense that the tool of the dark lord, Sauron, a tool that he uses to control all of the earth, would be the central object. Its existence or destruction, and the other characters’ ability to overcome its sway over them, mirrors that theme.

Start by asking yourself, what is the overarching point of what you are writing? What are you trying to say? Then brainstorm ways that an object could encapsulate that theme.

For example, if you’re writing a Horror novel about a family in which the father gained his wealth and reputation in business by swindling and ruining others, perhaps the object could be a specific, luxury pen, the tool he used in his shady business contracts. The pen contains all of the deceit and greed that he inadvertently poured into it over the years. Perhaps one of his children – or one of the family’s longstanding enemies – finds the pen and uses it, unleashing a storm of revenge on the family. All your readers see is that something terrible is happening to this family and it all seems to stem from the pen. It’s up to you to use the novel to reveal the pieces of the family’s history and to force this family – who may also be complicit – into a corner where they have to face their past and address it.

Gothic vs. Horror

Which brings us to a final thought: how might you use the object differently if you’re writing in the Gothic genre versus the Horror one?

The example I just laid out is a great example of a Horror theme: the past secret sin, or moral failing, of this man (and possibly his family with him) is catching up to him, forcing upon his family the consequences of his actions.

But what would a Gothic example look like?

Let’s say that the irrational theme you want to explore is the following: Is a person in control of her own life, or is it all a predetermined thing? Your belief is that it’s all predetermined. A pen could work with this theme as well.

Your character, a young girl who’s deeply frustrated after a series of bitter disappointments encounters a fortune teller who tells her the direction that her life will go. The girl, who sees that future as her worst nightmare – the culmination of all of her disappointment – goes to a witch who fashions a pen for her. The pen gives her the ability to write her future. But there’s one caveat. She can’t write the end result. She can only write the next step. The girl takes the pen home and embarks on a journey in which she consistently writes each next step in order to attempt to steer herself away from the future she thinks is her destiny and towards the one she wants instead.

But, the harder she tries to go a different direction, the more what she writes takes her away from her desired future so that she finally finds herself with the exact future that the fortune teller had told her. Perhaps it takes a different form than she expected, but is, in spirit, identical. Perhaps she’s resigned to it in the end. Perhaps she’s surprised by how much it suits her.

That’s for you to decide. But the point is, in this case, you’ve used the same occult object to support an irrational (Gothic) theme rather than a Horror one.

Conclusion

Frankly, I think both would be wildly interesting. But the key is to keep your object central to your theme and to use it in conjunction with your genre. And to let us all know about it so that we can enjoy the result of your hard work!

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¹ “House of Borgia”. Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/House_of_Borgia. Referenced October 23, 2021

² “Ring Literary Sources”. Texas Liberal Arts. https://www.laits.utexas.edu/wagner/ringsources/ringsources.html. Referenced October 23, 2021

When I was a child, my father played a trick on me. I was perhaps eleven or twelve years old. He had noticed that I consumed literature at a frenetic pace, albeit mostly children’s books. Whatever was marketed to my age range. And it’s true. We would receive that scholastic magazine at school – the one with hundreds of books – and I’d take it home and check off a massive number of books. This was always fine in our household since there was never a budget for books. Books were sacrosanct. We could have as many as we wanted.

But this day he pulled me aside and told me that he’d make a deal with me. From that point on, for every kids book I read, I had to read one of the classics. As an oldest child, there were many things I didn’t challenge. Rather, I gave it a moment’s thought and realized that it was a fairly rational request. After all, I’d still be able to read as much as I wanted, but I’d have to step out into some higher quality books.

Challenge accepted.

However, something happened that I didn’t expect. It became harder and harder to find contemporary literature that I enjoyed, even among adult books. The more I read the classics, the more heightened my tastes became. I grew acclimated to profound character depth. I’d seen how some of the classic Russian works marry character and plot without dropping either. Over the years, I learned how to find modern works that don’t sacrifice that quality I love, although it’s still something of a challenge.

All that to say, I have a LONG history of reading classic literature. And a profound respect for these works.

If you’re like me, you may have noticed that a frequently-employed tool in the classics is that of a narrator. In the Gothic sphere, books such as Wuthering Heights and The Turn of the Screw used this tactic. Essentially, this is where a third person – someone either entirely removed from the main plot line (The Turn of the Screw) or a tertiary character who witnessed the story, but wasn’t a dominant player (Wuthering Heights) tells the story to the readers.

We’re introduced to the fact that the story is narrated at the very beginning, are reminded of the fact at points throughout the story, and then close out the tale with the narrator.

Note: a narrator – in classic settings – is never a main character. It’s always someone somewhat removed from the tale.

Why a Narrator

There’s a fireside storytelling quality about a work with a narrator. It feels much as if we’ve gathered around a hearth and are listening to a friend or family member recount the tale that they heard or witnessed. It has a natural feeling about it.

Isn’t that how stories have been told down through the ages? The use of a narrator replicates this method and invites us in as if we’re a close friend.

Where Are the Narrators Today?

If you’re following me and thinking about the contemporary market you may have noticed that this tactic is rarely used any longer. I can’t think of a single example though I’m sure there must be one out there.

Why is this? Why did the use of narrators fall by the wayside?

This summer I participated in a writing conference. At one point, the leader – a well-published author – asked several of us to come up front and discuss our work-in-process. It was part of an exercise to both demonstrate what she had been teaching us about marrying very specific protagonist goals with conflict – something I thought I understood very well. I learned so much that I walked away with many helpful tips.

During this exercise, I described how I had started writing my current book. Using a narrator, of course. I pictured the entire book as told classic-style from the perspective of the main character’s brother. She gave me an interesting look – one of perplexity and caution. And then she challenged me to rethink that one.

Her argument was that the industry – and the market – don’t appreciate narrators any longer because it creates more distance between the reader and the story. Contemporary readers want to fall into the gripping plot and a narrator pulls them out of the story at least to a small degree. Enough of a degree that they don’t appreciate it and publishers don’t want to see it.

It made sense to me after she said it, but having read so many classic works (Gothic and otherwise) that use narrators, I wouldn’t have known that. Because of my father’s requirement (which I now appreciate) I have developed a very high capacity for literary perseverance. So my perspective and that of the modern reader are a bit different.

That said, when she talked through the work with me, I was able to see a way to still write the tale I had in mind and yet come in much closer. In some ways it made some of the problems I’ve been working through easier to overcome.

Conclusion

So in summary, I think she’s right. The narrators have fallen by the wayside because today’s readers want a more immersive tale. We could psycho-analyze why that is. Perhaps people today want to feel the book more than readers in prior generations did. Maybe we’ve just discovered the advantages of this close proximity and have never thought to look back.

I’ll close with one caveat: there are some books like Anne Rice’s Interview with Vampire that bridge the divide. If you’ve read the book, you know that it is narrated and reads like a novel from a prior era, but still has a contemporary feel. Why? Because the narrator is the main character: Louis. So I suppose that’s what I’ve learned about the use of narrators. They can still be employed, but need to be a principle character.

That gives all of us the best of both worlds. The immersive literary experience married to the style of another place and time!

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