A Story's Heart and Soul Isn't its Theme

There are some topics in the writing world that are difficult to discuss, because trying to put them in words is a feat in and of itself. The idea of a story's deeper heart and soul is one that's been on my heart for a while, and I might finally have at least some of the words to explain it in a way others will understand. It's something I've mulled over for a long time, especially since generative Artificial Intelligence burst onto the scenes and the recent changes within the publishing and entertainment industry.

When I was a child and read voraciously, one of my favorite things about reading were the adventures I got to experience alongside a variety of characters. I spent my childhood exploring Hogwarts with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, riding dragons with Ben and Sorrel, learning about tesseracts with Meg, Charles Wallace, and Calvin, and discovering Narnia alongside the Pevensies.

While chatting with a writing group about current reads, I realized that why I read as a child wasn't simply because I was entertained or the characters became the friends I wish I had in real life. Far more than education, entertainment, or escape, I loved the process of discovering the story and world and its depth. Yet it was more than that, a sense I think we all feel but can never really define well.

I discovered and experienced the heart and soul of a story.

Perhaps it's no surprise I had my own stories waiting within, begging to be told one day. I inhaled stories and books like air necessary for my survival. I dove far into my imagination, both alone and with (real-life) friends.

As I've pursued the path to becoming a published author, I've heard a thousand different ways to write a book. I've learned about plot, characters, theme, setting, and everything else that's considered the mechanics and craft of writing. But I've realized something about my personal process I hear few authors talk about, related to theme but not theme.

Theme isn't what I'm searching for when I write a story.

I'm not looking for theme or new character friends or a world to disappear into—those are all wonderful parts of the story, and every single one is necessary to tell the story, but I'm searching for far more when I embark on the reading or writing journey.

Courses, craft books, and most authors and editors I talk to say the same thing: theme is one of the most important pillars of any story. They aren't wrong, but the sense I get when the topic is theme is they're talking about something far deeper but more difficult to explain.

I think it's because we focus on the things we can control and name, rather than the more abstract but extremely important qualities all great stories have. So theme becomes a catch-all term for the concrete and the abstract all in one. Yet we only talk about the concrete, "it's a story about grief," and leave the abstract a nebulous, unnamed thing.

To me, this abstract and unnamed thing related to theme is what's missing in so many novels, movies, and shows today. It's why I'm intrigued by a concept but end up disgruntled and unsatisfied partway through the story (or even at the end of the first episode)—because that abstract thing is buried so far under tropes and flattened storytelling it's almost missing from the story.

Leigh Bardugo said something similar to this sentiment in a recent interview, Open Book with Jane. "I don't think we realize how much the algorithm is shaping our taste. It's shaping what we think of as good, permissible, interesting, and instead it's driving us toward kind of a flattening effect of culture . . . Algorithms work based on what is most popular, what is most broadly appealing. That's not the way art should work, okay? Art works in disruption . . . Culture shifts. And we're missing those shifts now. Now culture is just gently moving along. It's like a nice warm bath to sink into."

Publishers, especially the biggest ones, want to make sure they're investing in something that sells, so they look for more of the same thing, and that's what they publish. But this buys in to the state of the algorithm, of showing only what's popular or most likely to appeal to the majority of people. Yet it's the weird and odd stories we tend to hold close to us, revisiting them time and again. Because they aren't flattened, but detailed; they aren't trope-y and streamlined but expansive and completely out of the box.

Because the themes aren't "safe." The books that tend to stay with us dig deep into a theme, world, or character, exploring it in ways we never would have expected. That's not a story's theme, but it's heart. It's soul. These are what we connect to the most, the deep, abstract reasons we come back to stories again and again. It's what we want to discover, because heart and soul are what connect us to each other, to our world, and to the stories we love.

Theme is not the story's heart.

It's often referred to in the same manner, because it becomes the backbone of the story, why the plot happens and what the character learns. Theme is absolutely important, and it might be a muscle in the story's heart, but it's not the full organ.

A story's heart dives deeper than theme. It encompasses everything the characters choose and experience, but also all of the hidden things within the character and world that aren't shown on the page. The best authors include the heart of their story, often without realizing it. It isn't something you can put into a few words or label in the same way you can name a theme. It's the author's voice shining through, all of the little quirks of their brand of storytelling they can't point out, all wrapped up inside the characters, world, plot, and theme. It's the details you don't even notice while you read that make the story feel alive and lived in.

In the same way:

Theme is not the story's soul.

Again, it's often implied when people talk about theme, but it's not quite the same thing. And the soul of a story is even harder to put into words or tease out. If I had to attempt to give it a definition, I'd say a story's soul is the essence of the story, encompassing all of the emotions and thoughts and reflections it inspires in a reader.

Although a story begins with the author, once that author shares the story with the world, it's no longer theirs to control. Yes, the characters and world and everything are technically theirs, but when you publish a book, you give it to readers. It becomes theirs—the characters they walk alongside and get to know and connect with, the world they want to live in and they can imagine it. Readers bring their own experiences and ideas to the page, and their reactions create alongside the author.

As much as writing is a creative, solitary endeavor unique to the individual writing the story, reading is also creative, solitary, and unique to the individual reading the same story. Plot, characters, and what happens may remain the same for every single reader—and the author—but the experiences and reactions are unique to the reader. In this way, a story's soul reaches out through the page and connects author and reader, reader and reader. Without that soul bleeding through the words and characters and plot, it's an okay and maybe fun story a reader didn't really connect with at all—and will likely forget an hour after reading it.

Although we connect with themes experienced by characters, it's the story's heart and soul that draw us back time and time again.

My definitions of both a story's heart and soul will likely change over time, whether they're refined or expanded, but as of right now that's how I look at story and experience it as I read, and as I write and create.

A look at the idea "in practice"

The heart and soul of story, and the way it connects with ours to create near-unbreakable bonds, is why some of my favorite movies are also my favorite books, even if the plot is fundamentally different and the characters don't act exactly the same. One example is Howl's Moving Castle. The book by Diana Wynne Jones is sweeping and epic, a portal fantasy with grand adventures and familial ties. Hayao Miyazaki's adaptation of the novel into a movie misses many of the details—Sophie Hatter's hair color, the portal fantasy, Sophie's sisters, Michael's age—but it's still a sweeping, fantastical epic that captures the heart and soul of Jones' original story. It captures the magic, the timelessness, and the power of love coupled with the accurately human ways the characters respond to their struggles.

I've noticed this particular debate can be a divisive topic. Many who love Jones' original novel don't like the movie because its plot and details are so different. Conversely, many who love Miyazaki's movie adaptation aren't as enthralled by Jones' words and sweeping epic. I'm one of the rare few (I know) who love both. I saw the movie before reading the book, but once I read the book I simply loved both—because Miyazaki's adaptation captured the heart and soul of Jones' original tale. I came out of reading the book with the same understanding of life and love and humanity as I'd experienced in the movie, and both felt, at their core, to be the same story.

I've found I approach retellings in the same way, whether I'm reading or writing them. What matters most isn't keeping every detail of the original story, but capturing the heart and soul of the original and infusing that into a new imagining of the same story. Some authors do a fantastic job of this, and these are the retellings I return to again and again (and recommend to others). Other authors think keeping the main pillar details does all the work because it shows what tale is being retold, but it doesn't truly capture the magic or what fans loved about the original story.

Leaving you with a thought

Although story pillars such as theme, character, plot, world, and voice are integral to telling a story well, what really keeps a story living on in readers' hearts and minds is its heart and soul. Ultimately, it's not tropes or themes that sell a story, but the lingering effect it has on readers.

The next time you read a book you find yourself thinking about days or weeks afterward, ask yourself: is it a construct of the story that's keeping me thinking about it, or is it a deeper connection with the story that's harder to put into words?