We all have stories that resonate with us. They may be oral stories handed down through the generations in our family. They may be books we frequently re-read. They may be movies we've watched so many times we can recite the dialogue. What these stories have in common are five basic story elements that the speaker, author, or director have crafted so well that we never tire of the story. In fact, those stories touch us deeply, and we need them.
Theme is the glue that holds the story together. Theme is the
message the author intends, consciously or subconsciously, to communicate to
the reader. A story’s theme is generally a universal truth. It’s not uncommon
for an author to write all their stories around one or two themes. As readers,
we turn to stories with themes that “speak” to us. Think about those few
special books that stay with you. What
is at the heart of the story that makes it so memorable? Identifying that ‘something’
can be elusive. We can’t quite get our hands on it, but we know it at an
instinctive, visceral level, and we return for more.
I know my theme.
Loneliness.
Not being lonesome, not
being alone, not being lonely, but the utter hopeless agonizing heartache of
loneliness. Loneliness shows up in every story I write. I can’t keep it
out.
But where did this loneliness come from?
Perhaps it was my only-child upbringing until I was 13, or
that I was a loner all through school (still am) with few friends. Experiencing
a difficult mother/teenage daughter relationship may also have influenced my
loneliness. Could my tendency toward loneliness stem from the traumatic brain injury
I suffered at 18 and the resulting *holes* it left in my life from the loss of
many of my childhood memories? Or did an early, and ultimately unsuccessful
marriage, and then raising three children on my own have something to do with
it? Other factors could have been my battle with clinical depression
(eventually won that war) throughout my twenties and into my thirties only to
have panic/anxiety attacks muscle past the depression.
Maybe there are no reasons.
Maybe it’s a combination of all my
experiences.
Maybe it’s just
how I’m hardwired.
However, in case you’ve grabbed a tissue—not to worry. I had a great childhood, and I’ve lived a satisfying, adventure-filled life. In
fact, looking back through the years, there are few things I’d change, and I
have even fewer regrets. I’m not lonely, so don’t play sad violin music just yet. ;-)
For your loneliness-listening angst, here is Marty Robbins singing
Mr. Shorty, which is, at its theme core, a story about the hopeless isolation
of loneliness. The verse beginning at 52 seconds is the part that gets to me.
Since the August theme for blog-a-book-scene is Alone Again,
Naturally, here is a lonely excerpt from my recently published story in the Hot
Western Nights anthology—Give My Love to Rose.
EXCERPT
How many times had he heard the last words of love for a
beloved wife and children, or a wish to see a mother one last time? Some cried.
Others cleared the burden on their consciences. Most only had enough time to
name next of kin. When you heard a person’s last words, shared their last
breath, shouldered their confessions, you took on the duty of seeing their
dying wishes taken care of.
This man, Lon Griffin, was no different. He’d clung to a
thin thread of life, slipping between delirium and lucidity all through the
night. His will to live gave out in the dark just before the dawn.
Any other time, Clint would have dug a grave right there,
said the proper words, and then rode on to tell the family or sent a telegram,
whichever was the faster way to convey the news. This time, though, Lon’s widow
waited at the house a good many miles on farther north, she was probably
wondering right now when she’d see her husband again. She never would, not
alive, anyway, and Lon begged him to take him home to be buried in the family
cemetery.
Haunted heartbreak clouded Clint’s eyes. That Lon left
behind a family brought back his own loss. Nothing he possessed, not his guns,
his badge, his physical strength, or his love had been enough to prevent the
accident of nature that had killed his happiness in the blink of an eye.
Clint went about the pragmatic tasks of breaking camp and
loading up his pack horse. He saddled his horse and Lon’s mule and then wrapped
Lon’s body in a blanket and secured him over his mule’s back. Angling toward
the river in the general direction Lon had explained would take them to his
house, Clint thought of Rose and the image he created in his mind from
listening to Lon’s delirious talk all through the night. He’d spoken of her
with reverence that he’d done something right in his life to deserve such a
woman.
Clint understood that. It was a lucky man who found a woman
to be his life-mate. He’d been that lucky man once, and he didn’t have it in
him to go down that emotional road again. Every now and again, though, a wish
to belong somewhere and to someone stirred at the fringes of his heart as it
stirred now. Maybe it was because it was the dawn of Christmas Eve. Maybe it
was from sitting beside a dying man all night. Whatever the reason, the weight
of his aloneness rode with him.
Available on Amazon.com
As a writer, do you have a recurring theme that shows up in
your stories? What is the force behind your theme?
As a reader, are you drawn to stories with certain themes?
What about these stories speak to you so you keep coming back for more?
Until next time,
Kaye Spencer
Writing through history one romance upon a time
Stay in touch with Kaye
