How can you improve and deepen your
basic story idea? Besides plot and
characterization, how can themes, both major and minor, enrich a work of
fiction?
Think about the stories you read as a child. We were taught to draw the
“moral of the story” in almost every case. Think about the American Literature
classics you’ve read. For example, For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway, The Great
Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Good Earth by Pearl Buck. In addition to
their stories of war, greed, love and hardship, the great universal themes of
literature were imbedded, either consciously or subconsciously by the authors.
Their primary objective, no doubt, was to write a compelling story that
many—even millions of readers—might enjoy. However, secondary to their
objective was the expression of their outlook or philosophy of life. A truth
about the human condition.
There
are several important themes in For Whom the Bell Tolls: The harsh reality of
war and how it kills the individual; That a special love can still survive the
horrors of war; That courage and grace
under immense stress and danger are the ideals of the average man. Hemingway was a proponent of SHOW, DON’T
TELL. He was one of the first American
novelists to reveal his characters through mainly action and dialogue. Since
his dialogue was sparse, revelations via action was his stock in trade.
His main
character, an American journalist who volunteers in the Spanish Civil War, is a
reflective man whose survival in the war depends more on his ability to run,
shoot and hide than his ability to write.
While aware of the deep significance of what’s going on around him, he knows
in the circumstances of the war, his individuality is lost. If he is to
survive, he must act like a soldier, one of many, rather than an individual.
After all, the “bell tolls for thee.”
Death is sudden and random. So he acts and speaks, runs, shoots, makes
love—when he can—and shows us through his actions how resigned he is to his
fate.
The
way I plan and plot my books are neither as a plotser or pantser, in the
current writers’ colloquialism. It’s simply the way I think creatively. Rather
than begin with characters or setting or a conflict idea, I begin with a
dominant theme. The conflicts and characters grow from that thematic starting
point.
Before I began to
write my first book, OPERATION FAMILIA, I knew what my themes were: Family is
important and helps to determine one’s identity and self-worth; Know
thyself. To thine own self be true (to
paraphrase the old Bard). My main
character, Dina Salazar struggles in her quest to find herself—even changes her
name—but ultimately, by risking her very life, proves to herself that the
search is all important. Moreover, she proves to her family that she’s not a
“desgraciada” but a woman of true worth.
Which bears out another theme of the book: Only through tests of
character are one’s identity and character revealed. Dina’s forbearance, patience and compassion
are tested in addition to her courage throughout the story, and the climax of
the book—when she enters a Mexican drug cartel’s lair--is the final test. Rescuing her Mexican cousins becomes for Dina
a true test of her self-worth and her identity.
In my romantic
thriller, A BODYGUARD OF LIES, I began with the basic theme of retribution and
justice. Though justice is blind, she has a long memory. So FBI analyst Jake Bernstein believes as he is called to go
undercover and investigate a naturalized American grandmother suspected of war
crimes during World War II. That he is Jewish-American is part of his identity,
and losing all of his grandfather’s German family during the Holocaust adds to
his deep need for ultimate justice. However, he is a 21sst Century
American male, first and foremost, a former SEAL and Navy man, a conservative
male with a condo and stock portfolio. He’s the ultimate practical male.
Balance and objectivity are his mottos in life. Conscience and morality are
relative and dependent upon circumstances. In other words, justice is never
black and white.
His undercover
assignment becomes an unexpected test of those very mottos. Just days into his
investigation, he asks himself the questions: Can he remain objective when the
target’s lovely granddaughter has captured his heart, or at least his
libido? How can he do his job and not
compromise the investigation? Does justice really matter, anyway, after sixty years (the story’s set in
2005)? He has a difficult time believing
that old, wrinkled and frail Mary McCoy Snider was really a ruthless Nazi spy,
code named Hummingbird. That she conspired to murder the real Mary McCoy and
take her place in Churchill’s War Office seems ludicrous to him. That she was capable of betraying the society
and country in which she was living, Jake finds unthinkable. The reader knows
differently, though. The chapters from the POV of the female Nazi spy, living
and working in her deep cover role, reveal to the reader a completely different
perspective. And, as Jake realizes, the evidence against Mrs. Snider begins to
mount, making it impossible for him to ignore the awful, unthinkable truth. He
knows, too, that cornering the old woman and forcing her hand will also break
Meg’s heart.
Ultimately, Jake must
decide whether justice and truth must prevail or whether the passage of time
and the change of circumstances rule over human nature.
For me as an
author, the themes of a story are my guiding lights, the beacons that direct me
as I write and develop the characters and conflicts. For most writers, whatever
works is the general rule of thumb. For
me, the starting point is one or more of the universal truths. For me, this is
what works.
Reviews for SONYA’S MIDLIFE CRISIS
"I thought it was great. I mean, I
was hooked from the very first page because of all the wit and humor. I found
myself laughing a few times ...and that was only the first three
chapters!"
---Sandra Lopez, author of ESPERANZA
and BEYOND THE GARDENS
"A fun romp to read! The story is a deft mix of humor and raw
emotion with unforgettable characters. Donna Del Oro is an author to
watch!" -- Loucinda McGary, award-winning author of The Wild Sight and The
Treasures of Venice.
Blurb:
Sonya
Barton, an art teacher and muralist, has an emotional meltdown at a family BBQ.
Her husband tells her he needs a divorce so he can marry his pregnant
girlfriend. And all along, Sonya had no clue! So, how does the worst day of her
life turn out to be the best thing that could ever happen to her?
Sometimes your destiny happens on the road you take to avoid it. And one
forty-two year-old woman learns it’s never too late to wake up and grow up!
Excerpt:
Chapter One
“I need a
divorce,” said Earl, “So I can marry my girlfriend. She’s pregnant.” He added
in a rush, “See, it takes six months and she’s going to have the baby in about
six months.”
“What?” I
asked, spearing another hotdog with my barbecue fork. Not a funny joke, I
decided, impatient to get all the hotdogs done before the buns burned to a
crisp. The smoke was burning my eyes, so I turned away from both my husband and
the grill. I rubbed my eyes on my arm and made a kind of gagging sound.
“Uh, I need a
divorce…so I can, uh, marry my girlfriend.”
This time he
was hesitant.
My husband
stood there, wavering back and forth, a near empty bottle of beer in his hand.
His face looked silly and boyish, like he’d been stuck in adolescence for
twenty years. Of course, isn’t that what had appealed to me seventeen years
ago? His bleached blond hair stood up in short spikes like an aging, wannabe
surfer dude.
“Very funny,
Earl. Get the barbeque sauce from that table for me, would you please? I need
to add a little more to these hamburgers.”
It was the
family reunion, a thirty-sixth birthday party for Earl’s younger brother,
Scott. Earl was forty-eight going on fourteen, and as usual, was the life of
the party.
That is, until
he walked over to me with that strange look on his face. I wiped my forehead
with my arm, feeling the heat of the grill strike me in aromatic waves, not in
the mood for any of Earl’s horseplay or practical jokes. The party preparations
had exhausted me, but Scott was a special brother-in-law. He was my friend.
“Sonya, you don’t
understand. I’m not joking. I need a divorce.” Earl looked around at the
relatives standing near the grill, waiting for their dinner, and lowered his
voice. “I hate to break the news here and now, but Jennifer said the best place
to do it would be a public place. Guess this is about as public as you can get.”
He chuckled and threw his head back as he downed the rest of the bottle.
Was he drunk, I
wondered, or was I? Did I hear him correctly or was the heat and smoke
affecting my hearing? I looked up at him and stared. Sure, Earl was drunk or at
least on a loud buzz, but his expression was serious. Just then, Scott
approached the grill. Evidently, he’d overheard what Earl had just said.
“What’s the
matter with you, you idiot? This isn’t the time or place for chrissakes.”
Like an
automaton, my head swiveled and my eyes met Scott’s. My brother-in-law, the man
I most admired and liked in Earl’s big, sprawling, fun-loving and raucous
family, looked at me with blue eyes filled with shame and humiliation. And
anger.
Was it true?
What Earl was saying?
My throat
burned and clogged. I couldn’t speak for a full minute. If Scott was looking at
me in that way, then he knew something I didn’t. Somehow I eked
out the words, “W-who’s Jennifer?”
Earl’s head
dropped, his eyes raking the ground like a kid who’d been caught stealing from
the emergency-money jar. Like all the times he’d disappointed me in the past,
all the minor and major infractions of marital trust he’d committed over the
years. He’d hang his head like a little boy and expect forgiveness. Like I owed
him. Like the world owed him. Sure, he was drop-dead gorgeous, a dead ringer
for Brad Pitt and the Bartons’ Golden Boy, but this time he’d gone too far.
“S-she’s
my…uh…girlfriend.”
After that,
something exploded in my mind. I recall seeing colors, like fireworks shooting
off in my head—red, yellow, orange, Pepto pink, then finally—mercifully—black.
What happened
was the strangest thing. I’d later call it my nervous breakdown. It was like my
mind left my body and watched from above as this woman in a two-piece swim
suit, wielding a long-handled fork, chased a man in shorts around a pool. During
the chase, somehow the grill ended up in the pool, Earl made a big belly
splash, joining the floating hotdogs and soggy buns. People reached the crazy
woman in the swim suit and held her down. Scott pulled Earl out of the pool and
dragged him out of the backyard in a headlock. The mad woman screamed, then
went limp.
Floating above
the fracas, I watched as Earl’s two other brothers carried her inside the
house, my feelings aroused more by curiosity than by concern. I do recall
thinking why that woman was being so mean? Hey, maybe she deserved it if she’s
so crazy. Maybe she brought it upon herself. Mostly, I was detached
emotionally. Like I was watching a French farce from the rear of the second
balcony. Or like watching a train wreck from a safe distance. Strangely comical
and yet terrible.
When I came
back into my body—I don’t know how much later— I was lying in my darkened
bedroom. All the shutters were closed, the only sound was the ceiling fan which
whirred softly. Two shadowy bodies lingered nearby. My eyes began to focus.
Earl’s younger sister, Connie—the baby of the family—and her husband were
sitting at the end of the bed, looking worried. The patio area was quiet, the
house as silent as a morgue.
“Omigod, did I
kill someone?” I asked, trying to swallow back a sob. I suddenly had an image
of me wielding the BBQ fork like a knife, sharp prongs slashing downward. But
there were no police officers standing nearby with handcuffs dangling from
their belts.
I looked at my
hands. No blood.
Owen Bronski,
Connie’s accountant-husband, attempted a small, reassuring smile.
“No, but you
went a little nuts for a while. We couldn’t get the fork out of the wood post,
it’s buried so deep. Sorry about that, but maybe you can hang a pot from it and
no one will notice. Anyway, it missed Earl’s back by a long shot. That was when
he took a dive into the pool. You were going to go in after him, but we grabbed
you.”
“We got all the
food out,” Connie offered, patting the bedspread sympathetically, “Fed the dog
the hamburgers, too. They floated pretty well and we managed to save all the
hotdogs. The kids thought it was a game, so don’t worry about them. We told
them, you know Uncle Earl, he’s a cutup. And Aunt Sonya’s just pretending. Then
when you passed out, we told them you got heatstroke. Not a far cry from the
truth, is it? It got to the mid-nineties, can you believe it? What a scorcher
for June! Especially for the Bay Area.”
Connie was
talking so fast, she reminded me of a windup action figure. I kept waiting for
her battery to run down, then I realized she was nervous. Did she think I would
attack her, too? I wondered, horrified at myself. I was usually calm and
rational. Did I have a psychotic break and turn into a homicidal maniac?
Inside, I was
calm. No, numb. It was a bizarre state, I thought, considering I’d just tried
to stab my husband with a barbecue fork. But there I was. Absolutely numb.
“Anyway,
everyone ate while Scott drove Earl to her—well, to a friend’s house. Then
Scott came back to blow out the candles on his cake, the cake you decorated for
him. He really liked the scuba-dive theme. He’s been waiting in the living room
ever since.” Connie was wringing her hands. “I hope those pills I gave you will
help. I’m so sorry for this whole mess.”
“I don’t understand.”
Tears began to stream, unbidden and unwelcomed. I’d never been a weeper, always
the stoic, strong one. I’d learned to suck it in since I’d been married to
Earl. I could take anything, but humiliation of the public kind cut me deeply.
To the very core of my being. Pills? Connie gave me pills? I didn’t remember
taking them.
“I don’t
understand,” I repeated, like my vocal chords were stuck on that phrase.
I must’ve slept
for a while, knocked out by Connie’s pills, because my head was foggy and leaden.
I felt like I was in a bad dream, and if I held still long enough, I’d wake up
and everything would be as it was before. Closing my eyes, I said a prayer to
God: Please let things go back to the way
they used to be. Please. I can’t deal with this. I don’t want to deal with
this. Not now, not ever.
I opened my
eyes. The room was still dim and Connie still looked stricken and nervous. God,
did I look like the head-spinning girl from The
Exorcist?
“Did you know
about Earl and that-that girl?” I asked, summoning the nerve to face the
wreckage of my marriage.
Connie couldn’t
hide the guilty blush that colored her face. “I suspected, Sonya. Betty at work
said she saw them together at the movies one night. That was the week you were
visiting your family in Texas. During your spring break. But I think he started
acting more than his usual strange self around Christmastime. Scott tried to
make him end it, but you know Earl. He’s foolish and selfish—”
She broke off
as though she suddenly felt like a traitor to her blood. Owen shrugged in
agreement. Yep, everyone knew Earl and they knew what our seventeen years of
marriage had been like. Yet, I loved Earl with all his human failings, just as
I had thought he loved me in spite of mine.
Owen pushed his
glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “I think it all goes back to his
business failing. He loved being the boss, y’know. The bankruptcy hit him hard.
When he was back to being a contractor’s foreman again instead of the head
honcho, I think it did something to him. His self-esteem, y’know. His
self-respect.”
Yes, that was
it, I thought, clutching onto a straw of insight. Anything to avoid admitting
to myself that it was my fault Earl
had turned to another woman. But was it really that simple? Or had something
been missing from our marriage for a long time and I was just too preoccupied
to notice?
Still,
seventeen years of marriage was a long time. Didn’t the average American move
every five years? Wasn’t the divorce rate among Americans like fifty percent?
Weren’t we a restless nation, always looking for something better on the next
horizon? Wasn’t it always greener on the other side of the fence?
“B-but he said
he liked his job,” I suggested, desperate to understand what went wrong. “He
seemed happy.”
The last part was
lame, even I had to admit. Earl was always the family clown, the joker. If I,
his wife of seventeen years, couldn’t see beneath his mask of mirth, what did
it say about me and our relationship? Connie, closest to her brother in the
Barton clan of six siblings, had sensed something was different. Earl had
fallen in love with another woman, evidently, and I was just one big cliché—the
wife was the last one to find out.
“Y’know Earl,”
continued Owen, “he puts up a good front. Always has, as long as I’ve known
him.”
“But how does
having an affair and getting another woman…pregnant”—saying it was like getting
peanut butter off the roof of my mouth—”how does that solve his self-esteem
problem?”
Both Owen and
Connie looked at each other, then back at me like duh…if I couldn’t figure that one out, then I was totally clueless.
While dabbing
at my wet cheeks with the edge of the sheet, I grew silent. They knew something
about Earl that I didn’t, obviously. They had the key to his soul or heart.
They understood him, I didn’t. Maybe I didn’t understand men, period.
Yes, that was
it. I’d lost all understanding of men. Or maybe I’d never understood what made
a man tick. Relationships had always been secondary to my greatest passion—art.
That’s just how I was made. I resolved that would change. Just as soon as I had
this nervous breakdown over and done with, I’d start to learn what made a man
tick. What made him want to leave his loyal, faithful wife of seventeen years
for another woman. What made him want to start a whole new family and have a
baby at forty-eight.
Then maybe I’d
learn enough to win him back.
Yes, just as
soon as I finished falling apart and going crazy, I’d study that. Maybe the
answers were right there, but I was just too much in shock at the moment to see
them.
I sank back
into the covers and buried my face in the pillow, my eyes closed tightly. The
dark room was comforting, the silence even more so. Thank goodness it was the
beginning of summer vacation. No lesson plans to make, no student art work to grade,
no parents to call. My daughter, Evita—rather, my sister’s daughter that Earl
and I had raised as our own—was doing an internship with State Senator
Villalobos in Sacramento.
Evita! What would she think? What would she think of Earl, the
only father she’d ever known? Already I was feeling her pain, her
disappointment.
Nevertheless, a
part of my practical brain took note. I had over two months—until September—to
have a nervous breakdown, study the problem and win back Earl. Make it up to
the Barton family for somehow failing one of their sons. Make it up to Evita
for driving her substitute father away.
“We’ll stay for
a while longer, hon. Just until you feel better,” Connie said softly.
Feel better?
Mostly what I felt was numb. In shock, kind of numb. My mind was working,
though, churning through the problem, looking for a quick solution. There was
one out there, I was sure of it. I just had to withdraw from the world for a
bit.
Maybe for more
than a bit. Maybe for the rest of my life.
The world
intruded again five minutes later. Owen and Connie were replaced by Scott, the
birthday boy. My friend.
“Sonya.” He
camped on the edge of Earl’s and my kingsize bed. He nudged my foot, then my
shoulder. I was buried in my blanket-cave, thinking I might hibernate there all
summer.
“C’mon,
Sonador. Little dreamer, talk to me.”
Scott was the
only Barton who called me by my full Christian name, Spanish for “dreamer”. My
parents, third-generation Mexican-Americans born and raised in Texas, thought
it a romantic name for a girl. The only dreamy part of me was thinking thirty
years ago that I could become a great painter. Instead, I became a high school
art teacher—a career I loved, mind you, but quite a bit lower on the prestige
level than a Rubens, Monet or even a Diego Rivera or Frida Kahlo.
“Go away,
Scott.”
“Let’s talk.”
“No.”
The entire
Barton family made their living by talking, it seemed. For them, it was a
competitive sport. Scott wasn’t a successful owner/broker of a realty firm for
nothing. The guy could never take no for an answer. He could cajole an adamant “No!”
into a “Maybe…well, yes!” in two-minutes flat.
This time,
however, was different. He knew I could be as stubborn as he was persistent. I
was a rational, sane person most of the time, but not today. Today my
tempermental side, usually well restrained, had erupted. That poolside
explosion might have been just a prelude.
“I really liked
the cake you had made. The scuba diver, all the undersea creatures, the wreck.
I know you designed it—it was terrific and I loved it. Glad it didn’t end up in
the pool. Tasted good, too. You know, I really like banana filling. Thanks,
Sonya. For the party, too.”
In spite of
myself, I managed to smile. From underneath the covers, I mumbled, “I’m sorry,
Scott. Earl ruined your party. Guess I did, too.”
There was a
moment of silence. Another pat on the shoulder.
“Earl has that
knack, doesn’t he? Listen, it’s best if Earl doesn’t come around for a while.
You need to do what you need to do to come to your senses and move on with your
life. Earl—well, dammit, Sonya, we both know Earl’s beyond hope. He’ll do what
he damn well pleases. You know it and I know it. Mom and Dad feel bad about it,
feel bad for you, but you know how they’ve been with him. He’s the oldest,
their first-born, the golden boy. In their eyes, he’s never going to do
anything wrong. They’ve excused him all his life, so nothing’s going to change
now.”
I thought I
heard a big sigh following Scott’s resigned, resentful tirade. But Scott was
right. I could expect no help from Mom and Dad Barton. The entire clan would
close around Earl like a protective Marine platoon. All except maybe Scott.
“I’m going to
spend the night in your guest room, Sonya. If you need anything, call me, but I’m
not letting you stay alone tonight. Got that? At some point, you’ll realize you’ve
got to move on with your life. But for now, you just need to rest.”
Move on with my
life? Is that what Scott just said? How can I move on when I’d just died? Or
something had died. It certainly felt like something or someone had died. I
felt like it was me—and I was attending my own funeral. And Scott was my only
mourner.
I said nothing.
The silence wore on. I felt another pat on my shoulder—more of a pitying
caress—then the bed raised. The door to our—my—bedroom closed, leaving me to my
tormented thoughts. Fear. Guilt. Shame. Rage. They were all there, crouching
like demons inside my skull. Waiting to pounce when the numbness wore off.
Nuts to that, I
thought.
I rolled over,
saw Connie’s bottle of pills on the bedside table, took one and then plunged
back into my cave. Counting down from twenty, I got as far as eight…then
blissful nothing.
