Tanya Scott
Themes give meaning to fiction, forming the underlying insight that the story illuminates, and they pay little heed to genre boundaries. Lofty themes don’t arise only in literary fiction; a murder mystery might highlight issues of class or greed, or an epic heist might speak to teamwork or betrayal. But it can be a trap for genre fiction writers to feel a need to expand on serious ideas, which have the potential to derail the crucial act of storytelling. Our readers don’t need a sermon; they don’t want to be told what to think.
But I’ve learned that themes can be sneaky. They can emerge by stealth, creeping their way into our characters’ arcs, and attempt to take over the narrative.
Stillwater had two starting points: Luke, a character with an eclectic skillset that ranges from benign to sinister, and theidea that we never know what people are hiding under the surface. Luke’s story evolved around him as I found out for myself exactly what lay under his calm exterior. The more I tested him by throwing trials his way and watching how he reacted, the better I understood who he was. There is a quote – Seneca, I believe: ‘A gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man without trials.’ We are all shaped by our experiences, and we grow most when pushed outside our comfort zone.
The challenges Luke faces in his early life stem from real-life examples, from stories told to me by patients over a few decades of working in mental health. Patients have confided how they coped with mental illness, drug use, incarceration of household members, and physical and psychological abuse, including neglect.
There is ample evidence that adversity in the early years of life – such as the trials Luke faces – causes measurable and lasting harm. Children who grow up with these forms of insecurity are more likely as adults to be unemployed, to be imprisoned, to suffer mental illness and substance abuse. What is less well known is that they are also more likely to develop cardiovascular disease, diabetes, and cancer. It seems a long bow to draw, but the mechanisms are linked to the effects of chronic stress on a child’s developing body – to the point of altering gene expression, in some cases – and brain development.
It’s not all bad news, though. Positive strategies to mitigate these effects have been extensively researched. One nurturing caregiver in the child’s life, with a dose of unconditional love and positive regard, can provide a protective buffer. Connection to school and community, a safe home, and strategies to help children develop self-regulation skills have been shown to help improve outcomes.
There is a solid business case for governments to fund social programs, educational and parenting support to ensure protective, positive experiences for all children. As the medical aphorism affirms, prevention is better – and much cheaper – than cure. Early intervention saves money. Even if funding bodies and society at large ignore appeals for compassion and kindness, it’s not charity to look after children: it’s smart economics. Healthy, secure kids grow into productive adults; nurturing kids helps build a resilient, law-abiding, self-reliant society.
In writing the character of Luke, there was a balance to be found in realistically portraying the hardships he’d faced, acknowledging the profound effects these can have on a young person, while still providing an element of hope. Recovery from traumatic events is possible. The path to healing is not a straight line, and for many survivors, it’s a lifelong enterprise – but it is achievable, and worthwhile. And sneakily, unintentionally, these themes wove their way into Luke’s story and became inseparable from it.
In genre fiction, the plot is the main course. There may be an entrée of an exotic setting or a dessert of clever prose; but without a solid story base for the meal, the reader is left hungry. And particularly for crime fiction, characters and plot are inextricably intertwined, two sides of the same story question. You can’t have a who-dunit without a side of why-dunit.
It’s once we start asking ‘why’ humans do what they do that we skate close to the thin ice where themes lurk, where the writer risks overexplaining and fracturing the story’s surface. Themes don’t need to be imposed on the reader; they should emerge organically, growing as the characters do. The writer’s job then becomes one of restraint, allowing the story to unfold in its own way – and trusting the reader to find their own meaning within it.
TANYA SCOTT is a writer, doctor, and medical educator based on the Victorian Surf Coast. She has been writing for many years, including using narrative therapy as a tool to make sense of the world, both personally and with her patients. Many of the ideas for Stillwater stem from her work helping patients with childhood trauma—acknowledging that in reality, recovery is a long and incomplete path. More can be found at https://tanyascott.au/
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