Forget everything you know about theme—every high school English class, Instagram reel, and obscure blog post on the internet.
Theme is misunderstood—and it’s time we set the record straight.
Theme is not a fable. It’s not an after-school special; a story that only exists for the purpose of teaching you a moral message.
So what the hell is it, then?
Simply put, a theme is an idea that drives a story. It doesn’t directly equate to a moral lesson; it’s the core concept that holds the sprawling expanse of your story together. It’s the “why?”—the reason to which you keep returning when you wonder why you’re doing what you’re doing.
Maybe it’s how mad you were about how that guy at the supermarket snuck thirteen items through the ten items or less lane. Or maybe it’s an exploration of the effects a prophecy would have on a chosen child. Or maybe it’s an expression of how you like to find the good in people, no matter what they’ve done in the past.
Theme doesn’t have to teach us something—but it does say something.
People tend to misunderstand theme as some reluctant classroom-style obligation—some moral observation that overrides everything else in the story. There’s a misconception that some stories lack one, and as a result, they’re sensationalist garbage. They’ll insist each and every choice you make—every scene in your book, every move a character makes, sometimes even the physical details in a setting—have to somehow reinforce the theme you need to include.
Now, if that’s the kind of story you’re going for, then there’s nothing wrong with working in some careful layers of symbolism. (Look up the gloves from Frozen for a clever example.) Unveiling the meaning behind seemingly mundane details can almost feel like plot twists in themselves, and deliver an extra layer of thrill to both yourself and the readers.
But, if that’s not your thing, then it’s in no way necessary. Your theme will still exist regardless of if every single detail in the book is somehow reinforcing it. We know books aren’t reality; but in real life, every bird that appears and decision you make about what to eat for dinner that night isn’t really reflective of anything. Sometimes in stories, it’s the same way—writers are just writing about things that are happening in the plot, with no symbolic meaning whatsoever.
If you can summarize your story in a single sentence, then the chances are you have a good grip on your concept—and a good grip on your theme. Even if that single sentence doesn’t actually mention what your theme is, then it complements it, and it can help you distill the theme from the narrative.
Examples!
Let’s say you had an overbearing English teacher in high school, and you wanted to explore the way the experience made you feel. Your summary could be “a high-school student outmaneuvers their least favorite instructor in a battle of protocol vs. wits.” The accompanying theme could be “imposing too much of an authoritarian hand causes shame and a loss of self-esteem in kids;” or “deep-rooted insecurities can cause people to lash out and push others away.”
If we take a look at some existing stories:
Star Wars
Summary: a group of ragtag heroes bands together to fight the forces of the Galactic Empire.
Themes: the triumph of good vs. evil; the importance of fighting even when facing insurmountable odds.
Frozen
Summary: a girl must reconcile with her wayward sister in order to stop an eternal winter.
Themes: the importance of cultivating family bonds; the power of love in bringing people together; the dangers of refusing to understand people’s differences and ostracizing them for it.
Encanto
Summary: a girl must uncover the mystery behind her family’s dying miracle in order to save their home.
Themes: the damage done by the long-lasting impacts of generational trauma; how people should be valued by who they are and not the use they can provide for others.
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At the end of the day, if you have a concrete idea, then you’ve probably got a central concept driving your story.
And congratulations! You’ve got yourself a theme.
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