I've been thinking about stories lately. Not plots, exactly, and not character arcs or structure or any of the things writers tend to gather around and discuss with great seriousness. Those things matter. They help us build the house.
What I've been thinking about instead is the soul of a story. I realize that sounds like the sort of thing a person says before everybody quietly backs away from the conversation, but stay with me for a minute.
Because I think every story has a soul. Not a theme. Nor a moral. Not even the thing the author later says they meant to write about. I'm talking about something deeper than that. A pulse. A living center. The thing that keeps drawing us back long after we've forgotten most of the details.
You know how sometimes you'll finish a book and somebody asks what it was about? You can explain the plot, the characters, and maybe even the theme. Yet somehow none of those things fully explains why that particular story moved in and made itself at home inside you.
And the funny thing is, I don't think writers always know what that deeper thing is when they begin.
I certainly don't.
Usually I start with a confident idea of what I'm doing. I build outlines. I tell myself this story is about forgiveness or belonging or courage. Then somewhere along the way, after I've become thoroughly attached to my own brilliance, the story gently informs me that I've misunderstood the assignment.
I've revised outlines, rearranged scenes, and convinced myself the problem was pacing or structure. Then eventually, usually while washing dishes or driving somewhere completely unrelated, I realize the story isn't about the thing I thought it was about. The deeper thing has been sitting quietly in the corner the whole time, waiting for me to notice it.
Honestly, I find this mildly irritating.
I'd prefer stories to arrive with instructions.
Instead, they behave more like people. You think you're having one conversation and then discover there's another conversation happening underneath it. The real one.
Maybe that's why the soul of a story tends to hide in such ordinary places.
Not in the dramatic speech. Not in the chapter where everything explodes. The soul usually appears somewhere quieter. Two people making coffee. Someone looking out a window. A conversation in a parked car. A moment that doesn't seem important until suddenly it is.
I think that's because we work that way too.
Most of us don't change because of big speeches. We change because of conversations. Because somebody says one sentence at exactly the right moment.
I've had entire stories reveal themselves through a line of dialogue I almost deleted.
That's always humbling.
You spend months constructing a story only to discover that its heart was hiding in twelve words spoken by a secondary character while reaching for a coffee mug.
The older I get, the less writing feels like building and the more it feels like listening.
The soul leaves clues. A recurring image. The memory that won't go away. A scene that should be minor but somehow refuses to stay minor. You don't entirely understand why it matters, but you know enough not to rush past it.
And I don't think that's unique to storytelling.
Love works that way. Grief works that way. Faith certainly works that way. We live through things long before we understand them. A child knows she is loved long before she can define love. We fall in love before we understand why. We walk through grief long before we understand what it changed inside us.
Meaning is often the last thing to arrive.
Stories seem to follow the same path.
Readers are drawn to particular books.
Maybe that's why readers connect so deeply with certain books. They're not simply recognizing events. They're recognizing experiences they've lived themselves. A reader may never have traveled to Oz or flown away in a house carried by balloons, but they know longing and loss. They know hope. They know what it feels like to search for home or to love someone they can't keep.
I think the soul of a story connects to something deeper than our intellect. At least that's what it feels like to me. And maybe that's the closest I can come to describing what I'm talking about.
The soul of a story is the thing that remains after the plot has been explained. It's the part that follows you into ordinary life. The part that shows up while you're folding laundry, driving across town, or standing at the kitchen sink staring out the window.
Maybe try this the next time you're revising: make a list of the images, memories, conversations, and questions that appear more than once. Don't analyze them yet. Just look at them.
Sometimes the soul of a story becomes visible simply because you've finally gathered all the clues into one place.
Because the soul of a story rarely announces itself.
It waits.
And if you're willing to slow down long enough to listen, it usually reveals itself.
Just enough to keep you following.
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What's the soul of your story?
Sarah (Sally) Hamer
Sarah (Sally) Hamer is a lover of books, a teacher of writers, and a believer in a good story. Most of all, she is eternally fascinated by people and how they 'tick'. She’s passionate about helping people tell their own stories, whether through fiction or through memoir. Writing in many genres - mystery, science fiction, fantasy, romance, medieval history, non-fiction – she has won awards at both local and national levels, including two RWA Golden Heart finals.
A teacher of memoir, beginning and advanced creative fiction writing, and screenwriting at Louisiana State University in Shreveport for over twenty years, she also teaches online at both margielawson.com and nostresswriting.com and blogs for writersinthestormblog.com/ and thewriteconversation.blogspot.com. Sally is a free-lance editor and book coach at Mind Potential, with many of her students and clients becoming successful, award-winning authors. Find her at sa***@***********al.org
