I still think about Sullivan’s yacht, as it’s probably my last time ever being that close to the elites, and last time ever being invited on the water before I end up a test subject for the military, or worse, sued to replace it.

Whatever happened, I was only partially responsible. One minute, I’m sipping Moet under the stars while a bunch of trust fund babies party, and the next, we’ve capsized a twenty-million-dollar ship on a freezing lake; leaving a bunch of drunk, confused kids standing on the hull waving down a very confused coast guard.

I might have caught him necking his blonde bombshell study buddy from Stats 402 he told me not to worry about in the master suite. I might have also lost control of myself for a few seconds when I threw my half empty champagne bottle and… everything was a blur from there. But who has it worse here? At least his yacht was insured for freak accidents he can’t prove was witchcraft; STI testing wasn’t in my student insurance plan.

Either way, Sullivan, my now ex boyfriend, blamed me for everything that night—public drunkenness fine included. At least the worst he was blackmailing me to do was continue to date him, publicly anyway.

“I still think you should poison his food.” Selena huffs, dropping a box of elaborately decorated cupcakes into my numb arms, just in time to stop me from elbowing her. “Or we send his precious grandma an email with pictures of the snow they had on his party boat.”

“What’s she going to do? Not like he’s snorting. I think. She’ll just say I’m trying to blackmail the family.”

“Told you, Rox. Nothing but trouble. His parties suck too.” She sighs. “If you stopped drinking so damn much, maybe you’d see that.”

I only ever drank so much that night to feign memory loss. Selena was my childhood best friend and now, roommate. It was easier to keep it a secret that way if I forgot myself everything that happened. I do feel bad, though. Now she’s spent a whole sleepless night decorating cupcakes with my mom to cater at a financial loss at one of Sullivan’s art events, and I couldn’t even tell her why. All I can do is offer her a tense grin. “I’ll quit drinking if you stop looking for ways to kill my not boyfriend.”

Selena rolls her eyes and blows messy pin straight, black hair out of her eyes. “I’m going to poison your food for being so stupid sometimes, Rox. I’m not doing this for you, by the way. I’m doing this for mom. Stop staggering, you look drunk right now.”

“I’m sober, you jerk. It’s these damn heels.” They are sexy, black velvet stilettos borrowed from mom’s closet. Maybe a size too small, but my last pair of dress heels went down in Lake Ontario a few nights earlier, and while we’re a few weeks from losing the house, I’m keeping frivolous spending low on my list of priorities.

I take a few, tentative steps, my ankle nearly rolling as I step up onto the curb. Thankfully, a hand grabs my arm before I fall face first into a trash can.

“Who raised you animals? You’re supposed to be sharing gossip with me first.” Mom says, steadying me. I have no idea where she came from just now but I’m grateful. She steals the giant box from me, perfectly balanced. Even in the late August humidity, her hair is in a perfect ponytail, her tan glowing against the pear green t-shirt with Charlie’s Tea House written elaborately across her chest. She can easily pass for late 20s, save for the few greys in her ginger hair, a few shades lighter than my messy mop. She looks me up and down. “Sheesh. Must be a wild story. You look ready for a funeral.”

Can’t argue that. I’d kill for a cheesy t-shirt instead of my oversized all black suit. Not only do I look like a cadaver, but I also feel like one too. Cadaver in a crematorium, if this heat gets any worse. I feel Selena’s eyes burrowing a hole in the back of my sweaty neck. If Selena is this pissed at me about nearly drowning and my messy breakup, then mom will capsize every toy boat at the harbour. “I look like shit, and I hate these kinds of events,” I lie to her.

She offers me a reassuring smile. “Rather be studying? A little socializing will do you some good. Right, Leenie?”

“She’s feral. It’s pointless.” Selena replies, and even though it’s supposed to be a joke, I can still hear the bite in her words.

Can’t blame her. I’m lying to my mom. Our mom.

Mom looks between us but shrugs it off for now. “Let’s get going, Leenie, before the icing melts. See you inside, kiddo.” Mom winks at me and turns on her heel, without breaking a sweat.

Selena slams the truck door, the last box in her arms. She stops beside me. “You tell her what happened, or I will.” She shakes her head and follows mom inside.

“Say a single word to her and I’m throwing you out.” Selena ignores my threats, delivery door creaking shut behind her.

I sigh, and stumble over the cracked sidewalk, circling around the building towards the main street. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I’m running late and Sullivan is probably already waiting for me in the lobby.

The Lavoie Family Art Gallery sits in the middle of downtown Toronto, a sleek, black obelisk of a building, with tinted windows and a barely legible bronze sign over the front revolving doors. It’s easily mistaken for a bank at a glance, but anybody and everybody who was a somebody knows what it is: the most exclusive place in the West to procure the most avantgarde, trashy postmodernist art. Billionaires, royalty, celebrities, and the fakes all clamour in the heat for a last-minute spot.

I lumber pass influencers taking group photos in front of the gallery, perfectly done up in dainty, mini dresses, earning me repulsing glances that turned to gape-mouth shock when I stroll pass the long line and up to the bodyguards.

“Long time no see, Beaulieu.” The only male bodyguard says, tapping away on his tablet. His female counterpart offers me a polite nod. “Sull is waiting for you already.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, as if I needed his help.

Sullivan waits, crossed-armed, for me as soon as I pass the revolving door. His eyes flit up and down my body before his nose crinkles. “You didn’t need to take “black tie” that seriously.”

It takes everything in me to not punch him. “Nice to see you too, sweetcakes,” I say.

He cringes. No sense of humour. Sure, he was conventionally attractive—perfect blonde hair, a swimmer’s body—but the eyes lacked intelligence. Empty, devoid of life. “Scared I’m going to outshine ya?” I offer a fake smile, aware of the eyes on us around the large, marbled lobby.

Sullivan grabs my hand, dragging me towards the elevator. To outsiders, we look like a flustered couple, or so he hopes. I try to keep my cool, I owe my mom this much. Tonight might be the kickstart her career needs.

“Charlie’s dessert tables look good. At least something is going right so far.” Sullivan continuously smashes the elevator button with a finger. They were built in the 70s from what I can tell and move slower than hell. I don’t respond. As soon as that door opens to gilded, mirrored box, he shoves me inside.

“Mom told me that if you ever hurt me, she’ll burn down your house.” I say once the door shuts behind us.

“We have a deal.” He says, tapping his foot nervously. Sullivan stares at the ceiling, refusing to look at me. “Tonight needs to go perfect. After the little incident last weekend, Grandma Lavoie decided to fly in. I have a sales quota to meet tonight and some high-profile clients. Once we get upstairs, I’m going to mingle for a bit, you entertain grandma, convince her last weekend was a freak accident and that we’re still dating. Tell your mom to keep her opinions far away from the other venders and Selena off the floor. I’ll pay your debts; I keep my inheritance. Everything will go just perfect. Understand?”

I think. “Loud and clear.”

I only have a year left in my master’s program before I can start looking for work. I’m considering military aeronautics for the pay but leaving me in charge of rockets is a terrible idea. If tonight proves anything, I can behave long enough for a pay cheque or two. Behave long enough to finish my studies and pay endless loans, to pay vet bills, to help my friend get back on her feet. I can behave long enough to do that. Right?

The elevator dings and Sullivan wraps an arm around my waist, walking us off into the elaborate penthouse gallery, filled with milling guests and servers carrying champagne flutes and caviar.

“Can’t believe you want me to lie to your grandma,” I mutter.

“She’ll lie for the hell of it, she’s no sweet old lady. She’s a dictator.”

That sweet old dictator, Alathya Lavoie, is centre of attention, more so than the art on the walls. She laughs at some old man’s jokes, a glass of wine in a delicate hand. She wears a deep mahogany pantsuit, enviably tailored, and shocking white hair falls to the middle of her back, not a strand out of place. I want to be her. Her.

As soon as Alathya’s eyes rest on us, hand in hand, they light up. “Roxanna! It’s been far too long.” She abandons her small group, giving me a hug and kissing both my cheeks.

“You look as good as ever,” I say. It was pure truth. Whatever is in the food at the French Riviera, I need.

“You are too sweet, darling. Join me, why don’t you? Sullivan can entertain himself for now—or if he wants to be useful—the guests.” Alathya hooks my arm into hers. I wink at Sullivan. I hate to keep her under the impression I’m still going to marry her loser grandson, but a deal was a deal. It’s easier to keep my cool if he keeps his distance.

Sullivan sulks off to a group of students from his college, leaving me at the mercy of his grandma. I can’t be anymore grateful.

“So, tell me, how are your studies? I hear you’re almost done.” Alathya asks. We walk along the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city, painted orange by the setting sun.

“Busy, but life’s better that way,” I answer. Easy. I can do this the whole night.

“Is my Sully treating you well? I hear you both had quite the… run in… the other night. I hope you know I’ve raised him better than to treat a girl so poorly.”

Spoke too soon. I hesitate. “It was a pretty crazy night, but we’re on good terms right now.”

Alathya nods in approval. I admit there was chaos, don’t blame her or her family. We both win. She rambles on about the French countryside, I only partially listen.

Her gallery is just as sleek inside as it is on the outside. Towering ceilings with Edison lamps lit up the interior. Though the walls and floor were all plain concrete and custom marble, it felt so timeless. Even the model-like staff are immaculate, in various jewel toned suits that easily beat the art for your attention. A gorgeous, umber-skinned server flashes me a blinding smile when she hands me a champagne flute, I almost don’t hear Alathya over the beautiful noise. “…I say it’s an absolute miracle you even survived the whole ordeal, nonetheless, save everyone on board. Praise Lhydassa.”

“Praise who?” I ask.

“Let’s sit. I want to discuss something.” Alathya pulls me out of the crowd, starstruck by a statue unveiling. To me, it looks like a giant soggy marshmallow, and judging by Sullivan’s apprehensive applause, he feels the same way, but prospective buyers whisper eagerly to each other. I overhear numbers that overwhelm my mind, enough to buy small countries. Someone starts crying. I gratefully let Alathya drag me out of the crowd and to the furthest corner of the room, where we sit on a white leather divan.

I spot mom across the room. She and Selena were both shoved into a jewel tone suits that somehow, fits them both perfectly. Selena’s a bright yellow and mom’s emerald. The metal trays empty fast as guests spot her cupcakes. By the time mom makes her way over here, her tray is empty. “These people are animals; you’d think they never eaten dessert in their life!” Her smile disappears when she sees Alathya.

“It’s been a long time, Charlene,” Alathya says. “Too long. I remember your wedding. A shame what Roxy’s father did to you.”

“You two know each other?” I ask. Mom never mentioned it. Judging by her glare, can’t say I blame her.

“I was a friend of your late grandmother’s.” Alathya says. “We all thought better of your father, especially with such a lovely woman for a mother.” She flashes a charming smile to mom.

Mom isn’t so easily bought. Anything to do with my dad makes her feral, for lack of a better term. But she tucks her tray under her arm. “We’re a little swamped in the back. When you get a chance, can you meet me in the kitchen, kiddo?”

“You can borrow some of my staff. They’ll make themselves useful. You should be enjoying yourself tonight, if I knew you were working, I’d organize it ahead of time for you.”

Mom glares at Alathya one last time. “See you in five.” She disappears back into the crowd.

“Always wants to be busy, that one. Even when you were little. No wonder your father gave up trying to compete.” Alathya sighs.

Now I was starting to understand Sullivan’s warnings. “What did you want to chat about?” I ask, biting back insults.

She reclines, the image of perfection, but that smile is gone. “Don’t be surprised, but Sullivan tells me everything about you. You might even call him my spy. He cares about you, in his own strange way, as do I. But it is hard to trust you.”

“What do you mean?” My vision slows slightly from the champagne I’ve only been sipping on. I’m tempted to down the rest of my glass but set it aside for now. Tell me what really happened that night.”

“He should have told you. Issues with the welding under the hull. If you want details, I’m not the best source; I drank too much that night.” My throat closes. I try to swallow, but my tongue is like sandpaper.

Alathya’s hand is ice cold when it rests on top of mine. “Do not hide things from me. I was first to welcome you into this family, despite what yours is. It isn’t the cost that concerns me, but who you are and what you hide. You possess something that was stolen a long time ago. If you let me, I can help you fix it.”

“It was an accident, I swear.” I reply. Did they fish out surveillance video? No one was allowed cellphones on the yacht, but that doesn’t stop people from bringing secret cameras to blackmail. “It all happened so quickly. Really, Alathya. I am sorry.”

She flips my wrist over, revealing a tattoo. It’s a sharp, six-point star, done in purple ink. I must have been drinking the night I got it. We were at a club in another city, and somehow, I woke up in a hospital near the university. This was a few years back, but weird things started happening over the last few months. Including the yacht incident. “You made a deal with someone,” she says softly.

“Like, with the devil? I don’t have anything to offer for a devil to make a deal.”

“This is more than a devil. A god, Roxanna. You made a deal with a god.”

“Mrs. Lavoie, please explain, I don’t know what—” I try to rip my wrist away, but she has it in a death grip. Her hand burns my skin, but my tattoo does something I’ve never seen before: it glows.

She tightens her grip, and the many silver rings and bangles she wears also glows. I look up, trying to meet the eyes of the guests, but they’re all enraptured by the artwork. Sullivan is gone. They must be under some kind of enchantment. No one looks out way. “Mrs Lavoie, please—” My pleas fall on deaf ears.

Her bangle shatters, a pathetic rattle when it rolls onto the floor. The tattoo stops glowing, now a dull, dark purple. “By the gods, Roxanna. What have you done?”

“What have I done?” I rub my sore wrist and stand up. “My mom needs my help. See you around.”

“Roxanna, don’t you dare walk away.” She hisses. Now I hear that psychotic energy Sullivan warned me about.

I ignore her endless threats, the blood pumping through my body louder. I make a beeline for the kitchen. She’s collecting pieces of her shattered bangle from the floor, leaving me alone for now.

Mom and Selena stand in the doorway, giggling to each other, no doubt about the shitty art people gawk over. Their smiles falter as soon as they see my pale face and trembling body. “Do I need to go over there and tell Mrs. Lavoie off?” Mom asks.

“We need to leave. Something weird is going on here.”

Mom stiffens. “Get the truck started, Leenie. We’ll be down in a minute.”

“What about the cheque? We still need to clean up—”

“—Leenie. Move.” Leenie doesn’t argue with mom, shoving her tray into mom’s arm and heading towards the elevator.

Mom drags me into the kitchen, locking the door behind us. We’re alone. She grabs a nearby broom and shoves it into the door handle, locking us in. “Do you want to explain to me what happened out there?”

“Only if you tell me what we’re doing.” I point to the door.

She shoulders her tote bag, pushing me into the back of the kitchen. “This is all my fault. I didn’t know Sullivan was one of them, and if I did, I wouldn’t have let you see him at all. I should have never agreed to do this. Your father warned me this would happen.”

Mom is still pushing me. I hear pounding on the kitchen door, but mom ignores them. She dumps a fondue gas canister onto the floor and throws a matchstick on the puddle, which explodes into flames. The fire alarm goes off overhead, and although the sprinkler system quickly dims the growing flames, the alarm still wails overhead.

“Mom! What are you doing?” I shout.

“Just go!” She retorts, pushing me down the stairwell.

I listen. There’s turmoil in the kitchen above us, but we’re already several flights down. I stumble, but mom catches my arm and pushes me through another door leading into a dark hallway. Inside, there’s tarps, yellow tape, and ladders all over, and a metal chair by the door. She shoves it into the handles in time for several dark figures to smash on the sealed door.

“Don’t stop moving!” Mom hisses, pushes me along.

I listen, but all I can do is limp along. My feet are on fire, these shoes are definitely going to be a blood bath when I get them off in the truck. “Can you explain what the fuck is happening?” I demand.

“As soon as we’re out. Keep walking!” Mom said. “What floor are we on?”

I look around. It’s closed off to the public, and judging by the dust, has been for some time. I recognize the teakwood veneer walls. “Some French café thing. Renters got kicked out last year. Seventh floor.” I answer. Even in the dark, and with all the furniture removed, it was easy to recognize. One of Sullivan’s favourite date spots in our freshman year.

“Good. When we get to the elevator, get to the truck. Tell Leenie to use the cash in my wallet, not my cards. I’ll meet you both in two hours at the dumpling spot in the North end.”

“Mom! What is going on?” I stop, blocking the walkway.

Emergency lights flicker overhead. She grabs my shoulders. “You want to tell me first what kind of witchcraft Alathya was doing on you out on the gallery floor?”

I don’t answer. She smiles. “Then listen to me for once. Keep. Going.”

“You two aren’t supposed to be down here.” We both turn.

The female security guard from outside stands in front of the elevator, a long sharp blade in hand. We’re in the middle of a cross walkway, an elevator at the end, and the door we had just exited down the other. The people who followed us disappeared, but both our exits are still blocked.

“I don’t think those kinds of knives are legal in this country.” I answer.

“Forgive us, we’re just looking for the exit. My daughter is sick. Bad sushi before hand.” Mom replies, a desperate grin on her face. “Do you mind?”

Lady security guard steps forward, the knife glinting in the flickering light. “You were a fool, girl, to choose poor alliances. Damn you, for cursing the Honest Sisters.”

“I don’t know your sisters, but thanks for the random accusations.” I reply. There’s no running. I spot a nearby ladder, around ten feet tall. Before she attacks, I slam my body into it, toppling it on her. The guard is crushed, cursing me under her metal trap.

She doesn’t stay down for long. Mom grabs a half empty paint can, smashing her over the head with a loud thwonk! The guard stays down, but there’s more guards coming up the crosswalks from the dark, all with the same, strange knives.

Mom frantically presses the elevator buttons. She’s looking around. “Where is it? Where is it? Gods, where is it?” She mutters.

“What are you talking about?” I beg.

I press my ear to the elevator. It moves slowly. “What are you looking for?” I asked mom.

“Don’t worry about it!” She snaps.

“This, Charlene?” Alathya joins us, three guards behind her. We’re surrounded. The elevator moves past us, up, stranding us. She holds up a small vial of glowing, purplish water. “As sweet as your relationship is, your daughter is not worthy of the Mother’s Blood.”

“What happened was an accident. She’s made no deals.” Mom stands in front of me, holding my hand. “You should have come to me. I thought we had a deal; I didn’t even give a damn your people were spying on Roxy this whole time.”

“You know what’s going on?” I ask. “Why is no one telling me what’s happening!”

Alathya tilts her head to look at me. “A hundred and fifty years ago we escaped the fall of our Order. We’ve only survived by our wits in a world that resents womankind, nonetheless spectacular, by keeping our deal with the pantheon after She betrayed us. After people with your blood betrayed us. How were you able to get the Mother’s Vow?”

I look down at my tattoo. It’s glowing again. “We were… drunk racing, I think. That’s the last I remember. I swear, Mrs. Lavoie, I don’t know anything about your fuck ass cult. I don’t give a fuck what weird cult laws you have, or your freak of a son. Let us go or I’ll fuck you and your freaky little minions up.” I flex my hands. Sure, my feet hurt like hell, but I kickbox instructor in my spare time. I trained how to disarm all kinds of weapons. I’m shaking, but when anyone threatens mom, I’ll take a few stab wounds for her, easily.

She looks me up and down. “I like you, Roxanna. Greatly. But once She gets her hands on you, there’s no undoing the damage. I’m sorry.” She nods to her guards. They come forward, twirling those weird little machetes. Seems as if they know how to use them.

Mom lets go of my hand, sprinting. Before I can even shout, she socks Alathya in the face, and the vial shatters on the floor a few feet away. The creepy, glowing fluid spills across the floor, but it doesn’t stay put. It floats.

Alathya curses, the guards are frantic. I take it as my chance to sock the nearest one in the face, sending her stumbling back into the second guard. The water expands, creating a giant puddle that fills the room with soft, glowing light. It sparkles, almost like a pool of starlight.

I look at the pool. Only a few feet away, Alathya pins mom down, holding a blade to her throat. The other three guards back away from the pool, splitting the room in half. “Let my mom go.” I demand.

“Roxy, get in the water. It’ll protect you.” Mom winces, the blade sinks into her throat. I see a few drops of blood.

“Go ahead, Roxy, follow your mother. You won’t find her again.” She drags the blade across.

A tear stains mom’s cheek. “Get in the pool and don’t come back.” Mom begs. “I love you, kiddo. I love you more than—"

Mom goes limp, her body falls to the floor.

I think I’m screaming. My vision goes red the moment mom collapses. I run towards her, just in time to catch mom’s body before it sinks into the water puddle, surrounding us with cold, wetness that I can only imagine is her blood.

I feel Alathya’s hand grabbing the back of my jacket, pulling me out of the water, but the cheap material rips as me and my mom’s dead body are pulled deep into dark, frigid water.

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Roxanna Beaulieu’s life is a disaster: she’s a struggling grad student drowning in debt while her cheating trust fund boyfriend threatens her mom’s catering business to maintain her silence. But Roxanna is done biting her tongue when a freak accident at his family’s art gallery unleashes an ancient evil into their world, forcing Roxanna to traverse a dying, mysterious world to rescue her mother from a vengeful fallen god and his plague army.

Yalan Guvaria, the bloodthirsty yet revered king of Ethusica, knows that he’ll pay for the crimes he committed in his pursuit of power. When Roxanna crosses into Ethusica in a blaze of lightning and unleashes an evil he had already long since slain, his perfectly crafted legacy crumbles around him and only she can repair it.

As malevolent forces close in—and their contempt for one another evolves into a forbidden, fiery passion—Roxanna and Yalan must choose to either save each other or to fulfill their cursed, intertwined destinies.

But fate was never at their command to begin with.

If you’re a fan of Sarah J. Maas, Carissa Braodbent, Jennifer L. Armentrout, forced proximity, morally grey heroes, enemies-to-lovers, steamy romance, then you’ll love What Fate Commands!

Please Note: This is a draft for a work in progress, so things will change and grammar may be wonky. It will remain free to read in its current state, but subscriptions are more than appreciated and help improve the story drastically.

For the last six years, I’ve been a fiction ghostwriter, mostly the romance genre. It’s not that I haven’t written my own books and short stories before, they just haven’t gone further than my portfolio. By day, I’ve worked retail management. Life is pretty expensive here in the Great White North, so the retail gigs weren’t really a choice. I’ve finally applied for university and got accepted last fall, so my life in retail is for now, at an end. But that was only the beginning of a strange series of events that brought me here.

In the middle of November, I contracted a pretty severe case of tonsilitis from my retail job that hospitalized me. I couldn’t even get out of bed long enough to work on projects, nonetheless study the basics for school, or even go to work. I quit my retail job and ghostwriting altogether in mid December, needing a break after hitting that double grind for almost four years straight and having almost nothing to show for it near the end of it all.

I don’t really like to talk about myself—in actuality, I hide behind my characters and stories, simply because I don’t find myself interesting at all, but going within to look at where you are in life is a necessary evil sometimes.

My current project is a romantasy series, simply dubbed Roxanna’s story in the meantime. Enemies-to-lovers, travelling dimensions, the whole deal. It’s just fun (at least to me). As much fun as it has been to write for myself for once, it’s been a struggle to write since I’m not forced by looming deadlines and clients to publish or to even write at all, but the bills are starting to pile up as I near the end of my first semester. It’s strange to write solely for the self, especially after the last few years of post-covid struggle. I’d like to go back to ghostwriting at some point but I need to write for myself for once, to remind myself why I write at all.

It’s one of my most disorganized, messiest projects yet, but wanting to know what it will look like, what I will look like, on the other side keeps me motivated, keeps me at my keyboard when I’d rather be playing Animal Crossing or sleeping (in class, obviously. What else is Calculus for?)

It’s a scary but exciting journey, creating and learning things I’ve never attempted before. I don’t even know what I want out of life or for myself, but I exist. That is enough. I recommend everyone goes on this journey at some point. I sure as hell need to hit the textbooks and update my portfolio soon, though.

Theme was the last thing on my mind. Cutting about 49,999 years of history from his world to make it easier was my first suggestion, or maybe doing something about the wreath-shaped family trees, but he didn’t seem to care much about either things, at least not right now. He’s not writing to publish, and if he was, he’s still got a lot of work ahead of him, and there’s only so many times you can tell a first-time writer to cut back the scale of their first project—it’s a cannon event, I’m afraid.

“Just keep writing and think about it later, it will come to you,” is a common piece of advice I’ve seen floating around the Internet, and one that didn’t help him much before he came to me for help. He was overwhelmed by a massive, incohesive story he was quickly losing inspiration for. In this case, narrowing down the theme could help him get him back on track for success.

First Off, What Is a Theme?

Straight from the writer’s overlord, Wikipedia, a theme is:

a central topic, subject, or message within a narrative. Themes can be divided into two categories: a work’s thematic concept is what readers “think the work is about” and its thematic statement being “what the work says about the subject”.

You can’t control what your reader feels and thinks about your story, but what you decide it is about will make the writing, and even marketing process, 1000% easier.

Some pretty common themes for stories include Survival, Power, Identity, Family, Freedom, Love, Nationalism, Conspiracy, Mental Health, Greed, and Self-Reliance. You can Google “story themes” to get you thinking about what resonates with you if you haven’t started writing yet. One of my favourite resources on the topic is from ProWritingAid with examples, but don’t just limit yourself to one resource. Take the time to think about what will inspire you to write and push through edits.

A theme can be seen in the overall conflict of your story and in the microscopic actions of your characters, and even the general atmosphere and worldbuilding if you take the time to integrate it that deeply. You can have multiple themes in your story but for now, try to keep things simple as possible early on to not box yourself in while writing. A strong, compelling central theme will keep your readers thinking about your work long after they’re done reading your book.

But you’re already in the middle of your story, and you can’t focus on just 1-2 themes since there’s so much going on. You have way too much plot and too many characters, and all of it is so good, how do you choose what to cut and what to keep?

How do you find the theme of your story amidst all of the chaos to make the writing process easier?

So, What Is My Advice?

For a story of any size, from the iconic “For sale: baby shoes, never worn” by the legend Ernest Hemmingway, to the sprawling hellscape of Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow, you can distill the story down to 1-2 words. Death, for the former, and Paranoia for the latter. You can do this for any story, from book, TV show, and movie. Another legendary book, the Poppy War by R. F. Kuang, can be distilled down to War Sucks, and although that’s barely scratching the surface of the book, the awfulness of war is something blatantly apparent throughout Kuang’s trilogy, even during the most casual read through (but whoever is reading those books casually… are you okay?)

My advice is to figure out your story’s theme before you start editing but after you have figured out your characters values, weaknesses, strengths, and conflicts. If you do it too soon, you run the risk of boxing yourself in while you’re still in the creative process, but if you wait too long into your edits, your overall narrative won’t be as cohesive if you figured it out sooner, and you’ll end up in my friend’s place.

“But Phoebe, that wasn’t the question. How do I find the theme of my story?”

I’m getting there. First off, answer me this, what is your story’s main conflict? Who are your characters?

What Does Your Story Mean?

Let’s start with an easy plot: “Bob robs a bank on an alien planet.” Amusing, but not deep. Not yet, at least.

What does it mean? Personally, I like bank robberies, but that isn’t going to sell copies.

“Bob is an ambassador for human-alien relations on Earth, but he must rob a bank on planet Snorgg because the Alien Dictator is holding his family ransom. It’s about sacrifice and family.”

Sacrifice. Family. Now those are themes.

A theme makes the story more cohesive, and if you don’t follow an outline, using a central theme can be a great way to keep your character’s decisions in line with your main conflict. Bob betrays his job by committing a felony on an alien planet, but he has a reason to do so: to save his family.

Let Your Characters Mold Your Theme

People want complex, interesting, diverse characters, but some themes like “family” are universal, no matter what species you are or planet you are on.

If you have a messy draft, and can’t seem to figure out your main conflict, 99.999% of the time, your characters aren’t developed enough. If they have a strong sense of values that motivate their actions (or lack thereof), can shape your story’s plot before you even have one.

Too many characters or are your characters just too messy? It’s time to step back and figure out what truly drives them before you go any further.

I recommend either setting up a Spreadsheet or splitting a sheet of paper into multiple columns for this exercise. On the left side column, write out the names of your characters, from most to least important. Across the top, set up columns for Motivation, Greatest Weakness, Greatest Strength, and Internal Conflict. We’ll fill it in for each character. Don’t overwhelm yourself, think about it one character at a time and just write down a quick answer for each column. You can go back and fix it later if you change your characters, just think about what you have now.

Character’s Motivation

What is the most important thing in the world to your character? What do they believe in? What moves their soul? What do they hold above even their own existence?

In our case, Bob holds familial love above everything else: human-alien peace, his job, everything.

Bob wants to save his family more than anything in the world, thus, that’s his motivation. But their motivation can be anything. Love, Power, Freedom, Revenge. Just give them something. Kurt Vonnegut said it best: “Make your characters want something right away even if it's only a glass of water.” But the stronger the motivation, the better. Don’t worry about justifying it yet, figure out the rest of the cast.

Your main character shouldn’t be the only one with a motivation. Think about your side kicks, your love interests, your villains, their allies, and anyone else in your story. You might begin to notice there’s similarities between characters too.

Character’s Weaknesses and Strengths

What is your character’s most dire weakness? What will kill them before they succeed in their mission if they don’t learn to deal with it? For Bob, it could be blind loyalty, fear of loneliness, guilt. Maybe his family did something stupid to get themselves held ransom on an alien planet. A weakness could be arrogance, jealousy, materialism, hypocrisy, the list goes on.

A weakness could also be a strength, but the worst parts of it. Stubbornness could be bullheadedness, excessive generosity could lead to your characters getting taken advantage of. Ambitiousness could lead to a willingness to destroy others for success.

To keep things compelling, give them something to struggle for. Make sure the weaknesses outnumber their strengths. For Bob, his creativity or his selflessness are great strengths.

The Internal Conflict

I saved the best part for last. Now that you know what motivates them and what hinders them, their conflict should be much easier to decide on. A strong conflict will put their values to the test. For poor Bob, he can either keep his cushy job and stay safe on planet Earth but live with the guilt of leaving his family to suffer or he could give up everything he’s worked for and save his family, whether or not they care about him in turn.

If you’ve done the work for your other characters too, you might notice some of the same things come up in their summaries. For the Alien Dictator keeping Bob’s family hostage, he could be leader of a fragile empire. He’s holding the family of protestors hostage because they threaten his undisputed power (greatest strength), he wants nothing but to protect his own family from an all-out space war (his motivation), and is willing to hurt others for personal gain (his greatest weakness). On either side of the conflict, Bob and the Alien Dictator want the same thing: to protect their families, but the other person is at risk. It’s only a sample idea, so there’s still room to play around with different themes: Family, Survival, Freedom. For a silly little concept we came up with on the fly, it got pretty emotionally tense, fast.

But don’t just think about your main characters, either. In the rest of your cast, what other themes come up? How do they tie into these themes, do they conflict with it? Do they have anything to do with the themes coming up at all?

You might be able to get rid of or combine characters if you notice they’re too similar or too dry to keep in your story. Theme permeates your whole story and makes a great tool to use in keeping your characters aligned to the main conflict.

Beyond Your Characters

Now you’ve found potential story themes within your characters, you can either congratulate yourself for a job well done or look even deeper within your story. How does the main conflict play into this theme of protect your family at all costs? Does the world break apart families, like two warring alien-human empires would? Bob is robbing banks to get the money together—how many houses has the bank stolen from families, sending them to the poor houses on planet Snorgg?

Look at your subplots. Do they serve the main plot and theme or take away from the message?

Most of all, what about you? What sort of story do you want to tell, most of all? It isn’t just about what’s right or wrong, it’s about what you want at the end of the day for the theme. Just make sure your story justifies it.

Still stuck? Maybe you’ve done a lot of work but you don’t have a cohesive enough story yet or you’re struggling with the story. Try to do these exercises with some of your favourite books, tv shows, and movies. Consuming other media is a great way to get ideas for your own work.

If it’s a tv show, try to pick apart different episodes and how they will add to the overarching theme of the whole tv show plot, not just the singular episode. If it’s a book, try to see how the setting and characters interact and how it drives the conflict, and how the conflict conveys the theme. Some stories will tell you outright what the theme is, others will make you pick them apart to find it.

Either way, even the silliest of stories has a theme, so don’t overthink it and let your story grow organically from whatever you choose to write about.

Some people have no social graces. If you’re a writer, especially fiction, you know the haughty, “So when are you getting a real job?” and shit-eating grins that follow, “Maybe one day you won’t have to work retail.” Shut up, Kimberly. You work retail too. Have you seen the prices of groceries right now? Damn straight most of us are working a multitude of jobs to keep ahead of uncertainty, no one is judging but you. Now as a university student, and out of retail for now, I’ve gotten a lot of laughs and those same wonderful folks adding the, “writing isn’t paying, is it? You gotta go back to school now?” line to the trash talk.

Bitch, maybe I write space opera in my spare time and don’t want my spaceships flying backwards off the runway. I’m studying physics for fun (yes, there are some decent career fields that come with a physics degree, but writing has always been my sole purpose in life. But adding trigonometry to my daily schedule alongside reading and drafting wasn’t easy).

But seriously. What is everyone’s problem with writers in general?

We live in some trying times of conflict, environmental disasters, and uncertainty in the workplace, especially the creative arts. Everything from AI ethics to market saturation threatens our livelihoods, and more often than not, we see writers who write part time outside their 9-5s and those who pour 12 hour days into their writing schedule yet still can’t keep their lights on. Trying times is understatement of the century.

So, what is the point of writing anymore?

Capitalism Has Killed Art

Seriously. The amount of people who write now with the thought of “how do I monetize this?” and not “this is fun!” is staggering to me. Just browse the r/writing subreddit for the amount of Redditors looking for shortcuts to success, often monetary, is depressing. Many writing articles from a quick Google search include caveats and warnings of things to do and not to do if you want to be published and make money, so forget mastering the craft for the sake of mastery. I’ll never fault anyone for wanting to pad their wallets out but writing is the worst way to go about it.

As great as social media sites like TikTok and YouTube have been in increasing book sales and reader-writer relationships, it’s given us an almost unrealistic representation of the writer lifestyle; the fancy standing desks, the aesthetic drinks, and laid-back, soft life many writers show off when they’re not even writing fulltime, but instead selling courses, subsidizing their lifestyle from a stellar day job, or relying on partners to subsidize them can’t be ignored.

I love those videos. They’re fun. I aspire to not have to put in long hours, eat store brand ketchup, and stay home in a designer home (the current apartment aesthetic is “minimalist blue collar boyfriend and ADHD university student.” Not exactly great content, so be glad I’m sparing you from that). There are many authors on TikTok and YouTube who do talk about the realities of said lifestyle: the ups, the downs, and the not-so-aesthetic long work hours, the years dedicated to fruitless labour, but once you fall into the wrong algorithm… oh, boy. It’s an uphill battle to pull yourself out of the self-depreciating, demotivated spiral of broke artiste and convince TikTok you like to be depressed by the current state of the industry.

Let me tell you my secret to survive it all: don’t sweat it.

So What?

Writing isn’t about the money. And if you don’t earn money, so what? And if you do earn money, so what? If you brag about it, the same people who trash talked you about your career choice will just say, “you got lucky,” or the classic, “anyone can write a book.” Their response is basically “so what?”

I don’t care enough to surround myself with people like that, so I don’t get the chance to rub contracts or drafts in their faces, I take that to people who do care about me and celebrate wins. My response back is, “so what? Also, I got French’s ketchup this week and it wasn’t student loans paying for it this time!”

It’s time to drop expectations.

What I think harms a lot of people before they even begin the journey of writing are their own expectations. Fears. The thought that they need to succeed and no chances whatsoever to fail. Who said? That’s rhetorical.

Whoever said you’re going to fail isn’t going to start themselves. Frankly, if your hobbies involve the deep emotional introspection, the creativity, the research, and discipline it takes to create write a story of any length, without any time to think about others’ past time, profitable or not, then you’re already leagues ahead of them. It’s easier said than done, both writing and changing your mindset, but it’s worth it.

I come from a low class background myself, where schools are so badly funded most kids I grew up with are barely literate now, many are knee deep in debts to simply survive, and addictions run rampant. I don’t have a trust fund or family able to assist in any regard (shout out to my dad for reading my Substack!). From here in the gutters, you’ll hear the old saying: writing isn’t profitable. I know it’s rampant everywhere, but when you’re already in a bad situation with limited options, it really hits.

But why does something need to be profitable to be worth doing, anyway? Life needs to be about more than survival, to want to survive. Frankly, the expectation that people need to write something to absolutely be read by a wide audience when the writer simply wants to create something for themselves and a close circle of people is not discussed enough. Sometimes writing is a chance to heal, a way to show others they can heal, too. No strings attached.

Define Your Own Success, Don’t Let Others Define It for You

Sure, we should aspire to create the best thing we can, but sometimes the best thing we create is simply art. It isn’t a product. To me, those are the best kinds of stories. The kinds with a soul, to simply exist without the outside world tarnishing it. The stories without monetary value because they’re above commodification. Maybe that’s the reason fanfiction is so popular and has been for decades: it was made to share the love for things already made with love.

I have at least a half dozen books sitting on my hard drive. Maybe I should back up my laptop sometime before it dies and I lose them all. I don’t care. The ones I need to finish will be finished in their own time, and the ones I may lose can be rewritten better. Client books are of course, backed up. I’m not an ass to someone paying money ahead of time for a service. I might lose time on my personal production schedule, but there’s plenty of ways I can make up for it.

For now, I’m going to bed after this long motivational rant(?). I gotta get up in the morning to write better, to study harder, to fuel better, more emotionally fulfilling, stories I write for myself and those around me that love to argue that the best kind of ketchup are the packets stolen from fast food joints during midnight group writing sessions.