Grow a Spine
Originally published at ipse illum dicto. You can comment here or there.
We had an interesting debate in my crit group the other night. One of my fellow writers stated that he thinks the theme of a story or novel - he describes it as the “this story is about X” idea - is the framework that the entire piece hangs on. I responded that I think that’s a fine approach, but not universal, since many novels are so rich that two different readers can walk away with very different ideas about what the theme is. I prefer to hang the story on the change the main character undergoes, with every scene illustrating that. My fellow writer felt that this approach ignores the theory that a well-formed character doesn’t necessarily change - anything they do through the course of the novel is the only thing they could have done in that circumstance - and, hence, they end up the exact same person they were at the beginning.
What we both implicitly agreed on, though, is that there is a very simple structure holding together the story. That structure can be theme, change, plot, or whatever works for you to glue the pieces in place, but it’s there. Everything in the story relates to that structure, or it’s irrelevant and needs to be cut.
In the dramatic arts, we call that structure the “spine.”
Every word - and I do mean every word - connects to the spine. It doesn’t connect to something that connects to the spine. It connects to the spine directly, or it doesn’t belong. What the spine is depends, of course, on what kind of story you’re trying to write. What’s the most important thing you’re exploring? Is it the character? Then everything you write must be developing that. Is it the plot? Then cut out the parts where nothing is happening, even if the world-building is beautiful and evocative. Is it the milieu? Then, by all means, develop the setting and don’t fret if the characters exist only to move through it.
When an actor or a director is analyzing a script, one of the first steps is to identify the spine. Everything is then analyzed in the context of that spine. If it weren’t important and connected to the spine, it wouldn’t be in the script, after all. Similarly, everything you put in your story or novel will be understood by the reader, consciously or unconsciously, in terms of that important structure running through the whole piece. If your spine is an exploration of the implications of time travel, readers are going to think about the mother-daughter argument on page 85 in those terms. It’s inevitable. The part is interpreted in the context of the whole, and the whole is interpreted as the sum of the parts.
There’s an old saying that you spend your word count on what’s most important to you. You’ll see this at work as you try to identify the spine in something that’s written. When does the writer slow down and really develop something, and when do they just summarize their way through it? Those summaries connect to the spine in that they’re designed to move you quickly along it, getting you past the parts that don’t relate. The parts that are more fully developed are the stops along the spine, where the story really happens.
So, if your stories are meandering or if readers are telling you they don’t see the point, it’s likely that the problem is that you haven’t grown your spine strongly enough to hold the elements together. What’s the key story you’re trying to tell? What is the through-line of the entire piece? Take that and develop it. Let it become stronger and thicker. And then make sure that everything you write is clearly related to it. That’s your spine. A reader may interpret it differently than you do, but knowing what you think matters most keeps your writing on track.
And, incidentally, once you know what the spine is, so you can also accurately summarize. In fact, the spine is what you’re going to talk about when you say, “This story is about X.”
So I guess my friend was right after all.