From the SRP Editor blog:
Writers love to complicate things. We’ll rearrange plot points, rewrite dialogue, add more car chases or kissing scenes, and somehow still sit at the keyboard thinking: Why is this not working? Why can’t I make this scene/book/series cooperate?
Because—brace yourself—half the time, we don’t actually know what it’s about.
Back in the day, when I was stuck and whining about it, my amazing wife would ask me three deceptively simple questions:
- What’s it about?
- What’s the protagonist going to learn?
- How is the protagonist going to change?
Infuriatingly reasonable questions, really.
At the time I was working on a story I just couldn’t crack. Characters were fine. Dialogue wasn’t terrible. But every time I sat down to write, it felt like pushing wet spaghetti uphill. It wasn’t until I finally admitted—after much pacing and caffeine—that the story was about revenge, and that the protagonist would learn that revenge doesn’t fix anything, that everything clicked.
Suddenly the scenes aligned. The protagonist’s choices made sense. The ending practically wrote itself. Because now I wasn’t writing events. I was writing meaning.
Theme Is the Compass You’ve Been Ignoring
Once you figure out your story is about the emptiness of revenge, or the power of forgiveness, or the loneliness of leadership—whatever it is—everything else gets easier.
- Plot? Becomes a series of tests around that idea.
- Character arc? Becomes the journey toward understanding it.
- Scenes? Become conversations, conflicts, or consequences that explore it.
This is how you stop writing 300 pages of Stuff That Happens™ and start writing a story.
Revenge: A Classic Example of “What’s It About?”
Take revenge stories. We think they’re about vengeance. But the best ones aren’t.
- The Count of Monte Cristo — Edmond gets everything he wants: wealth, status, vengeance. Still miserable. Why? Because revenge doesn’t return your stolen life. It just burns what’s left of it.
- Kill Bill (Vol. 1 & 2) — Yes, swords and blood and buried-alive madness. But once the Bride gets what she wants? She doesn’t feel triumphant. She feels… hollow. Because revenge doesn’t restore what was taken—it only stops the bleeding.
- John Wick — Sure, he kills half of New York. But the dog, the life he lost, his wife—none of that comes back. Revenge offers catharsis, but it doesn’t offer peace.
You’ll notice something in all of those: the story knows what it’s about from page one.
Scenes Need This Just as Much as Stories Do
This isn’t just for whole novels. Scenes live and die by the same rule.
If a scene is falling flat, ask:
- What is this scene about?
- What does the protagonist want here?
- What truth, lesson, or shift is happening?
If you can’t answer those quickly, that’s why the scene feels like mush.
The moment you know: Ah, this scene is about the protagonist realizing forgiveness is harder than revenge or this scene is where she learns the cost of lying—you stop typing in the dark.
Why This Works
Because your brain (and your reader’s brain) wants coherence. We want to feel like everything is going somewhere for a reason. Theme gives you that reason. Knowing “what it’s about” is like turning the lights on in the writing room.
Suddenly you know:
- What your protagonist will do (or refuse to do).
- What obstacles matter (and which don’t).
- What the ending must prove.
So… What’s Yours About?
Stuck on a scene? Lost in a muddy second act? Characters wandering around like they’re in a Netflix pilot that might get cancelled?
Ask the questions.
What’s it about? What will the protagonist learn? How will they change?
Answer those—honestly, even roughly—and the writing gets easier. Not easy (let’s not be ridiculous), but no longer impossible.
–Mark
