Heart of Darkness: Depth and Meaning in Fiction

There are people, I imagine, satisfied to write the sort of stories that provide no more than a few hours distraction from the difficult bits of being alive.

I cast no shade upon them, truly. Those difficult bits can be difficult indeed, and we all need an escape hatch at times—the mental equivalent of comfort food.

But speaking for myself, I strive to create the sort of stories that have had the most impact on me as a person—the sorts of stories that have changed the way I see the world, and expanded the borders of my heart.

I think these are the sorts of stories that make the world a better place—the sorts of stories that change it, one person at a time.

And one of the things, I’ve found, that makes for stories like that is darkness.

No, I don’t mean darkness as in work that touches on or flirts with horror (“dark speculative fiction”). Nor do I mean it in the way I’m gesturing to in the title of this post, by referencing Joseph Conrad’s take on Africa, “the Dark Continent,” and her variously melanated peoples.

When I use the term darkness here, I mean story elements with a negative charge—sorrowful, traumatic, difficult, unjust—reflecting issues that aren’t generally out in the open in society. Negatively charged issues and experiences that are generally hidden away from view.

As both a writer and a book coach, I’ve found that touching on these sorts of issues tends to add a sense of depth and meaning to a story—a sense that not only is this an entertaining story, it has something to say.

Bringing harm out of the shadows and into the light can enlarge the reader’s understanding of the world. And if the reader has experienced this sort of harm themselves, your doing so can make them feel seen in a way that’s powerful—even healing.

Really, haven’t we all been touched by darkness of some sort? And haven’t we all found insight and catharsis in the form of stories?

This is a key component of what I think of as “story medicine”: fiction’s potential to heal and make whole. Not because the author has all the answers, but because she’s willing to see what others look away from.

Here are four key questions for creating a greater sense of depth and meaning in a novel:

1. What darkness lies in the backstory?

Your protagonist has a character arc, and therefore some internal issue in their life at the beginning of the story—a “problem in need of fixing” in the language of Save the Cat.

So: What led your protagonist to develop that internal issue, that problem on the inside, that skewed their way of seeing the world?

Chances are, they didn’t just emerge from the womb that way—there was some sharp corner in their past that led them to believe, for example, that they can’t speak up for themselves, or will never be as great as their dad, or will crash and burn in a spectacular fashion if they dare to pursue their dreams.

Story coach Lisa Cron considers it so important to understand that development in your protagonist’s past that she recommends actually writing out the scene in which that internal issue was established and including that scene in your novel.

I don’t think that’s always necessary, but I do recommend getting clear on this yourself, because it tends to add a lot to the story when you really understand and sympathize with what it was that led your protagonist to develop this internal issue. (Generally speaking, it was a means of  protecting themselves from some sort of trauma.)

2. What darkness lies in the world building?

Speculative fiction writers—especially those working in second worlds—tend to have reams and reams of world building notes. But regardless of your genre, you need to know how your protagonist’s world got to be the way it is when the story opens, and understanding the role that darkness plays in this backstory can add a lot of depth to the sense of storytelling in your novel.

In a speculative world, that might mean asking yourself how the people in power in your story got to be in power—and how the people on the bottom of the social order wound up there as well.

In a realist story, that might mean asking yourself how the protagonist’s parents or ancestors came to occupy this place in the world, and what sorts of generational traumas they may have endured.

Touching on these sorts of things in your backstory tends to make your story feel more realistic, period. Because what I refer to in this post as darkness is a little like dark energy in the universe: You can’t see it, but what you can see tends to be shaped by it.

3. What darkness lies in the story’s perimeter?

Your story may be set in the quaint small town where you grew up (if you’re me). It might be set in a hip green neighborhood full of bike lanes and solar power. It may be set on the sort of tropical island that office drones can only dream of while scraping windshields and shoveling snow.

Even so, darkness lurks in the periphery.

That quaint small town may be struggling with a fentanyl epidemic, and losing family farms (like mine). That hip green neighborhood may be built over the bones of a low-income one. And the people who actually live on that tropical island may be living in “postcard poverty.”

Not every story has to grapple with every issue affecting the place where it is set. But even a nod to these sorts of issues tends to add a sense of depth and complexity to a story.

4. What darkness lies in your protagonist’s journey?

Finally: Your protagonist is on an emotional journey in your novel—one that will lead them to a better place in their life (unless it’s a tragedy).

But chances are, there’s some insight on the way that represents a loss of innocence—or, at the very least, ignorance.

Your protagonist may be on a journey to claim their power and their voice—but in doing so, they’ll have to take responsibility for what they have allowed to happen by not speaking.

They may be on a journey to realizing that they can be equal to their father in greatness—but in doing so, they may have to realize that their hero wasn’t quite the man they thought he was.

They may be on a journey to finally taking the big leap and pursuing their dreams—but in so doing, they’ll have to let go of the sense of safety that comes from never really trying.

I hope these questions serve to take you deeper with your own WIP!

Now it’s your turn. What sorts of questions serve to take you deeper with your work as a fiction writer?