On giving your reader something to take away
Takeaways in stories
When reading a manuscript or a dummy that I plan to prepare for submission to publishers, I’m always asking questions. Those questions can make their way into the edit letter I send to the creator.
One thing I ask of a story is, what is the takeaway? What does the creator want a reader to know or feel after finishing this story? What do they want the reader to come away with?
A takeaway can sometimes be confused for a lesson or a moral, but it’s different. A lesson is something you decide in advance, and then build a story around. For example: “kindness matters,” “be yourself,” “don’t give up.” You pick the lesson first, and the plot and characters come from it. Often, these stories come across as heavy-handed or didactic, especially in kidlit.
The takeaway is different. It’s what’s left over after the story has actually happened to a specific character, in a specific situation, and it can only be named once the story is real.
I never tell a writer to go back and “add the lesson.” What I’m asking instead is: now that this story exists, what does a reader walk away with? Sometimes that’s obvious to the writer, and it just needs to be trusted, rather than second-guessed. Sometimes it’s unclear, and that’s worth sitting with, because if the writer can’t say what a reader takes from it, the reader probably can’t either.
A takeaway ripples underneath the story, in what happened, and to whom and why it mattered.
What can a takeaway be?
Some examples of what I mean by a takeaway, as opposed to a lesson are: a character who finally asks for help and finds out the people around her wanted to be asked. A character who gets the thing he thought he wanted and discovers it doesn’t fix what he thought it would. A character who learns that her anger was protecting something softer inside her heart. A character who realizes the version of the story she’d been telling herself about her own family wasn’t quite true.
This applies to funny books too! A good story with humor and heart still has to have a takeaway, otherwise it will be forgettable. Funny books that stay with people have something real underneath the jokes. The humor might be the reason a reader picks the book up and keeps turning pages, but the takeaway is what keeps it on their shelf years later.
Revising with a takeaway in mind
When a writer can't name the takeaway, I ask (and ask that they ask of themselves) questions like:
What does the character have at the end that they didn't have at the start—something internal?
What would this character have said about themselves on page one, and would they still say it by the last page, and if not, what changed their mind?
If you cut the last page, what would a reader be left wondering, and does that wondering point toward substantial?
Can you describe the story to me out loud, in a few sentences, the way they'd tell a friend what it's about?
Sometimes, especially in early drafts, the honest answer is that the takeaway isn't there yet. Often, this means something earlier in the story needs to change, like a choice a character makes, a scene that's doing plot work and nothing else, or moments that have been smoothed over when they should be lingered in for emotional impact.
When I ask a creator what the takeaway of the their story is, I’m asking them to look at what they made, and tell me what it does, or what it’s meant to do. If the answer is murky, that’s information about where to revise toward next. I can't write a pitch, a synopsis, or a submission letter around a takeaway I can't name. I want—and every reader wants—to close a book carrying something new. That’s the takeaway.
Glimmers to share
✨I recently cleared out the Goosebumps section at the excellent NYC bookstore, McNally Jackson.
✨Sunset walks along the city waterfront. Best when paired with dessert from Baked Bakery.
✨ Back-to-school book displays all over the city, like this one at Books are Magic.