The Curtains Are Effing Blue!

How Meaning Reveals Itself in Writing and Life

As a writer and a student of literary analysis, I think a lot about the meanings of things. I love depth and discovery—I've never been one to swim in shallow waters, and the deeper the conversations, the questions, the understanding, the more fulfilled I feel.

I apply this to my writing and to my life—the two are rarely separate.

There's a common joke in the educational circuit about searching too hard for symbolism. It goes like this:

Students are reading a book that describes a setting in which the curtains are blue.

Teacher: This blue is a symbolism for the sadness the character is experiencing.

What the Author Meant: The curtains are fucking blue.

I find this exchange hilarious because yes...

But also no.

When I'm writing a novel, the scene naturally unfolds in my mind's eye. I can see the full picture down to the tiniest detail like I'm watching a movie, and my job is to translate that vision into words on a page so that you're seeing it, too. I don’t overthink, analyze, or craft metaphors on purpose—I just write. My books take shape instinctively, brewing from emotions deep within me before emerging as a story.

(The way all of my books interconnect through the fictional town of Montours City is a perfect example. It all started with Annie and her Vietnam veteran neighbor, the Soldier, who became Lia's doctor in The Last Letter, who has ties to Lilac and Nathan in Lilac in Winter, who is also connected to Janie from East of Everywhere. I never planned any of this. Each book was meant to stand alone—yet the threads wove themselves together, leaving me to untangle the knots as I go...)

It’s only when I read back that I uncover the symbolism laced through the story. That’s why literature is so fun to analyze. Does the writer mean to do it? Probably not. But whether or not a writer consciously embeds meaning, it’s there, woven into the psyche of what’s been created.

As humans, we’re meaning-makers by nature.

We see patterns in the randomness, structure in the chaos. We assign significance to the way things unfold, not because we’re grasping at straws, but because, at our core, we understand that there’s something more beneath the surface. There’s a deeper truth we can feel, even if we don’t always have the words for it or can’t fully grasp it, and as our life continues to unfold and we connect more fully to ourselves, we get clues to that meaning.

That’s the beauty of life.

Fast forward to today in which I'm working on my first closely-tied sequel (more knots to untie). I'm trying to figure out the profession of the main character's father--a fairly difficult man, but not without redemption.

Then it comes to me: A Financial Advisor

What you'll read in the book is likely just that--a throwaway mention that he's a financial planner, barely relevant to the plot of the book.

But beneath the surface, what I see as the author is this: He spends his days helping others plan for their futures, yet he avoids confronting his own past.

And just like that, a single choice adds depth—to the character, to his dynamics with his son, to the entire story that's unfolding.

This is the magic of storytelling.

A detail as simple as a job title, the color of a set of curtains, or a passing reference to the past—all of it can carry meaning, whether intended or not.

If we let go of the way things should be or have to be, if we give ourselves the chance to explore beyond the surface, we’ll find there might actually be meaning in everything.