Three Aspects of Your Book’s “Aboutness”: Goal, Question, and Premise

Today’s guest post is by Barbara Linn Probst.

 So what’s your book about?

We’ve all had that question put to us by friends, relatives, agents, or other writers.  It’s a reasonable question for them to ask.

“Well, it’s the story of a woman who . . .”

“It tells what happens when . . .”

Nope. That’s the setup. It’s not what the book is about.

Coined by R. A. Fairthorne in 1969, “aboutness” is a term used in linguistics, philosophy of language, and the informational sciences to convey both intention and content—that is, the aim and subject of a text.

So what’s your book about?

The question can be surprisingly difficult to answer. That’s because we aren’t used to thinking conceptually about our writing. We’re taught how to create stakes, wounds, obstacles, turning points, dark moments—but they’re simply landmarks, coordinates, and strategies in the service of the book’s aboutness.

How, then, can I find my book’s aboutness?

There are three ways to approach this question. Three perspectives, from concrete to abstract, interlocking yet distinct.

First, there’s the story your protagonist or POV character is enacting. It’s driven by her goal (inner or outer) and what she has to do to achieve that goal. When she achieves that goal, the story is over.

Next, there’s the story your reader is experiencing. It’s driven by the question the reader is yearning to resolve as he turns the pages. When he’s answered that question, the story is over.

And finally, there’s the story that you, as author, are creating, driven by what you want to say about how life works or what it means to be human. When your premise has been fully illustrated, the story is over.

Determine Your Story Premise

While there are no rules for which comes first, it can be helpful to begin by identifying your premise, since premise underlies both question and goal. A premise is an adage, a concise generalization about the way life works. Forgiveness is always possible. Courage takes many forms. You can’t step twice in the same river.

The story question—a question that’s large enough to span the entire narrative—asks whether the story will demonstrate that the premise is true. If the book’s premise is that it’s never too late to change, then the story question is “Will the outcome verify or disprove the assertion that it’s never too late to change?”  In spite of everything, will Lucy be able to let go of her anger toward her father?

The protagonist’s goal takes the story question and turns it back into a statement. Lucy’s goal is to let go of her anger and reunite with her father.  

The premise need not be stated overtly; often, it’s better if it’s not. But you, as author, need to know what it is. Without it, your book has no coherence.

In a “simple” story, the goal, question, and premise line up neatly. The protagonist’s goal is usually to find or acquire something; it might be something that’s been taken or lost, such as a kidnapped child or an achievement that represents excellence and recognition.

The Reader’s Question

The reader’s question is whether the protagonist will reach her goal. The author’s premise is that the protagonist’s core feature (determination, resourcefulness, courage) will lead to success. For example, if the protagonist’s goal is to find her missing child, in a simple story their eventual reunion demonstrates the premise that parental love will overcome all obstacles.

There are many examples of stories in which the protagonist’s goal, the reader’s question, and the author’s premise align well.  In Audrey Niffeneger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife, for example, Henry and Clare share the goal of being together. The reader’s question is whether they will ever be able to do so in a lasting way, and the book’s premise is that true lovers will seek each other across time and space. (Note: These aren’t necessarily stories with simple plots. It’s the conceptual structure that’s simpler.)

In a more complex story that contains irony, misdirection, secrets, or surprises, the three elements don’t necessarily line up so neatly. That’s fine, as long as the author intended it that way.

In Gone with the Wind, for example, Scarlett O’Hara’s goal is to marry Ashley Wilkes. The reader, however, wants to find out if Scarlett will come to her senses and realize that Rhett is the one she really wants; the reader doesn’t share Scarlett’s goal. This discrepancy (misalignment) adds to the book’s tension and points to its premise: Never give up.

Other stories are complex because the protagonist’s goal changes. Perhaps the first goal turns out to be false, a mask for the true goal, or perhaps circumstances require a new goal. In Lisa Genova’s Every Note Played, Richard’s initial goal is to preserve as much of his identity as a musician as he can. As his disease progresses, however, he must abandon this goal in favor of a neglected desire: to connect with his family.

In Kristin Hannah’s The Nightingale, Vianne’s initial goal is to protect her daughter. As the story develops, her goal shifts to the aim of saving as many Jewish children as possible—not a reversal of her earlier goal, as in Genova’s book, but an expansion.

Sometimes the protagonist’s failure to achieve her goal—or the reader’s realization that the story question wasn’t the right question to have been asking—is the way the book’s premise is ultimately demonstrated. For example, the premise that the thing you’re seeking may have been right in front of you all along might not be apparent until the end of the book.

In each of these instances, there’s a clear relationship between goal, story question, and premise. It’s another matter when the three elements have no intrinsic relationship or slip, inexplicably, out of alignment.

In Jodi Picoult’s My Sister’s Keeper, Anna’s goal is agency, the ability to make her own decisions about her body. She has a secondary goal to help her sister, whom she loves. The two goals appear incompatible, raising the story tension. The reader’s question is thus: “How can Anna achieve the agency she seeks without causing her sister’s death?” Five-star stakes! But what’s the premise? The book’s unexpected ending seems to proclaim the goals are meaningless in a world governed by random events.

Certainly there are novels in which the story question is never fully answered, leaving the reader with a sense of mystery or open-ended possibility. That can be quite effective, as in Chris Bohjalian’s The Law of Similars. We want Leland and Carissa to reconnect, but Bohjalian’s ending is intentionally ambivalent. We don’t know if Leland achieves his goal, yet the book’s premise is intact: We must try our best and sustain hope.

What about your own book? It can be easiest to begin with the most concrete of the three elements: the protagonist’s goal. Often, the concrete or external goal is a stand-in for a deeper goal, although that varies by genre.

Next, ask yourself: What is the reader dying to know? Is there a central question strong enough to sustain a reader’s interest through the ups and downs of the plot?

And finally: What are you trying to express about what it means to be human?

If one of these questions seems difficult to answer, it may indicate that additional thinking is needed; asking beta readers how they’d answer can also be helpful.  Pondering these questions, however you do it, can only lead to a more coherent and satisfying narrative.

Have you worked out your story’s “aboutness”? Share it in the comments.

Barbara Linn Probst, author of When the Labels Don’t Fit, is a writer, teacher, researcher, and clinician living on a historic dirt road in New York’s Hudson Valley. She holds a PhD in clinical social work and is a dedicated amateur pianist.  Learn more about Barbara at her website.