Why I Keep Coming Back to the Same Questions in My Novels—And Why You Should Too

Writers are often told to “write what you know,” but for me, it’s always been more useful to write what I need to understand. That’s what keeps me coming back to the same essential, haunting questions in every novel I write: How far would a mother go to protect her child? What are we willing to risk to bury a secret? Who are we when the roles we’ve clung to begin to slip?

(10 Secrets for Using Secrets in Your Fiction.)

These questions aren’t something I force into my stories—they’re just there, waiting. In The Baby Left Behind, a mother is forced to confront the choices that led her to abandon her child. In The Day She Vanished, a woman must face the consequences of a single, irreversible decision. In She Was Never Yours To Take, my upcoming release, a family grapples with a long-buried secret that comes to the surface, rippling outwards and affecting everyone it touches.

Each of these books has different characters, settings, and stakes. But beneath all of them lies the same emotional terrain: guilt, identity, protection, and the often murky moral decisions women must make. These recurring ideas used to make me wonder if I was limiting myself when it came to my writing. Now, I realize they’re not a creative crutch—they’re a well I keep returning to for deeper water.

There’s a misconception among writers that we must always chase “new” ideas—new genres, new voices, new narrative devices. But I’ve found there’s a quiet, powerful truth in thematic repetition: It’s not about repeating yourself, it’s about deepening your understanding.

In literature, this practice is not only common, it’s often celebrated. Celeste Ng writes fiction that wrestles with familial pressure, secrets, and how cultural identity shapes relationships. Whether it’s Everything I Never Told You or Little Fires Everywhere, you’ll find echoes of the same concerns: Who gets to define a “good” parent, and what happens when children slip out of their parents’ grasp?

Tana French’s Dublin Murder Squad series explores themes of identity, trauma, and unreliable memory in case after case. Each book has new detectives and plots, but the thematic undercurrent stays remarkably consistent: How the past infects the present, and how truth is often obscured by emotion.

Even someone like Ann Patchett (idol!), known for literary fiction, returns again and again to the idea of found family, forgiveness, and the fallout of decisions made in youth. No one accuses her of being repetitive—they praise her for exploring familiar ideas with fresh insight.

The truth is, readers often seek out authors because of the questions they return to, not in spite of them. They want to see how your current self wrestles with the same themes your younger self did and whether your answers have changed.

In my case, the recurring themes are closely tied to motherhood, responsibility, and moral ambiguity. I’m fascinated by women who make questionable choices for what they believe are good reasons. I want to understand what motivates them, what haunts them, and how the weight of a single decision can reverberate through generations.

I write about mothers who break the rules, women who protect their children at great personal cost, and the friends or communities who become collateral damage in that effort. I don’t always know what the “right” choice is—but I know it’s never easy, and that’s where the story lives.

Rather than avoid these familiar threads, I’ve come to embrace them. They’re not just themes, they’re the heart of my author identity. And by returning to them, I’m not just writing another version of the same story. I’m pushing myself to ask the same question in a new way, with new nuance, new stakes, and new emotional depth.

If you’re a writer who’s noticed the same topics cropping up in your stories—or if you’re unsure what your core themes even are—here are some practical ways to lean in and use that to your advantage:

Look at your last few projects (whether complete or in draft form) and write down the big ideas or emotional questions each one explores. Patterns will likely emerge. Are your stories always about betrayal? Redemption? The fear of failure? Make note of recurring themes, and ask yourself: Why am I drawn to this? Often, your own life experiences or values are driving those obsessions.

Take a theme you’ve written before (e.g. guilt) and approach it from the perspective of a different character type. If you wrote about a mother experiencing guilt, what happens when it’s a teenage son, or a neighbor, or a police chief who carries it? This allows you to dig deeper into the theme without telling the same story twice.

If your work tends to explore how the past influences the present (like mine does), consider dual timelines or nonlinear structure. This technique lets you revisit a theme from different ages, mindsets, and life stages, offering richer insights and more emotional resonance.

Ask yourself: What emotional truths do I want my readers to feel in their gut? Then write toward those truths. When you mine your own fears, regrets, or longings and translate them into fiction, readers will connect, even if they’ve never been in your character’s shoes.

The idea that every book must reinvent the wheel is a myth. In fact, most writers build a career on exploring a central emotional landscape. The key is not to avoid your obsessions, but to refine them, sharpen them, and ask new questions each time you write.

Some questions can’t be answered in one book. Or even five. That’s the beauty of writing across a lifetime: We evolve, and our stories evolve with us. What felt like a solid conclusion in one novel may unravel in the next. What you once viewed with certainty might now feel more fragile. Readers are willing to walk with you through that journey as long as you keep walking forward.

In my case, the questions that haunt my fiction are deeply tied to motherhood, guilt, and secrecy, but yours might be totally different. You might write repeatedly about love lost and found, about freedom and confinement, about justice or grief or ambition. Whatever it is, lean into it.

Thematic obsession isn’t a limitation. It’s a sign that your writing is connected to something real, something rooted. Don’t run from it. Write toward it.

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