A friend gave me Theo of Golden by Allen Levi.
She said I would love it after she heard about the book I was writing. Intrigued (and honored that she was paying attention), I took the book by author Allen Levi, but didn’t start it until a couple of months later.
Like many readers, I wanted to know who Theo really was. He refused to give his last name or any real specifics about himself to anyone he met. He was a master at turning the question around and letting others tell their story.
By the end of the novel, I had my answer. But what stayed with me wasn’t the mystery. It was the craft.
It Gets Harder to Read a Book Just for Pleasure
I’m always thinking about what I can learn from it and carry into my own writing. I don’t mean that reading has become less enjoyable. If anything, it’s become richer.
But somewhere along the way, something shifted.
Now, when I read, part of my brain is always studying.
Asking myself:
- Why did that scene work?
- What curiosity seeds planted earlier paid off later?
- How did this secondary character feel so real in only a few pages?
As readers, we follow the story.
As writers, we’re trying to understand how the magician performed the trick.
Theo of Golden reminded me that some of the most powerful lessons in writing have very little to do with plot. Its spirituality is woven quietly through ordinary conversations, acts of kindness, and the belief that every person carries a story worth knowing.
Every character has a story.
The novel’s central mystery is compelling enough. But what lingered for me were the people.
- A portrait artist who sees every face as a story and dignifies it in nearly everyone he paints.
- An accountant seeking more fulfillment than becoming the firm’s next partner.
- A dedicated custodian working night shifts to care for his injured daughter.
- An intelligent, mentally-challenged, and misunderstood woman without a home.
Characters who could have remained sketches but instead became windows into lives we rarely stop long enough to notice.
That may be the quiet truth at the heart of the novel.
Every character has a story.
That’s true in fiction and in real life. And when writers take the time to craft those stories, readers feel it.
The Discipline of Paying Attention
Being seen is one of the deepest human desires.
Theo sees people.
He doesn’t simply look at them. He asks questions, listens to the answers, and looks them directly in the eye.
The portrait artist paints ordinary people, including our “best friends.”
He captures their essence because he’s taken the time to observe who they are and what they mean to others.
A writer tells stories.
Fiction or nonfiction. She researches, watches, listens, and absorbs everything that could make up the character she wants to portray.
Different callings, perhaps.
But each begins with the same discipline: paying attention.
Looking long enough to recognize the sadness, joy, contradictions, and hopes that make someone fully human.
As I continue working on my story, that’s the lesson I’ll carry forward. Not the mystery. Not the reveal. Not even the ending.
The willingness to slow down long enough to truly see the people who inhabit the page.
Maybe that’s what great writing asks of us.
And maybe that’s why some books stay with us long after we’ve finished them.
I finished the novel knowing who Theo was.
More importantly, Theo reminded me of the kind of writer I want to be.
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