The imprisonment of one's true self in a shell of one's own making is a pervasive theme in [Dinky Hocker Shoots Smack!] and its five successors. Though each of [Kerr's] novels tell a different story, the same concern for self-realization—a concern shared, we may assume, by every adolescent who reads these books—dominates both plot and subplot. And overall the message is an optimistic one: many of her characters do succeed in releasing the person shut up inside them, as Susan is shut up inside "Dinky," or Priscilla inside "Chicago" (in Love is a Missing Person). And even for some of the apparent failures, there is hope. At least they have become aware of the possibility of change and they have gained insight into their own identity.

Of course, not all change is for the better. Kerr's characters have free will, and they must ultimately decide whether they are really "grabbing the reins" … and "stretching" toward the ideal … or simply toward something different. But often they can only find out by trial and error. Revolt for its own sake may not seem much better than passivity, but some of Kerr's characters must "act out" before they understand what they are really disturbed about. When Carolyn Cardmaker, for example, starts an atheists' club in Is That You. Miss Blue? she is rebelling not against religion but against a world that hypocritically exalts religion while allowing most of its clergymen (including her father) to live on the edge of indigence. Since her quarrel is really with society, she returns, in the last pages to the novel, to her church and her family. But she is more aware, at the end, of the "system" that has beaten her down…. Progress, Kerr shows us, cannot always be measured in a straight line. (pp. 37-8)

Like all Kerr's work, [Dinky Hocker Shoots Smack!] deals with the many different forms of escapism to which we are all subject at one time or another—obesity, alcoholism, psychosomatic disorders—and with the prejudices and hypocrisies we often adopt. Drug addiction is just a particularly dramatic example, a metaphor used to bring Kerr's readers face to face with their own dependencies. And in every instance, in her work, the recourse is the same: one must take charge of one's own life.

All the novels follow the same basic structure: two plots centering around two characters, one ordinary and afraid to diverge from the norm …, the other in some way extraordinary and trying to reach a truce with the rest of the world…. The two plots often split off into one involving a romantic relationship and the other involving relationships between parents and children. With the exception of Dinky Hocker, all are written in the first person, and two, The Son of Someone Famous and I'll Love You When You're More Like Me, employ a variation of that technique, the double first person. The two alternating voices produce a more complex point of view and help to create dramatic irony.

Certain motifs are repeatedly used in Kerr's work to express the state of mind of her characters. Food is one; clothing is another. A third and particularly interesting one is her use of names. Many of Kerr's characters have strange names or nicknames, and explanations about their genesis appear frequently. The characters' names express the way they feel about themselves, illuminate their relationships with their parents, and allow them to adopt and reject various personae. Like P. John, children drop names to rebel against their parents, and re-assume them when they've reconciled. Mrs. Hocker attempts to wield power over her daughter by calling her "Dinky." Mothers' maiden names keep coming up, perhaps to remind children how unfair it is for women to lose a part of their identity by the simple act of marrying. It is one symbolic example of how, "if I love you, I am trapped forever." Characters also use their mothers' maiden names as alternative identities for themselves; having other available names gives them some psychic room to grow. The name changing expresses Kerr's overall theme: the struggle to define and articulate who one is, and it also makes the point that identities are always shifting. What is important is that characters feel the freedom to fiddle with what may seem unchangeable, to recognize that they are never really "stuck" unless they choose to be.

But one cannot change unless the alternatives are more appealing than what one has, and unless the action is really getting at the heart of the problem. (pp. 38-9)

[Ideologies] are generally suspect in Kerr's books. Emotion is a much more effective motivator. In Dinky Hocker especially, Kerr shows that ideological allegiances often create smokescreens which, under the right circumstances, can easily be put aside. What can't be put aside and what must guide change are the strong feelings characters have for one another. Chicago Slade [in Love Is a Missing Person] tells her sister Suzy that love can make a "missing person" of you, a "shed skin" of your old, false self….

Love also helps Kerr's characters to understand the needs and choices of those around them. Thus Chicago's love for a brilliant but poor black student, Roger Coe, makes her tolerant of her Father's infatuation with a nineteen year old former cocktail waitress. And the romances in Kerr's books often demand this kind of tolerance, for they are frequently unconventional. She encourages the notion of "chemistry," of following one's instincts. (pp. 39-40)

Perhaps the notion of chemistry and the celebration of the unconventional are important to Kerr because they involve a surrendering of the staid and sensible—the ostensibly easy but often stifling way—and an embracing by each character of something fresh and different, not only in their loved ones but ultimately in themselves. Such risk-taking relationships also make characters feel special, loved not for their persona, their conventional role, but for the real person inside themselves. At the risk of oversimplifying, I can say that all Kerr's protagonists are looking for this kind of love—love for the hidden, needy person inside of them. And what they also seek is a love that lets them be. The ideal relationship in a Kerr novel involves each character recognizing the other's strengths and weaknesses, feeling committed because of, or in spite of, those qualities, and being willing to let the other fly free. (p. 40)

While this ideal is most dramatically demonstrated in the romantic aspects of the novels, relationships between parents and children also demand acceptance and a letting go. The problems between parents and children in Kerr's works often stem exactly from the unwillingness of parents to recognize this. The parents find it difficult either to let their children make their own mistakes or to let them solve their own problems. For Kerr makes the subtle point that parents often take solace in their children's problems and the resulting dependencies, so that they frequently create "double binds" for them, urging them to change at the same time that they are covertly pressuring them to maintain old, destructive habits…. While both [Dinky's mother and P. John's father in Dinky Hocker] claim to be concerned about their children's obesity, they are ambivalent about letting them do something about it. If a rebirth is to occur, the parents want to assist at it themselves. At least then, if they lose their fat children, they can take credit for the metamorphoses. What the children are asking for, though, is something more difficult. They are asking to be loved for what they are. That will help them to change.

In her later novels, Kerr's characters deal with situations of increasing complexity and gravity. She shifts focus a bit, moving from the need for change to the point at which her characters must accept who they are and then direct themselves back to the community…. While the concerns are not far from those of the earlier works—what does one owe to one's loved ones and what does one owe to oneself—in these later works Kerr is going one step further, stating not only that one has to help oneself, but also that one ultimately has responsibilities toward others. (pp. 41-2)

Progressively, the novels … tell us to see and embrace our differences, to take responsibility for ourselves, and then, recognizing our common humanity, to move back toward those around us.

In showing her readers so many patterns of discovery, revolt, and return, M. E. Kerr is providing them with hope and a wonderful relish for the variety in human nature. Wondering why, with her impressive gifts, she did not choose to write for adults, the answer I came up with is that she likes young people better. She is sympathetic to adults, depicting their struggles throughout her books, revealing them not only as bumblers and seekers, but as occasional finders as well. But her strongest sympathies and her greatest hope seem to be with young people…. [However] squelched and trampled by life, they have the potential to grow up and out—into something not only bigger but better. (p. 42)