There’s a moment in every story when a character stops being words on a page and starts breathing. You know it when it happens. Suddenly, they’re making choices you didn’t plan, saying things that aren’t in your notes, dragging the plot in a direction you didn’t intend—but can’t resist following. That’s when you know they’re alive.
Creating characters that feel real isn’t about giving them a tragic backstory or a quirky catchphrase. It’s about knowing them—deeply enough to predict what they’d do in any situation, but loosely enough to let them surprise you. The best characters aren’t puppets on strings; they’re co-authors in disguise.
I never start with a spreadsheet of traits or personality types. That stuff might come later. But early on, I focus on who this person is and what makes them tick. What do they fear? What lie do they believe about themselves? What do they want so badly they’ll make terrible decisions to get it? That’s where the juice is. Plot comes from character—when their desires collide with their flaws, the story ignites.
Sometimes a character shows up fully formed, like they kicked in the door and announced themselves. Other times, I get to know them slowly, learning layer by layer as I write. Either way, I pay close attention to voice. Not just what they say, but how. Do they speak in metaphors? Are they blunt? Do they joke to avoid vulnerability? A character’s voice can shift the tone of an entire scene—and when you’ve got a cast of strong voices, the dialogue starts to write itself.
Take Huison Loromin from Vitae, for example. He has a particular quirk: he never uses contractions. It’s always “It is” instead of “It’s,” or “What is the matter?” instead of “What’s wrong?” That might seem subtle on the page, but writing full dialogue that avoids contractions is trickier than it sounds. Those apostrophes sneak in when you’re not looking. But it was an essential part of who he was—and who he was becoming. The more I wrote him, the more natural it felt. Eventually, it became second nature, like I was translating his thoughts rather than crafting them.
That said, sometimes I frustrate myself by leaning a bit too hard into a character’s quirks. I’m talking mannerisms, vocal tics, recurring phrases. It’s honestly embarrassing how many times I’ve yelled aloud at one of my own characters like they’re the problem—as if I’m not the one who created them and made them this way. It’s a humbling moment when you realize the drama you’re battling was hand-delivered by…you.
Characters will also test your control issues. You may think you know the arc they’re supposed to follow, but somewhere along the way, they might reveal a truth that derails your outline entirely. I’ve had more than one minor character grab the mic and refuse to let go. When that happens, I don’t fight it. I listen. Sometimes what they have to say is better than what I planned.
It’s also not unheard of to put a little of yourself into a character. Sometimes it’s intentional, other times it sneaks in when you’re not looking. Your life. Your experiences. Your dreams. One character might say something you’ve long wished you could say—or hear something you’ve longed to hear. It’s the literary equivalent of practicing in a mirror, only the reflection talks back.
But let’s talk about flaws—real ones. Not just “she’s too clumsy” or “he cares too much.” I’m talking about the jagged stuff. The selfishness. The bitterness. The guilt that festers beneath their charm. Readers don’t need perfect heroes. They need human ones. Give me a protagonist who struggles to forgive, who lies to protect, who wants to be good but keeps getting in their own way. That’s someone I’ll follow to the end.
The key is balance. Your character can be flawed, even frustrating—but they need something that pulls us toward them. A spark of vulnerability. A deep wound we recognize in ourselves. A glimmer of redemption we hope they reach. That’s the heartbeat of connection.
Sometimes, the most powerful character work happens in the quiet. It’s not always big speeches or dramatic choices. Sometimes it’s a glance, a hesitation, a single word they almost say but don’t. Those moments of restraint, of tension simmering just beneath the surface, are where character becomes real. Not in the exposition, but in the implication.
And when it’s time to revise? That’s when I really meet them. I start to see the inconsistencies. The moments where I forced them to act for the sake of plot instead of staying true to who they are. Editing character is a dance between clarity and discovery—refining their journey without silencing their voice.
At the end of the day, characters aren’t created just to serve the story. They are the story. Everything else—plot, setting, even theme—revolves around their transformation. The reader may come for the premise, but they stay for the people.
So breathe life into them. Listen to them. Argue with them. Trust them. And when they surprise you? Let them. That’s where the good stuff lives.
xo Ametra.
