A lesson from the coaching chair
I was in the middle of a session with a client, working through a chapter where two antagonists—street-level killers named Anthony and Buzz—had cornered his protagonist in a hotel room. The scene had tension, it had stakes, but something felt off about the dialogue.
“Can I be really honest with you?” I asked.
The characters felt like caricatures. Black, very stereotypical killers from Downtown Hartford, speaking in a way that felt pulled from the usual playbook rather than emerging from who they actually were as individuals.
My client understood immediately. He’d written them one way—in “the King’s English”—and it didn’t feel genuine. So he’d swung to the opposite extreme, landing in stereotype territory.
“A lot of things with writing are like a pendulum,” I told him. “You do it one way and it’s like one extreme. So you go back to the other extreme and eventually you get to the middle.”
But then I offered him something more fundamental than just finding the middle ground:
“If you love them a little more, they’ll sound better. Ultimately, part of the challenge is to love all of your characters, even the bad guys. And if you can find some originality and some care for them in your heart, your representation of them will be more human.”
He paused. “I like this statement. If you love them a little more you portray them better. I think that might be abstract, but it means a lot.”
What Does It Mean to Love Your Characters?
When I say “love your characters,” I don’t mean you have to approve of everything they do or want to be friends with them. I mean developing the kind of deep empathy that allows you to see them as complete human beings rather than plot devices.
Here’s what loving your characters looks like in practice:
You understand their inner logic. Even your villain believes they’re the hero of their own story. What experiences shaped them? What do they fear? What do they want that they’re not getting?
You give them individual voices. Generic dialogue is often a sign that you’re writing types rather than people. When you love a character, you hear how they specifically would say something, not how “people like them” talk.
You find their contradictions. Real people are walking contradictions. The tough guy who’s tender with animals. The perfectionist who’s messy at home. These contradictions make characters feel alive.
You resist the urge to punish them. Even when writing antagonists, you’re not gleefully torturing them. You’re exploring what makes them tick.
Why This Matters More Than Technique
I spend a lot of time teaching writers technical skills—stronger verbs, better sentence structure, narrative distance. But technique alone won’t save flat characters. You can have perfect prose describing someone the reader doesn’t care about.
Character love is what transforms competent writing into compelling writing.
Think about the memorable villains in literature and film. Hannibal Lecter. Iago from Othello. Anton Chigurh. These aren’t characters their creators obviously despised—they’re characters their creators understood so deeply that we can’t look away from them.
How to Develop Character Love
Start with curiosity. Instead of asking “What do I need this character to do?” ask “Who is this person when nobody’s watching?”
Write their origin story. You probably won’t use it in your book, but knowing how they became who they are helps you write them with depth.
Give them a moment of vulnerability. Even if it’s just in your notes, imagine them in a moment when their guard is down.
Find something to admire. Maybe your antagonist is terrible, but they’re also loyal to their brother, or they have impeccable taste in music, or they’re honest about their flaws.
Avoid the shortcuts. Resist the urge to lean on stereotypes or familiar character types. Do the work to discover who this specific person is.
The Practical Payoff
When you love your characters—all of them—several things happen:
Their dialogue becomes more distinct and natural. You’re not writing “how criminals talk” but how this criminal talks.
Your plot complications feel more organic. Characters make choices based on who they are, not just what the story needs.
Readers connect more deeply. We can sense when an author cares about their characters, and it makes us care too.
Even your exposition improves. Details about characters feel chosen and meaningful rather than obligatory.
A Quick Character-Love Exercise
Look at a scene you’ve written recently with a character you’re struggling with—maybe an antagonist, maybe a minor character who feels flat. Ask yourself:
- Do I know what this person wants (beyond just their plot function)?
- Can I imagine them in a completely different situation? How would they behave?
- What would surprise me about this character?
- If I met them at a coffee shop, what would I be curious about?
Then rewrite a page or two from a place of genuine curiosity about who they are.
You might be surprised how much richer your writing becomes when you approach your characters not as chess pieces to move around, but as people worth getting to know.
After all, if you don’t love spending time with your characters, why should your readers?
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