When I create a character, I don’t just think about where they start in the book, I think about their entire life. Who were they before the story began? What moments shaped them long before the reader meets them? The depth of a character isn’t just in their actions but in the unseen, unwritten moments that have defined them.

Understanding a Character’s Past

A character’s past is the foundation of their personality, beliefs, and decisions. I ask myself:

• What was their childhood like? Was it stable, chaotic, abusive, loving?
• Who were their parental figures, and what kind of impact did they leave?
• Did they have siblings? Were they close or distant?
• Were they rich, poor, or somewhere in between?
• What were their formative experiences with friendship, betrayal, or loneliness?
• What was their first loss, and how did they cope with it?
• Who gave them their first real taste of love? Was it beautiful, or did it leave scars?
• What lies do they believe about themselves because of their past?
• What do they remember most vividly from childhood?
• What was their biggest childhood fear, and does it still linger?

Beliefs and Perceptions

A character’s worldview isn’t just about where they grew up, it’s about what they internalized. I explore:

• What do they believe about themselves? Are they confident, insecure, self-destructive?
• What do they believe about others? Do they trust easily, or do they assume betrayal is inevitable?
• How do they define success and failure?
• What do they wish they could change about themselves?
• What is their biggest regret?
• What values do they hold above all else?
• What lines will they never cross?
• What rules do they break anyway?
• Do they believe they deserve happiness?

Personality and Preferences

The small details make a character feel real. The little habits, preferences, and quirks breathe life into them. I ask:

• Are they early birds or night owls?
• Do they prefer coffee, tea, or soda?
• Whiskey, bourbon, beer, or none of the above?
• Do they have a sweet tooth or prefer savory food?
• Are they neat and organized or messy and chaotic?
• Do they enjoy solitude, or do they need constant noise and interaction?
• What kind of music do they listen to?
• What books, if any, do they read?
• Are they artistic, analytical, or both?
• Do they plan everything, or do they live impulsively?
• What is their biggest pet peeve?
• What is something small that always makes them smile?

Trauma, Love, and Growth

A character’s journey is often defined by what has hurt them and what has healed them. I dive deep into:

• What trauma shaped them the most?
• How do they cope with pain—destructively, healthily, or by burying it?
• Do they run from their past, or do they carry it with them?
• What is their greatest source of comfort?
• Who has loved them in a way that changed them?
• What kind of love do they seek—intense and all-consuming, steady and reliable, or something in between?
• Do they believe they are worthy of love?
• What is their biggest emotional wound?
• Have they ever let someone see them at their most vulnerable?
• Are they honest about their pain, or do they hide it?

Vices and Weaknesses

No character is perfect. Their flaws and struggles make them compelling. I ask:

• What is their worst habit?
• Do they have an addiction? (Alcohol, drugs, gambling, work, validation, control, etc.)
• What is their biggest irrational fear?
• What situations make them feel completely out of control?
• How do they react when they feel powerless?
• Do they sabotage themselves? If so, how?
• Do they let people in, or do they push them away?
• What is their biggest insecurity?
• What is their ultimate downfall?

Dialogue Should Always Have an Underlying Purpose

Not every conversation has to be sharp, conflict-driven, or reveal a deep secret. Sometimes, passive conversations—the ones about nothing in particular—are what make relationships feel real. The way two characters talk about mundane things, tease each other, or simply exist in conversation can build intimacy and familiarity in ways that direct exposition never could.

That being said, every exchange should still serve a purpose, even if it’s subtle. Whether it’s revealing character dynamics, creating contrast between personalities, or highlighting emotional undercurrents, dialogue should feel natural yet intentional.

• Subtext is Everything – What a character doesn’t say is often more important than what they do. Let emotions linger in pauses, unfinished sentences, or words that feel like shields. A lighthearted conversation can carry weight if one character is holding something back.
• Tension Through Contrast – If a character is feeling hurt, they might mask it with sarcasm or lash out instead of showing vulnerability. Let their words reflect their inner conflict. Even in casual conversations, an offhand comment can expose deeper feelings.
• Unique Voice – No two characters should sound the same. Think about their education, upbringing, and emotional state when crafting their speech patterns. A character who grew up rough will have a different way of speaking than one raised in wealth.

Even in everyday banter, dialogue should reflect character personalities, hidden emotions, and the nuances of their relationships. Sometimes, a conversation about something as simple as coffee preferences can hold just as much weight as a confrontation—if it’s written with the right intent.

Making It Personal: What About Me Aligns With My Characters?

The best characters feel real because, in some way, I have felt what they feel. I may not have lived their exact experiences, but I know what it is to feel grief, rage, love, betrayal, longing. I tap into those emotions to bring authenticity to their stories.

But what about the experiences I’ve never had? How do I write a character whose life is vastly different from mine? Research is one part of the process—reading memoirs, watching documentaries, talking to people with different life experiences. But the heart of it comes from empathy. I strip situations down to their core emotions. If a character has lost a sibling and I never have, I don’t focus on the specifics. I focus on loss itself, on the hollow, gut-wrenching feeling of missing someone who will never return.

When I write a character, I don’t just think about their journey in the book, I think about their entire life, their unseen scars, their silent hopes. Because the more real they feel to me, the more real they’ll feel to the reader.

Example: Lux from The Violet Ticket

Lux’s past is one of instability and trauma, shaping her into the woman she is in The Violet Ticket series. Lux’s parents were addicts, consumed by their vices long before she was old enough to understand what stability was supposed to look like. Her childhood was spent in a constant state of survival—shifting between dirty motels, cold apartments, and places that never truly felt like home. There were nights she went hungry because her parents spent what little money they had on drugs instead of food. She learned early that love, if it existed at all, was unreliable.

By the time she was 11, both of her parents were dead. It didn’t matter how; what mattered was that Lux was alone. No relatives stepped in, no system caught her. She fell through the cracks like she never existed. That kind of abandonment doesn’t just teach independence—it forces it.

For a child, the world should have still held safety nets, but for Lux, there were none. She had to fend for herself in ways no child should, scrounging for food, stealing when necessary, and learning to manipulate people just to survive another day. The streets hardened her, but they also shaped her perception of control—she never had any as a child, so as she grew older, she grasped for it in any way she could.

Her lack of parental guidance meant that she was never taught how to process emotions in a healthy way. Pain became something she carried, never something she confronted. Vulnerability was a liability; the moment she let someone see her weak, they had the power to destroy her. She learned to hide her suffering behind sharp words and reckless decisions.

This also impacted her relationships—she didn’t understand what healthy love looked like. Love, in her experience, had always been neglectful or conditional. She craved connection but distrusted it in equal measure. This is why she struggles with intimacy, why she’s drawn to men who demand power, and why she tests the people closest to her. If they stay, maybe they mean it. If they leave, they were never going to stay anyway.

Her parents’ deaths not only forced her into a life of survival but also instilled a deep-rooted belief that she was meant to be alone. She carries that weight, even when she doesn’t want to. Even when Oliver or Nigel tries to prove otherwise, there’s a part of her that still believes no one stays forever. Her childhood was marked by survival, growing up without stability or parental love. She learned early on that the world wasn’t safe, and no one was coming to save her. This instilled in her a deep-seated belief that she must fend for herself, making trust nearly impossible for her.

She carries the weight of her past abuse, which influences her relationships. She struggles with intimacy, craving love yet fearing vulnerability. Her trauma manifests in her inability to see herself as anything but broken, which directly impacts her self-worth. Lux’s love for Oliver is tangled in control and power because, for her, power has always equated to survival. At the same time, her relationship with Nigel offers a glimpse of what safety could feel like—something she isn’t sure she deserves.

Her vices—reckless decisions, pushing people away, and finding solace in pain—stem from the wounds of her past. Despite this, she has an undeniable resilience, an ability to survive in a world designed to break her. The contrast between her craving for control and her longing to surrender to someone who sees her is what makes her complex.

How Character Depth Leads to Intense Dialogue and Internal Thoughts

A deeply developed character doesn’t just create a compelling backstory—it shapes how they think, speak, and react. Lux isn’t just someone with a traumatic past; she is someone who has built an entire worldview around that past. Her thoughts and dialogue aren’t random—they are the result of years of survival, of learning how to protect herself, of believing that no one will ever truly stay.

Internal Thoughts: The Weight of Her Past

Lux’s internal monologue is sharp, unforgiving, and relentless. She doesn’t allow herself moments of softness without instinctively bracing for them to be ripped away. When she experiences something tender, her immediate reaction isn’t to embrace it—it’s to analyze it, to question its longevity, to assume it will slip through her fingers like everything else.

Her mind is constantly at war with itself. She wants love, but she doesn’t trust it. She wants control, but she craves the freedom of surrender. She is intelligent, aware of her own flaws, but too damaged to escape them. This makes her internal struggles feel real—she is not static, not one-dimensional, but constantly wrestling with who she is versus who she wants to be.

Dialogue: Every Word is a Test

Lux’s dialogue isn’t just about speaking—it’s about control. Every word she says is a weapon, a shield, or a test. She pushes people away before they can abandon her. She provokes Oliver not because she wants a fight, but because she wants to prove to herself that he will still be there after the storm. With Nigel, she keeps her words measured, holding back just enough, afraid that if she shows him too much, he’ll realize she’s not worth saving.

When someone tells her they care, she doesn’t say thank you—she deflects, brushes it off, waits for the catch.

When she feels hurt, she doesn’t cry—she gets angry, lashes out, makes herself impossible to comfort.

When she’s scared, she doesn’t admit it—she forces a smirk, spits out something cruel, makes sure no one sees the trembling in her hands.

Writing a Character Who Feels Alive

A character like Lux feels real because her depth is woven into everything—her thoughts, her words, her silences. She is a product of every moment that came before her, and that influences every moment still to come. Readers don’t just connect to her because of her trauma; they connect to her because of what she does with it.

She isn’t just written—she lives on the page.