It’s hard to predict which characters readers will fall in love with.
In my novel Spear, I expected test readers to connect with Bethany—the companion of the main character, Thomasyn. I even worked to make her the emotional centre of the story. But readers gravitated to Jon, a sub-character I hadn’t expected to resonate so deeply.
Why? I’m not entirely sure—but I have a theory. Readers connect with characters they find believable, real, and personally relatable. If a character feels true, they’ll stick.
Making Characters Real
So how do we make our characters more likeable—or even loveable?
The answer may surprise you: give them a quirk or internal conflict that doesn’t necessarily drive the plot but makes them feel more human. It doesn’t have to be dramatic. In fact, the smaller, more subtle flaws are often more effective.
Take my protagonist from the Rowlinson Inc. series, John Rowlinson. He’s a space-faring hero who dislikes both zero-gravity and crowds—two things you’d assume he’d be used to. These traits don’t push the plot forward directly, but they shape how he navigates the world around him.
In one scene, he’s forced to visit a space station, which means enduring time in zero-g. Later, he takes his love interest away from a bustling area into a quieter space. These quirks emerge naturally, revealing more of who he is.
Where did those traits come from? One is rooted in reality—zero-g disorients most people. The other is personal: I don’t like crowds either. I enjoy people, but being in a packed room isn’t comfortable. That discomfort found its way into my character.
Your Antagonist Deserves the Same Depth
The same rules apply to your villain.
Shalain, the antagonist in another WIP story, became oddly endearing to readers. Why? Because he wasn’t just evil—he was manipulated. His violent behaviour was the result of brainwashing. Deep down, he’s a decent man forced into horrific actions.
He shows glimpses of that goodness, even while pursuing his targets. That contrast—the tension between who he is and what he does—creates empathy. Maybe your villain is fiercely protective of kittens, and lashes out at those who mistreat them. That unexpected tenderness can create a surprising emotional bond with readers.
Adding these subtle dimensions makes your characters feel real, not stereotyped. Whether it’s the model mother secretly licking icing from the bowl, or the hardened cop unwinding at home as a soft-spoken romantic—those contradictions matter.
You don’t have to explain every detail. Just show enough to remind readers your characters are layered, like real people.
Point of View: The Invisible Rule You Can’t Break
Of all the technical challenges in writing, maintaining point of view (POV) is one of the most deceptively difficult. I struggle with it, and so do many authors.
When I write, I picture scenes vividly—like a movie playing in my head. I try to capture everything: the characters, the setting, the dialogue, even the unspoken emotions. But in doing so, I sometimes step outside the POV I’ve chosen.
Fortunately, editing lets me fix those slips.
When working in first-person or close third-person, you’re limited to what that character knows, sees, and feels. If you drift outside of that—into what other characters are thinking—you’ve broken POV.
Let me show you.
POV Example – I Time Travel (Work in Progress)
This passage is written in first-person. Notice how it stays rooted in the narrator’s experience:
I open my eyes and focus just in time to see Bill’s fist coming at me. This is going to hurt, but I don’t move. The impact is hard, but not as hard as it usually is when he hits me. I feel my jaw loosen, and my head bounces off the locker behind me.
“Leave me alone,” I whimper. Asshole. “Someone help—”
Another punch hits my stomach, and I struggle to keep my lunch from coming back up. My legs almost give out, and my back slides across the lockers. Desperate, I try to escape the beating, but I’m weak and disoriented.
Bill is the resident bully. He picks fights only with the kids he knows he can beat. I’ve become his favourite punching bag, maybe because I don’t fight back. It’s a mystery. Maybe he’s molested by his father? Maybe that’s why he lashes out. He’s stronger than the other boys. Maybe his dad makes him lift weights before whipping him—but it’s just a guess.
I’ve almost made it to the hallway. Just a few more steps, and one of the teachers will spot the crowd of kids and step in. Bill will have to stop then.
This version works. We don’t break POV. We see everything through the narrator’s lens, including his speculation about Bill—nothing is presented as objective truth.
When POV Breaks (And Why It Matters)
Now let’s see how it can go wrong:
I open my eyes and see Bill’s fist coming. This is going to hurt. I don’t move. The impact is hard, but not as hard as usual. I feel my jaw loosen. My head hits the locker. Bill smiles, feeling satisfaction. Hurting others makes him feel better about himself.
That last line—“Hurting others makes him feel better”—is the issue.
The narrator doesn’t know what Bill feels. He can guess, but he can’t know. That kind of internal detail belongs to Bill’s POV, not the narrator’s.
This may seem small, but readers feel when POV slips. They may not spot it consciously, but it disrupts their immersion. Keeping POV consistent builds trust in your storytelling.
Final Thoughts
Strong characters and clean point of view are cornerstones of compelling writing. Give your characters depth—quirks, contradictions, and complexity—and keep your perspective grounded in what your narrator can honestly know.
In the next article, we’ll explore narrative direction and crafting your hook—what pulls your reader in and keeps them turning pages.
Until then, write boldly—and keep it real.