If someone were to stop me on the street and ask me to describe the perfect character I’d only say there are none. And that, to me, is what makes them all perfect. The imperfections.
There isn’t any fun in writing someone unrealistic because the flaws are the foundation to anyone in the world-fictional or not.
So if I were to write the perfect imperfect character who would potentially change lives, perhaps not necessarily mine, he or she would do a lot of things. Some similar to me, some similar to my enemy, some good, some bad, but something nonetheless.
If in fact he or she were to happen upon me sleeping with the pages of my paperback clutched between my fingers as I fell asleep whilst reading, I should hope he or she would have the decency to attend to both my book and I by placing a blanket over me and place a bookmark between the pages so that once I wake up, I shall not have lost my place although I may have lost my ability to consciously read last night.
I would imagine he or she would make an irreparable mistake that would indefinitely make those around him or her to look at them differently and I expect them not to let that change everything but rather some things. For that is only right.
I hope he or she would be smart but then again, there are so many meanings to intelligence than that of a report card.
I also hope my character does not glance at other characters thinking how they are better than him or her and god forbid he or she would want to be one of them, somewhere else and someone else.
Most important of all, I would like my character to be content with his or her creation. So that if in a hypothetical situation I should meet him or her that he or she will thank me and enjoy a conversation about how they came to be over a cup of tea, just as proud mums tell stories to their kids.
For us writers, our characters are our children. Though we torture them with impossible challenges, we grow to love them, embed pieces of ourselves in them and would defend them with all forms of verbal ammunition.
They are ours but…
we share them with the world.
That’s the beauty of it.