A few years back, I was hooked on the TV show The X-Files. You've probably heard of it. Well, along about the seventh season, the gentleman who played Fox Mulder, David Duchovny, filed a very public lawsuit over syndication royalties. A legal battle ensued. He walked.

How did the writers handle this gaping void in their hit series? They brought in a new man and a new woman. Mulder’s skeptic sidekick, Dana Scully, still showed up now and then, so I’m guessing they figured she and these two interlopers would make viewers forget about the one person upon whom the entire show had been built. 

Ratings plummeted. Viewers, including myself, found other shows to watch or other things to do on Sunday nights. After two seasons of flailing around, the network did what it should’ve done the moment Mulder said adios. It yanked The X-Files off the air. Some pointed squarely at the outlandish premises and the thin characters as grounds for the show's downfall. My reason for giving it up? No Mulder. If I couldn’t watch him “search for the truth” week after week, something we’d been doing together for seven years, the party was over. Done. Kaput. 

One character made all the difference.

There's a reason we're drawn to the likes of Atticus Finch, Scarlett O'Hara, Don Vito Corleone and even Fox Mulder: they fit the criteria for what our brains perceive as real. They look like humans, they walk like humans, they talk, feel and even screw up like humans. Therefore, they must be humans. Or at least something with human traits. And the worst thing we can do, as writers, is to underestimate the power of this perception.

As you already know, creating memorable characters requires a great deal of time and thought. Matter of fact, it may very well be the most extensive work we do as fiction writers.

And it all starts with the interview.

One by one, we sit our characters down and smack them with questions. When and where were they born? Who were their parents? What did their parents do for work and play? How many siblings? Where do they fall in the birth order? Were they poor, rich, middle class? In which cities/states/countries did they live? What did their homes/bedrooms look like? Which chores/jobs did they have? What were their favorite books, songs, films, foods, colors, toys, sports, clothing, etc.? Which schools did they attend? How were their grades? What did they want to grow up and become? Who taught them to ride a bicycle, to drive a car? When did they first fall in love? Were they fat, skinny or average? Were they pretty, ugly or average? Did they grow up with all their limbs, their senses? Did they experiment with drugs, sex, different lifestyles? Did they suffer a severe loss or sickness at an early age? Do they have a tic, a mannerism, a phobia or any other developmental scar that has followed them throughout their lives?

Details, details, details. Aside from a social security number, and even that might play into some stories, we want to know everything about this person up to the moment their story begins. Even if they hail from Krypton. Each answer serves as another hue in the colorful portrait. The clearer we see them, the better we write them. We become their expert. (She would never say that.) We move with authority. (He’d know exactly how to handle a Burmese python.) We deal with specificity. (When she’s nervous, she taps her fingertips as if she’s adding math problems over and over.) Essentially, we bring them to life.

How do we know we've accomplished this? Eventually our readers, including agents and editors, will tell us. They'll use words similar to, "I couldn't get her out of my mind!" But long before we're ready to submit, we can deduce whether we're on the right track by asking ourselves a few questions. Do we know why our characters do what they do? Are the reasons logical? Unique? Or have we simply resorted to clichés? (Not all evil people come from abusive environments.) Do we respect the character's presence? Or is she simply there to fill a plot hole? (Not all mistresses are blond, buxom and boneheaded.) Have we done our homework concerning the psychology of this personality type? Do we, the author, care what happens to this person?

Whew! And we thought we'd just drop a few people into a scene!

Not if we want them to enjoy a long life. Truth is, once they’re upright and breathing, characters no longer belong to us. Readers take them home, embrace them, analyze them, monitor them, root for them (or their demise) and become pretty upset when someone tries to erase them. Let's make sure ours can withstand the scrutiny.

IN A NUTSHELL
A well-developed character carves a space no one else can fill.