Can You Create Compelling Characters Without Revealing Your Fatal Flaws?

I’m part of a writer’s discussion group where the host asks a question on Mondays, and then participants discuss what we’ve discovered by answering that question the following Thursday. It’s fun and reminiscent of college philosophy courses, with the same amount of zeal — which came first, the chicken or the character’s traumatic wound?

Every week, a new question surrounding a story’s theme or character arc is dispensed, and every week, a new layer of who I am — like, really, really am — seems to raise its ugly, mirror-reflecting head.

I’ve always been the kind of writer who draws from personal experiences and weaves them into my work, only with a touch of ambiguity — isn’t that the beauty of art — self-exposure with a twist? However, these weekly questions have pushed me to confront my own vulnerabilities more directly. I don’t like it.

Every time I dive deep into a character’s motivation, a sliver of me surfaces. For instance, when writing about a character’s fear of failure, my insecurities come front and center, spotlighted and blow-horned.

The more I go down these what-really-is-the-white-rabbit-rabbit holes, the more I wonder if, instead of ducking under the limelight, I should be seeking the lumpy embrace of a psychiatrist’s couch.

Most artists I know pour themselves into their projects, their fingerprints covering every inch of the page, and they seem to do it with self-exploration and pride. I am the kind of explorer who stumbles upon the hiking trail by accident while under a cloak of dark obscurity. This makes me wonder:

Can we truly create compelling stories without confronting our flaws?

Today, the mirror held to my face had the gentleness of a knife pushed against the throat of a hostage, and I recognized yet another nugget of self-realization. I have a duality- I want to be seen and heard, but I’m also very uncomfortable with being so.

I keep myself small, quiet, and hidden for reasons only my subconscious is comfortable with. Of course, I express how I feel, but I usually do it with a broad stroke, something that is seen but also not really.

I’ve been called out on this before. I claim that I write characters on the brink, but a friend who has read every short story of mine pointed out that I write my characters on the brink of emotion and end it.

This could be because, in a short story, being brief is the sport of the whole thing. However, what if I am drawn to the short for precisely that reason? If the game is to tell a story, not even a whole story, but a piece of it, then there is no room for all that self-examination and total immersive stuff.

I can write a tale and move on without that pesky feeling of emotional cobbling. I do not have to walk around with an exposed limp, and I can glide on numbly. There is safety in the numb-isn’t that where the ether lies?

Today’s revelation that I tend to stay hidden was stark, with spiky little spindles wrapped in flesh-tearing barbed wire.

The final zing to my discomfort was realizing that what if all that is holding me back is me? What if my fatal flaw is that I refuse to accept myself, warts, embarrassing faux pas, childhood regret, and people-pleasing tyranny?

What’s more, what would happen to my work, to my identity if I did accept all those things? More authenticity to my characters? More depth to my stories? A rich and new perspective about the world I live in? Yep. And maybe that’s the scariest thing of all.

What about you? What is your fatal flaw in your character building or anything you do and how does it shape your work?