In the beginning, I was a software developer, not a writer. And if you’ve read any open-source documentation, you know how badly software developers write. So you know how wide a chasm I had to jump if I wanted to learn how to write fiction.

The fiction bug first bit me in 2002, when I had an inspiration for an idea I wanted to write about, and I knew I had to explore the idea from within a story, because it was the only way to make the words personal, concrete, not just to explore an abstract idea. So I sat down to pen the great American novel…

NOT! Yes, I tried. I knew the theme of the story, and I came up with a basic plot and character sketches. But my novel fell flat on its face, because I just didn’t know what I was doing. So I started writing short stories instead, because during this learning phase, if I wrote a bad short story, I would have lost little. If I spent a year writing a bad novel, I would have lost a whole year. Of course, my journey so far has gone on much longer than that.

Back then, I thought the most important element of fiction was story conflict, because conflict is what drives a story forward and makes it worth reading. But I was wrong. I wrote story after story, most of which sucked. Occasionally, I would hit on one that was worth keeping. The first story I wrote that I was proud of I called “In the Past,” a story about a guy who meets a childhood crush and questions his marriage. Looking back at it now, it makes me cringe, because I made mistake after mistake after mistake. And someday I’ll rewrite the parts of this story that make me cringe. Even back then, I knew what I didn’t like about the story, but I didn’t know how to fix it, because I just wasn’t a good enough writer. Still, despite all the mistakes I made, this story is still readable, even today. It’s not going to win any literary awards. But it does work. Even then, I knew it worked, but I didn’t know the real reason why.

Why does the story work? Not because of the story conflict, or because of the plot, or because of the story idea, or because of the use of language, or because of the mood or pacing or choice of point-of-view or the quirkiness of the characters or pop-culture references or anything else usually attributed to story success. Here’s how I know. Let’s look at these one by one:

• Conflict – This is the big one for me, because conflict is central to making a story work. And I myself have harped on it before. But reading “In the Past,” you can see that I set up most of the story conflicts so poorly, they have no depth and little impact. At least the main conflict has some impact, which is good, because then the story would be a total wash. But when it comes to conflict, in general, I did a really crappy job.

• Plot – This is another big one, because so many writers focus on plot first. But what’s the plot in this story? A guy, married with kids, pines for an old flame, falls for her, questions his marriage, and eventually makes a decision. Okay, so it’s in the dictionary somewhere between cliché and crap-ola.

• Story idea – Using the Internet to find a high-school sweetheart (kinda). The story “idea” is what many new writers seek for, as though finding the right idea will make them a writer. But raw ideas are a dime a dozen. And this one, while relatively fresh at the time, involved no big leap of originality. And that’s the way it is with most story ideas. Let’s face it: Most story ideas have been done before. And done and done and done and done again. Roger MacBride Allen noted how he would find an “original” idea, and then be able to fill bookshelves with stories based on that same idea, and I believe it. The right idea can’t save your story, and it didn’t save this one.

• Language – When I wrote “In the Past,” I knew how to write good prose. Really, I did. I swear I did! I just didn’t apply those techniques consistently. That’s why I ended up with weak descriptions, corny dialogue, and awkward scenes. This story ain’t gonna win no liter’ry awards.

• Mood – Mood? What’s that? Okay, I guess there are some scenes that have a half-way-decent mood. The bar. The pantry. The car. Because sometimes I got my conflicts and descriptions right. But this is not a “moody” piece.

• Pacing – Pacing? What’s that? Seriously, what is it? I paid no attention to pacing in this story. I just wrote what came. When I’m writing an episode of The Conscience of Abe’s Turn I pay attention to pacing, because each episode is 5 chapters of about 3500 words each, and the story has to ebb and flow to fit that structure. But with “In the Past,” I just did what “felt” right. The pacing in general isn’t bad, but because the conflicts need work, the pacing also needs work, because pacing ends up being a by-product of how the story explores its conflicts.

• Point of View – Third-person limited omniscient. It’s not rocket science. I still believe this was an appropriate choice for this story. Second-person would not work, and that was pretty obvious, because it’s not about the reader. First-person would have given a different feel to the story, because we’d only hear things that the main character Dylan actually wanted to talk about, and he doesn’t talk much, but that wouldn’t have ruined the story. Point of view is one of those things that if you somehow manage to choose very obviously poorly, you can end up with nonsense (which is easy to fix). But in most cases, point of view is not going to make or break a story. It’s just a tool that you use to tell the story. What is it that makes the story itself worth telling?

• Character quirks – Yeah, the characters have some quirks, or tags, or hooks. Aubrey plays with her hair. Dylan drinks Coke and lime and likes blondes. Katherine talks about politics. But all of these things could change in a heartbeat without making the story better or worse. What if Dylan were to drink scotch and like brunettes? Would the story really be any different? No. Character quirks can add flavor to a story, but they won’t make the story.

• Pop-culture references – I’m not even sure why I added this one, except that I’m a Gilmore Girls fan, and GG is known for its pop-culture references. GG wasn’t the first, either, and it wasn’t the last. Alluding to pop-culture in stories is a time-honored tradition, and it gets a fair amount of commentary. And I included a pop-culture reference or two, which even meant something to the story. However, none of these are really necessary to the story. Like quirks, pop-culture allusions add flavor to a story, but they can’t make it.

My point is that I could have made significant goofs in all of these areas–indeed I did make significant goofs–and the story could still be salvageable. But there’s one thing I have screwed up in other stories, a critical flaw that permanently destroyed my early stories. Some of these stories were based on really cool, mostly original ideas. Or were moody as all get out. Or had well-defined conflicts. But they were missing this most important story element. Even though I hit on it occasionally, by accident, I missed it frequently, because I didn’t know what it was.

And then I discovered Holly Lisle. Specifically, I discovered her Create a Character Clinic. I was so excited by the feature list and the free chapter, I immediately ordered and downloaded a copy. Little did I know, however, how important this one resource would become to me, and how it would change my writing forever.

Because the one thing I did right with “In the Past” was that the characters had character. I didn’t know it at the time, because I just based the characters on traits I saw in real people. And I based the characters’ desires and reactions on how I thought real people would act. What I was doing without knowing it: I had created a deep (for a short story) character that readers could sympathize with. But Holly Lisle had analyzed the problem and created a process that I could use anytime I needed to add depth to any character. As I read through the Character Clinic for the first time, the whole problem, and its solution, just clicked into place. Just like that.

Here’s an example of the power of character in stories. A friend of mine, an aspiring filmmaker, asked me to consult with him on a script for a short film. As a favor to a friend, I took a few hours pro-bono to help him. The first thing I did was to open up Holly Lisle’s Character Clinic and apply it to his protagonist. We started throwing around ideas just for the first section of the clinic, “character need.” And a light bulb went off in his head. His voice became more excited. Suddenly, things were clicking. His character started jumping off the page for him. And his story engaged him. Just like that. He finally ended up with a much better, more engaging screenplay, which I pray he commits to film.

Character is the most important element of fiction. At least it’s the most important thing a writer needs to keep in mind. Your readers may point to other things as being more important to them. But none of these would work if you didn’t have deep characters.

• Everything else flows ultimately from character: conflict, plot, setting, mood. Conflict always involves at least one character, and it only means as much as the characters do. Plot is a series of events caused by character action (or inaction), and character determines what those events will be. Setting matters only because the characters are there, because they’re part of the plot. Mood comes from all the above and how you meld them together.

• You can make numerous mistakes elsewhere in the story and get away with it, as long as you have engaging characters to pick up the slack. After I saw Ratatouille with my daughter, I complained that it had a major plot hole. Remy (the rat) had all the skills needed to communicate with humans, but he still was unable to. He could understand human language. He could read cookbooks. He could manipulate recipe ingredients and cooking apparatuses. He could cook! (That was the whole basis of the story.) Surely he could have learned to talk, or at least to write. How could he use a chef’s knife safely and at great speeds, but not be able to figure out the intricacies of the pencil? But if Remy had known how to talk, that would have mooted the whole story conflict, and there wouldn’t have been a story. The story was essentially one giant contrived plot device. Walking out of the movie theater, I started to complain about all this. And my little girl–God love her–told me, “Lighten up, Dad!” It didn’t matter to her that the whole story was a contrivance, because Remy was a real character, and if he couldn’t talk, then he couldn’t talk, and that was that.

• People sympathize with characters, not plot devices, settings, moods, or conflicts. This should go without saying. As human beings, we connect with other humans. In fact, there’s evidence to suggest that interactions with fictional characters tickle the same parts of our brains as interactions with real people. That’s why plots only matter in as much as they affect and are affected by characters. Setting only matters when a character interacts with it. Mood is a function of a character moving through the story. And all conflicts involve characters.

• You can often reinvigorate a failing story by revisiting the characters. At the very least, ask, “What would they do?” If you doubt this, try it. Start with a failed story you’ve given up on, and start asking some hard questions about the main character. What does he really need in life? What happened to him to make him the kind of person he is? What beliefs and values control his life? And so forth.

Asking questions, that’s where the Create a Character Clinic starts. And that’s what took my writing to the next level.

If you don’t have a copy of the Character Clinic, click here to find out more about it from Holly Lisle’s site. And remember that the ebook is eligible for my special offer: If you get it through the link on this page, send me a copy of the emailed receipt and ask me to subscribe you to my exclusive “Writer’s Tips” e-Newsletter.

-TimK