Unhealed Wounds Your Character Pretends Are Just “Personality Traits”
These are the things your character claims are just “how they are” but really, they’re bleeding all over everyone and calling it a vibe.
╰ They say they're "independent."
Translation: They don’t trust anyone to stay.
They learned early that needing people = disappointment. So now they call it “being self-sufficient” like it’s some shiny badge of honor. (Mostly to cover up how lonely they are.)
╰ They say they're "laid-back."
Translation: They stopped believing their wants mattered.
They'll eat anywhere. Do anything. Agree with everyone. Not because they're chill, but because the fight got beaten out of them a long time ago.
╰ They say they're "a perfectionist."
Translation: They believe mistakes make them unlovable.
Every typo. Every bad hair day. Every misstep feels like proof that they’re worthless. So they polish and polish and polish... until there’s nothing real left.
╰ They say they're "private."
Translation: They’re terrified of being judged—or worse, pitied.
Walls on walls on walls. They joke about being “mysterious” while desperately hoping no one gets close enough to see the mess behind the curtain.
╰ They say they're "ambitious."
Translation: They think achieving enough will finally make the emptiness go away.
If they can just get the promotion, the award, the validation—then maybe they’ll finally outrun the feeling that they’re fundamentally broken. (It never works.)
╰ They say they're "good at moving on."
Translation: They’re world-class at repression.
They’ll cut people out. Bury heartbreak. Pretend it never happened. And then wonder why they wake up at 3 a.m. feeling like they're suffocating.
╰ They say they're "logical."
Translation: They’re terrified of their own feelings.
Emotions? Messy. Dangerous. Uncontrollable. So they intellectualize everything to avoid feeling anything real. They call it rationality. (It's fear.)
╰ They say they're "loyal to a fault."
Translation: They mistake abandonment for loyalty.
They stay too long. Forgive too much. Invest in people who treat them like an afterthought, because they think walking away makes them "just as bad."
╰ They say they're "resilient."
Translation: They don't know how to ask for help without feeling like a burden.
They wear every bruise like a trophy. They survive things they should never have had to survive. And they call it strength. (But really? It's exhaustion wearing a cape.)
You finally have your outline or plot ready. You want to begin writing your story but you have no idea how you want it to start.
That's my problem right now, so I put down a few examples of the beginning of books as inspiration!
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Finvarra's Circus by Monica Sanz
Leanna Weston looked down at the age worn ticket in her hands and abandoned all prior belief that there was nothing worse than a broken heart. Her heart, however, was not one ruined by the unrequited affections of a boy, nor failure to secure a husband. It, in fact, had little to do with love at all. No, Leanna learned long ago that no man would ever want the sister with a damaged heart, not when there were two other healthy, lively ones in the stable.
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Voice of The Blood by Jemiah Jefferson
All the best tales begin with rain. In reality, this is the end of the story I am about to relate to you, but I begin here, because I'm sitting waiting in the pitch-dark parlor of my old house, bare feet with their long nightmare toes peeking out from beneath an appropriately literary white eyelet nightgown. The rain is picking up outside from a sleepy waltz to a tarantella, and often when it rains like this, my lover John returns to me for the night. My lover—the unfortunately feral and tragically beautiful—may join me here, for he hates being out in the rain in the mulchy graveyards and unwholesome underpasses where he ordinarily stays.
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The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real by Neta Jackson
The call of nature—Willie Wonka's, not mine—got me out of bed at the bleary hour of seven thirty, even though the New Year's Eve party upstairs had kept me awake till after three. Three a.m.! But Willie Wonka's bladder was on dog-time—old dog time at that—making sleeping in on holidays a moot point. Stuffing my feet into my scuffs and pulling Denny's big terry robe around me, I stumbled out of our bedroom mumbling thinly disguised threats at our chocolate Lab as he led me out the back door.
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Rosehead by Ksenia Anske
Lilith Bloom had a peculiar feeling that the rose garden wanted to eat her. She surveyed it through the open car window, unable to look away. The garden seemed to survey her back. It was enormous. Its red blanket surrounded a solitary mansion at the end of Rose Street, Rosenstrasse in German. No other houses stood in sight, only a distant forest. Apart from tires grating on the gravel, it was eerily quiet, too quiet for a hot summer afternoon.
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Mongrels by Stephen Graham Jones
My grandfather used to tell me he was a werewolf. He’d rope my aunt Libby and uncle Darren in, try to get them to nod about him twenty years ago, halfway up a windmill, slashing at the rain with his claws. Him dropping down to all fours to race the train on the downhill out of Booneville, and beating it. Him running ahead of a countryside full of Arkansas villagers, a live chicken flapping between his jaws, his eyes wet with the thrill of it all. The moon was always full in his stories, and right behind him like a spotlight.
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Appointment In Jerusalem by Derek Prince
The last glow of the setting sun had faded from the sky behind me, leaving the streets of Jerusalem dark and empty. The silence was broken only by the scuff of my shoes against the stones. The damp, wintry air felt raw against my cheek. Instinctively, I clutched closer to me the bundle that I carried.
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Below by Laurel Hightower
It came out of nowhere.
Addy’s hands shook, the band of her grandmother’s wedding ring tapping an erratic rhythm on the edge of the chipped porcelain mug she held so tight. The coffee within had long gone cold, but she couldn’t make herself let go.
It came out of nowhere.
She clutched the cup harder, knuckles whitening as they had around her steering wheel when the dark blue van appeared in the middle of the road, facing the wrong direction. Her fingers were stiff: she’d had to pry them from the wheel once she’d pulled into the truck stop parking lot. Her heart raced, her breathing erratic, stopping every so often until her burning lungs reminded her that no, she hadn’t died, so she still needed air.