If only I was a perfectionist. I know people who are… people who are completely capable of having it all together (like that chick with the perfect hair!). But, the thing I really love looking in on is perfection. I am a fascinated voyeur. Look at them! I’d marvel. I think that their car is clean! Did you see that lunchbox? I think that chick made her own cheese! How in the heck did they get all that done?
But, the writer in me knows that it’s all an illusion. People put up fences, they make things straight, but inside you never know the depths of their dysfunction. That’s what makes a character interesting. Flaws create color. Think of Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing. What a brat. She’s petulant and haughty (love those descriptors!). But, you cannot help but identify with her. She’s beautiful and can that girl ever stick poor Benedick with some zingers!
If I wrote characters that were perfect, my prose might look as perfect as that fence post…
But, who’d read that?