People aren’t perfect. Of course, perfection, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder, but people aren’t universally perfect. In fact, most people’s automatic reaction when they see someone who lives an apparently perfect life—great job, great car, great bank account—is jealousy (those of you who disagree have either never met someone who fits your definition of “perfect” or are one of the perfect ones). Life is good at throwing curveballs, and someone who can hit them out of the park every time is unreal and aggravating.

For whatever reason, perfection in writing is even more annoying than it is in real life. For example, on the side of working on the Fallen series, I have been writing a book tentatively titled Adelle. The narrator, a boy named Cody, was perfect, originally. Gorgeous, athletic, intelligent, popular, loving family, considerate friends, the works. When I showed people the first few chapters, I got a unanimous reaction: “Oh, come on! No one is like that!”

I listened to their comments and saw that they were right. Cody and his family were sickeningly sweet. That wasn’t what I was going for, so I scrapped four chapters (over fifty pages of work) and started over. But I don’t regret it because I learned a valuable lesson: likeable characters have to be relatable. Despite appearances, making them perfect is a surefire way to alienate 98.9% of readers.

As I thought about this issue, I realized that, in fiction and in life, the appearance of perfection often hides a dark, devastating secret. Think The Stepford Wives. Think Ted Bundy. Examples abound, each one demonstrating the truth of this peculiar phenomenon, but this wasn’t the only conclusion I reached. I also realized that truly perfect people (the very few not hiding bodies in their basement or skeletons in their closet) don’t have problems. Without setbacks and dilemmas, you’re left with an awfully boring story. How, then, can you avoid perfection?

There are several ways you could introduce depth and interest in an otherwise unbelievable and unrelatable character. You could reveal a flaw to readers that no one but the character sees (a debilitating illness, a disturbing childhood, etc.), you could show readers a flaw that everyone except the character sees (extreme unfounded arrogance, a complete lack of tact, etc.), or you could alter the character slightly to make perfection their goal instead of something they’ve already obtained. Any of these methods would add dimension to both plot and characterization.

However, something to think about before or as you take away a character’s perfection is why you made them perfect in the first place. What was your goal? What point were you trying to make? For which part of the plot was this perfection important? If you don’t have answers to these questions, have no qualms about making changes to the character (and maybe check out my first article on characters); on the other hand, if there was an importance attached to the semblance of perfection, you want to make sure you find another way to get that point across. Is the character’s fall from grace the key to the story? Then leave them their perfection, throw in hubris and a tragic flaw, and allow readers to anticipate their downfall.