The Great Character Naming Crisis

Choosing names for characters in my books has always proven difficult for me. I don’t know why. There are like a jillion names in this world, aren’t there? Entire baby name books. Websites. Generators. Probably even a name wheel I could spin like I’m on some game show: “Congratulations! Your brooding, emotionally complex villain shall now be… Gary.”

No offense to any Garys, but… no.

Because it’s more than just pulling a name out of the air. It’s not, “Hey, I think I’ll call her Jane and him Joe,” and call it a day. It’s pairing the right name with the character. The vibe has to match. The personality. The energy. You can’t have a hardened detective named Bubbles unless you’re writing something very specific—and even then, I’d need a minute.

I always come up with the character first. I mean, obviously. I know who they are, what they’ve been through, their quirks, their secrets, their emotional baggage (because what’s a character without a little trauma?). But the name? Sometimes it just… doesn’t show up. So I’ll write half a chapter referring to someone as [insert name here] like I’m leaving notes for my future self. Super professional.

And when I do pick a name, I will absolutely overthink it. Is it too common? Too unique? Does it sound too much like another character? Does it accidentally rhyme with something ridiculous? Am I going to regret this at chapter twenty-seven?

Then there’s the real danger zone: using names of people I actually know.

Anyway, my point in all this is—if I ever use the name of a family member, a friend, a friend of a friend, or your cousin’s neighbor’s dog walker’s ex in one of my books, and that character happens to be… less than favorable… or maybe I killed that person off—please know it is not you personally.

It’s just your name. Your perfectly innocent, unfortunately well-fitting name.

Take my dear friend Susan. One of my best friends. I love her dearly. She’s kind, funny, loyal… the total package. And beneath all that, I’m convinced she could absolutely kick ass if necessary. So naturally, she’d make an excellent strong character.

However… She may be a badass… kicking ass… and not necessarily one of the good guys.

So Susan, if you happen to find yourself in one of my books doing something questionable—or, you know, dramatically meeting your end—please don’t take offense. It just means your name had main-character energy. Or villain energy.

Honestly, it’s a compliment either way.

Do Writers Need An Alibi?

 

Okay, writers—here’s my dilemma.

My brain never shuts off. Ideas, scenes, characters, dark twists, and endless what-ifs run through my head on a constant loop, all demanding to be written down. I want to put them on the page. All of them.

And then reality taps me on the shoulder and says, Maybe you need a pen name.

Because let’s be honest—if I write a story about a woman who plots to kill her husband, will my friends and family quietly wonder if I’m working through something? And if, God forbid, my very real husband were to trip down the stairs or have some freak accident, am I suddenly the prime suspect because, “Well… she is a writer…”?

Or what if I write about neighbors? Nosy ones. Creepy ones. Dangerous ones. Will my perfectly lovely, very real neighbors start reading between the lines? Will they wonder if they inspired a character? Will they think I secretly hate them—or worse, that I’m planning something?

Here’s the strange contradiction of being a writer: we’re expected to dig into the darkest corners of the human mind. To explore motives, secrets, violence, obsession, and uncomfortable truths. We’re praised for realism, tension, and psychological depth. But somehow, at the same time, we’re also expected to reassure everyone around us that we’re completely normal, harmless people who just happen to imagine terrible things for a living.

No, I don’t want my spouse dead.
No, I’m not spying on my neighbors.
No, every character is not a confession.

Imagination is not intent. Writing dark stories doesn’t make a writer dark. It makes them curious. Observant. Willing to explore what others avoid. Stories are a safe place to examine fear, morality, and human behavior—without anyone actually getting hurt. I don’t want to be labeled a psychopath because my imagination goes places most people prefer not to visit. I just want to tell good stories.

So yes, the struggle is real. And if I ever do choose a pen name, it won’t be because I’m hiding something—it’ll be because being a writer sometimes feels like needing both a creative outlet… and a solid alibi.

A Lifelong Love of Words

 

I’ve loved reading for as long as I can remember—probably since kindergarten. I grew up in a family of book lovers, where reading and writing were always encouraged.

One of my earliest memories is sitting at my uncle’s electric typewriter, slipping in a clean sheet of paper, and feeling the thrill of seeing my words appear on the page. I wrote plenty of handwritten stories too, but there was something truly magical about the click-clack rhythm of that typewriter as the words flowed from my imagination.

Reading brought its own kind of magic. In the house where I grew up, there were always cozy corners and little nooks where I could curl up with a good book and disappear into another world for hours.

I’ve always loved the classics, but mysteries and thrillers have a special place in my heart, too.

How about you?

Are you a reader? What genres draw you in? Who’s your favorite author?

Or maybe you’re a writer—do you prefer handwriting your stories or typing them out?

Awkward Dialogue Ruins Books

Dialogue can make or break a book for me. I can overlook a typo here and there. I can even forgive a slow chapter if the story is good enough. But awkward dialogue? That’s where my eye starts twitching.

One thing that drives me absolutely nuts is when authors write:
“She continued to say.”
“He continued to say.”

Why? Why are we doing all that extra work? Just say:
“She continued.”

We already know they’re talking. It’s dialogue. There are quotation marks. We’ve got this under control.

Then there’s the overly formal, robotic dialogue.

“I did not know that,” she said.
“We would not like that,” he said.

Who talks like that in everyday conversation unless they’re a Victorian ghost or delivering a speech in a courtroom drama?

People use contractions. We say:
“I didn’t know that.”
“We wouldn’t like that.”

Real dialogue should sound natural. It should sound like actual human beings speaking instead of two mannequins having a tense conversation in a department store.

And while we’re here, let’s discuss the endless parade of:
“He said.”
“She said.”
“He said.”
“She said.”

Now before the grammar police arrive, yes, dialogue tags are necessary sometimes. I’m not saying eliminate them entirely. In fact, “said” is usually less distracting than trying too hard with dramatic tags.

But if every single line ends with “he said” or “she said,” the writing starts to feel repetitive and clunky. Readers are smarter than we give them credit for. Once a conversation gets going, we often know who’s speaking through context, voice, and action.

Instead of:
“Leave me alone,” she said.
“I’m trying to help,” he said.
“I don’t need your help,” she said.

You can break it up naturally:
“Leave me alone.” She shoved the door halfway shut.
“I’m trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help.”

See the difference? It flows better. It feels alive.

Good dialogue isn’t just people talking. It’s rhythm. Personality. Emotion. Interruptions. Half-finished thoughts. Sarcasm. Tension. Real people rarely speak in perfectly polished sentences.

And if your characters constantly “continue to say” things, I may continue to lose my mind.