Unsurprising Revelations for $500, Alex

A couple weeks ago I posed this to the writers in a blog chain:

"Imagine this: when you're gone, readers will remember your writing most for just one of these things: your characters, your plots, your settings, your style. Which one (only one!) would you prefer over the rest. Why?"

Based on the books most memorable to me, I chose settings.

Twelve other blog chain members responded to the topic. Eleven chose characters.

Those of you who know me can imagine my reaction. It started as an eye roll at the pure mathematical predictability. I had listed the traits in alphabetical order to avoid leading the answer, but characters still came first - just the placement in the list could cement the word and its concept in readers' minds.

Then I got frustrated. Sure, it's probably the "correct" goal for any self-respecting writer to convey characters that breathe -- the "right" answer for an aspiring author -- but come on. Eleven of twelve?

Then some anger, when one member made an absolute statement about what readers connect to. Grrr.

And then the revelation -- the one that, if you know me in real life, will be no surprise to you: I connect more to places than to people. When I think back on my favorite memories of childhood, most are dependent on a specific place. When I plan travel, I'm looking at the destination, not the folks I may meet (and big group trips? ha. no.). Even the fact that I have good friends in San Antonio isn't keeping me from planning to live somewhere else in the next five years.

This disconnect so apparent in my life and reading habits shows in my writing, too. Several editors have commented that they couldn't connect with Briar-Bound's main character. And it's because I struggle to care about him. This isn't the case with all of my characters. My secondaries splash onto the page fully formed and threaten to steal the show. One of them is a consistent favorite of Briar's readers. But the one meant to be the reader's eyes in the story? Not relatable, said many.

And the crazy thing is: when I find ways to make him relatable to readers, give him qualities that people connect to? He feels farther from me, the writer. I'm perfectly capable of creating a main character readers would dig, whose actions and reactions would resonate widely because they're based on a life of observing and interacting with real people. But I won't feel the same connection that readers will.

It's an odd situation.

In my real life, the disconnect doesn't bother me: if I can't spend time with Dave, I'd usually rather spend it alone. It's a problem for my career, though, if people don't want to follow my characters.

Has your writing ever taught you something about yourself? Did you smack yourself in the forehead because it was obvious? Or was it a true revelation?