Plot Holes and Personal Growth
CHARACTER BUILDING WHILE LOWKEY WORKING THROUGH MY OWN SHIT
Character building is hard. Like, really hard. Especially when you want your characters to be consistent, realistic, and not sound like they were created by a committee of over-caffeinated therapists.
Writing after trauma?
That’s a whole different beast.
It’s like my brain handed out personality quirks like the Publisher’s Clearing House handed out fake checks—“you get anxiety, you get people-pleasing tendencies, everyone gets unresolved childhood issues!”
There’s no question that Quinn Corliss, my main character, shares more than a few traits with me. Aside from the fact that she’s drop-dead gorgeous and knows it. Don’t get me wrong—I know what I bring to the table—but growing up, I was taught to hate every single thing about myself that made me stand out.
I was made to believe that the parts of me
that drew attention were somehow
shameful.
So, while I’m still learning to embrace my reflection, Quinn already has that down to an art form. She knows exactly where her power lies and wields it like a damn weapon. Writing her has been oddly therapeutic—like watching the version of me that could have been, if I hadn’t been taught to shrink.
Then there’s Raeban—my morally gray, overprotective king. His incessant need to protect the people he loves? Yeah, that’s me. That’s the overcorrection my trauma gifted me. I wasn’t protected growing up, so now I swing the pendulum in the opposite direction. I overprotect my kids, myself, my husband, my peace, my snacks—you name it. It’s not that I don’t trust people; it’s just that I’ve seen what happens when you do.
Hell, I can’t even vent about my husband without internally calculating the risk that someone might badmouth him.
Because if you do?
That’s fighting words.
I can talk shit about my man if I want—he’s mine—but you? No. Sit down. I watched my family tear each other apart, guilt-trip each other for being human, and turn mistakes into character assassinations.
I refuse to do that.
My kids know that mistakes aren’t dealbreakers; they’re detours. What matters is what you do after. You either fix it, or you learn from it. But you don’t weaponize it against people.
I haven’t had a true best friend since I was a kid.
And to be fair, me, myself, and my trauma really did a number on that. Every friendship since has been a case study in disappointment—people who used me, people who made everything a competition, or people who ghosted once they got what they needed. Hell, I’ve got “besties” who’ve never cracked open my book, never asked about the sequel, and don’t even know I have a blog.
(Hi, by the way. You’re missing out.)
So, I gave Quinn what I don’t have: a best friend who never wavers. Bri is that friend who tells you like it is, rides shotgun through your worst decisions, and still shows up with coffee when it all burns down. She’s the no-nonsense, emotionally grounded friend we all say we have but secretly wish we did. And maybe, just maybe, giving Quinn that kind of friend is me reminding myself that those people do exist.
That the problem isn’t me
it’s that I keep over-giving to people who never deserved that version of me in the first place.
The character who hits closest to home is Quinn’s mom, Kate. Writing her was a gut punch in the best way. When I first started writing Tangled in Thorns, Quinn was a mess with loud insecurities, a broken spirit, and self-sabotage on full display, while Kate was overbearing, secretive, belittling, and absolutely clueless about how to be a good mother through her own trauma. Basically the literary embodiment of my real mom. But somewhere along the way, I realized something: Kate didn’t have to stay broken. I didn’t want her to. Not because my real mother suddenly had a redemption arc, but because I have another woman in my life—my stepmom—who shows what actual growth looks like. She’s not perfect, but she tries every single day. And that deserves to be reflected in my work. So Kate grew. She evolved into the kind of mother Quinn deserves, the kind who shows up even when it’s hard, the kind who puts in the work to heal alongside her daughter.
Before you get the wrong idea—Kate’s redemption arc is not my bio-mom’s redemption arc.
Let’s not get it twisted.
My bio-mom doesn’t get a second chance just because I’m healing. She’s got a laundry list of things to make right, most of which start with an apology to the big guy upstairs. And no, that apology doesn’t come with a “get back into my life free” card.
Forgiveness doesn’t mean access.
Healing doesn’t mean I’m opening the door.
I can wish her well from a safe distance.
Here’s the thing: an apology doesn’t equal a personality makeover. Saying “sorry” doesn’t erase years of manipulation, cruelty, or neglect. It doesn’t make you trustworthy. It doesn’t make you safe. I can forgive her and still refuse to let her near my kids. Those two things can coexist, no matter how many “but she’s your mom!” comments people throw at me.
That logic? Trash. Straight to the bin.
So, let’s be clear—Kate Corliss’s redemption story belongs to Kate Corliss. Not Wendy. Not the woman who broke me and then played the victim when I finally stood up. I write redemption for characters who earn it.
My real-life cast? Not so much.
Not my monkey, not my zoo.
What writing has taught me is that every character I create is a reflection of something I’m still processing.
Quinn gets the confidence I’m learning to reclaim.
Raeban gets the loyalty I was never shown.
Bri is the friend I crave.
And Kate is the mother figure I wish I’d had.
Writing them isn’t just storytelling—it’s rewriting my own narrative, one emotionally exhausting, sarcastically worded chapter at a time.
And honestly? It’s healing. Slow, messy, brutally honest healing. The kind that doesn’t come with a Pinterest board or a tidy moral at the end. Just the quiet realization that maybe, for the first time, I’m not writing to escape my trauma—I’m writing to understand it. And maybe even laugh about it along the way.
