For every book that I write... I develop a history for each

Jojo Moyes, the teller of tender stories, once revealed her secret to breathing life into fiction: “For every book that I write... I develop a history for each person and make sure they are well rounded and flawed. You have to know everything about them from their shoe size, to where they went to school, to what their first pet was, to what they like to eat, to what they want out of life.” At first, these words appear to be only the method of a writer, but they echo a wisdom far older than novels: that to understand a soul—whether imagined or real—is to see not only their greatness, but their smallness, their details, their imperfections, their longings.

The heart of Moyes’ wisdom lies in her devotion to history. For no person—whether born of flesh or ink—exists without a past. The shoe size, the childhood school, the first pet, the taste of food beloved, all of these shape the contours of the spirit. The ancients knew this well: Homer did not simply tell us that Achilles was mighty; he told us that he was son of Thetis, raised in prophecy, marked by both glory and doom. To know the whole of a man, one must know not only his triumphs, but the small stones along the road that shaped his journey.

To be well rounded and flawed is to be human. A hero without imperfection is a statue, cold and lifeless. But give him doubt, give her weakness, give them contradiction, and suddenly they breathe. The great tragedians of Greece wove this truth into their plays: Oedipus was not destroyed by cruelty, but by pride; Antigone was not exalted by perfection, but by defiance. Their flaws were not blemishes, but the very pulse of their humanity. Moyes, in her own way, inherits this lineage—showing that what makes characters beloved is not their shining armor, but the cracks through which their light and shadow both appear.

History itself reminds us of this need for depth. Think of Winston Churchill, whom Moyes herself admired. He was a statesman, yes, but also a painter, a man of wit, of flaws, of melancholy. His greatness in leading a nation was inseparable from his vulnerabilities, his bouts of despair, his eccentricities. If we told only of his speeches, we would have a myth; but by telling also of his sorrows and oddities, we have a man. And it is the man, not the myth, who truly teaches us.

What Moyes reveals in her craft is, in truth, a philosophy for living: if you wish to understand another, do not stop at their titles or their deeds. Ask instead about the small details—their first pet, the food they love, the dreams they whispered to no one. In these fragments lies the whole. To know another fully is to accept their contradictions, to embrace both their gifts and their flaws, to see them as a soul shaped by countless unseen histories.

The lesson for us is luminous: whether in writing or in life, look deeply. Do not judge swiftly. Every person carries a vast history, invisible yet powerful, shaping their every choice. When you meet another, remember: behind their words and actions lies a childhood, a family, fears, joys, failures, longings. See them as Moyes sees her characters—with patience, with imagination, with compassion.

Practical action flows from this. When you write, when you lead, when you love, when you teach—seek the whole of the person. Ask questions. Listen for stories. Look for the flaws not to condemn, but to understand. And when you tell your own story, do not hide the details that make you human. Share your struggles, your small loves, your strange obsessions. For it is these that make you real, and it is reality that binds hearts together.

Thus Jojo Moyes’ words rise from the page into timeless teaching: To know a soul—fictional or real—you must know the fullness of their history, their flaws, their longings, their details. Only then do they cease to be shadows and become human. Only then does compassion replace judgment, and story become truth.