I have to have a character worth caring about. I tend not to

Hearken to the wisdom of Richard Russo, who spoke thus of his art: “I have to have a character worth caring about. I tend not to start writing books about people I don’t have a lot of sympathy for because I’m just going to be with them too long.” These are not the idle words of a mere craftsman, but the profound utterance of one who knows that to create is to dwell, and to dwell is to share life with the spirit one has brought forth. To write is not merely to build a tale, but to walk beside a soul, to labor with it, to suffer with it, until the work is done.

The meaning of this saying shines with clarity: every story is a long companionship. A writer lives with their characters not for a day or a week, but for years of toil and revision. If the heart cannot feel sympathy for them, if there is no spark of care, then the labor becomes a prison, and the creation grows hollow. Russo speaks as one who values not the fleeting glitter of invention, but the deep bond between creator and creation. He knows that to sustain a story, there must first be love, or at least compassion, for the soul at its heart.

This truth is not for writers alone. Consider the tale of Dostoevsky, who, though he painted murderers, gamblers, and outcasts, never failed to treat them as human, worthy of understanding if not approval. Crime and Punishment would not endure if Raskolnikov were painted as a demon alone. Dostoevsky cared for him enough to explore his torment, his longing for redemption, his trembling humanity. And thus, readers across centuries find themselves strangely moved, even for a man who has spilled blood. The author’s sympathy breathes life into the darkest of figures.

Contrast this with rulers or leaders who despised those they governed. Nero of Rome cared nothing for his people, and so his reign collapsed into cruelty and fire. His subjects were not characters worth caring about in his eyes; they were tools, shadows, fodder for his vanity. And so history remembers him not as a builder of empire, but as a destroyer. Here too is Russo’s truth, written in blood upon the scroll of time: without care and sympathy, all labors turn bitter, whether in art, in governance, or in daily life.

The lesson is eternal: to commit yourself to a path, you must first ensure that it is filled with souls, with tasks, with companions worthy of your sympathy. For you will walk with them long, and their presence will shape your spirit. If you choose without care, you doom yourself to a weary march in the company of shadows. But if you choose with compassion, even hardship becomes bearable, and the journey becomes not burden, but blessing.

Therefore, take this practical action: in your own labors, ask yourself—Do I care for this work? Do I have sympathy for those I walk beside? If not, beware, for you will spend your precious years in their company. Better to seek out that which moves your heart, which awakens your compassion, which makes you glad to rise each morning to the labor. For passion sustains where mere duty fails, and sympathy strengthens where indifference withers.

So let it be remembered: Russo’s words are not only the creed of the writer, but the counsel of life itself. Choose companions, projects, and callings that are worth caring about. For the span of your days is finite, and you will dwell long with the things you give your time to. And when your years are measured, may it be said of you that you walked not with shadows, but with souls you cherished, and in cherishing them, you gave them life.