The Ones Who Live in My Head
Where do my characters come from? They don’t always arrive fully formed. Sometimes they walk in quietly—through a stray line of dialogue, a scene that plays out in my head, or a name that lingers until it demands a story. I rarely start with the name. Usually, it’s the scene, the tone, or the tension between two people that brings the character into focus.
This post is a reflection on that creative process—where my characters come from, how they evolve, and what they carry with them (and from me).
Seeds and Surprises
Some characters are pure invention. Others are fragments of people I’ve known. Nomer, for example, was based on my cousin Kuya Mike—my childhood best friend. In the SAD Star Soldiers universe, Nomer is Ziro’s best friend, and that bond grew out of something real. It’s not a direct translation, but more like a tribute. A familiar energy reimagined in a fictional world.
Then there are characters that surprise me. Of all of them, The Stranger probably surprised me the most. When I first created the concept, it was raw, open-ended, more of a placeholder for something I couldn’t yet name. Revisiting them years later for a newer project revealed so much more than I originally intended. The Stranger evolved—quietly and naturally—into something deeper. I love it when that happens.
Writing as Discovery
Most of the time, I start with a general story idea. The backstory of a character unfolds as I write, adjusting itself depending on how the rest of the narrative develops. Sometimes, I start with a strong backstory that simply doesn’t fit anymore. When that happens, I rewrite it—not to erase it, but to make sure it serves the larger story now.
Then there are characters I write and realize something’s off. They don’t feel believable or engaging. When that happens, I pause. I set them aside. Let them breathe. Then I come back and try again, reshaping them with more intention.
Making Characters Distinct
It’s difficult to keep every character distinct, especially when some of them come from the same source: me. I’ve noticed a lot of my characters carry the same introverted, brooding, or loner traits. So lately, I’ve started turning to zodiac signs and personality frameworks to help shape variations.
Even so, some personalities still intersect—and that’s okay. I think it makes them more real. Human. Messy.
I used to draw my characters. These days, I rely more on moodboards or notes. The visuals are still important to me, but I tend to build them in layers—through backstory, personality, and relational dynamics—before I worry about what they wear or how they stand.
And I put a lot of thought into names—both in meaning and in feel. I like names that serve a hidden purpose. Etymologies that fit the lore. For instance:
- Ziro, Null, Sifr — all tied to zero.
- Eno & Eerht — once placeholders for “One” and “Three,” now reborn as Enoine Everdark and Nathanierht.
- Wolfe and Eu — inspired by the metaphor of the wolf and the sheep.
Sometimes the name comes first. Sometimes the story gives the name meaning. Either way, they always end up shaping each other.
Versions of Me
I’ve definitely reused archetypes—sometimes deliberately. That’s how my Versions of Zero collection came to be. In the fictional world, I am Zero. And across multiple universes, different versions of Zero emerge: Null, Sifr, Ziro, Shiro, Nada, and more.
They’re different people, different stories—but at their core, they share something essential. Some facet of me. Some part I needed to explore from another angle.
There are characters that reflect parts of myself I recognize right away. And then there are those that I suspect might reflect parts I haven’t fully faced yet. I’m not entirely sure. Maybe someone close to me would see it more clearly than I can.
But I know this: writing characters is a way of looking inward. Of asking questions. Of building mirrors in the shape of someone else.
About Me
I’m JP B. Bantigue, CLSSBB—a multidisciplinary creative with a love for character design, world-building, and speculative storytelling. My characters are often rooted in emotion, memory, or imagined metaphors—and every version of them helps me rediscover something new. Whether I’m sketching, naming, or rewriting them entirely, I know they’re more than fiction. They’re pieces of a world I’m still learning to map.
