The first time I wrote a play that was actually read aloud by actors, I was astonished at what I was hearing. Words that had swirled around in my head before being captured on paper—which as a novelist is my primary process—suddenly became alive and vibrant and… different. They sounded different. They sounded interesting in ways I hadn’t imagined, as the director and the actors all brought their own understanding of the characters and the situation to the moment. I will never forget that feeling.

Since then I’ve had a number of plays produced, have become friends with myriad actors, and am still at the end of the day amazed by the thoughtfulness and creativity with which actors inhabit their characters. It’s not just that they seem to become the character; it’s the hours and days and weeks of figuring out who the character is in a physical way that impresses me. How would they walk? How do they react, physically, when they’re afraid, or excited, or depressed? What do they do with their hands when they’re talking?

When I work with aspiring authors, I challenge them to spend time and effort creating well-rounded characters. I’ve always suggested making up index cards (or the digital equivalent) for each character, including everything about them, even things that won’t make it into the final book. What’s their favorite color? What was their bedtime routine as a child? What would be their ideal birthday celebration? Do they have a personality quirk? What do they collect? Who is their hero?

All of those issues go deep into our heads, which is where writers generally live. We’re teasing out the inner voices that will inform our character’s decisions, actions, fears, preferences. We’re looking for ghosts shimmering in the air around them, skeletons that might at any moment come tumbling out of their closets. We’re creating something out of nothing, willing an entity into being.

But I’ve wondered, lately, if taking the actor’s approach might not work as well. Sure, we might have a great backstory for a character, and we have the advantage of being able to bring the reader into our character’s thoughts and memories, which actors can’t do. But maybe we rely too much on getting inside the head and don’t spend enough time thinking about what the character looks like.

I’m not talking about physical attributes here. We’re generally not shy about describing people, especially our protagonists, so readers know they have, for example, red hair, are tall and athletic, dress conservatively. Tricky to work seamlessly into the story, but we know we have to do it if readers are to share our vision. But we don’t generally go much farther than that.

How would an actor approach your protagonist? How would they take your description and the situation into which you’ve plunged the character, and make that character unforgettable?

They would make choices that a lot of us just don’t consider. They’d think about how to modulate the voice—its pitch, its smoothness, its tempo. They’d imagine a walk—I read somewhere that the way we walk is the most difficult thing to change about ourselves, so spies rely on observing gaits. They would think about the myriad gestures people make unconsciously every day, and assign appropriate ones to their character. They think about how a character sits down; do they do it delicately, or fling themselves into a chair?

All these questions are vital to actors, who don’t have the writer’s advantage of bringing the reader into the character’s thoughts. They have to project all that; they have to find a way of staying consistent within their choices; they must show the audience who the character is.

Which brings us to the hoary old adage—which is only trite because it is true—that writers need to show rather than tell. As that is true, who better to learn from than people who show stories for a living?

So even if you’re not writing a play, you might want to take a page from playwrights’ books and ask an actor for help. Describe your protagonist and ask them how they’d portray that person. Maybe take an acting class yourself to learn how to ask these questions of a character.

And then bring all that knowledge into your writing. Show me how Grandfather lowers himself painfully onto a chair. Describe the tinkle of Daria’s laughter so I can hear it. Bring me into the room as Marko paces and annoyingly tears at his hair.

Your book will be richer, your characters will be fuller, and your readers will be delighted.