I wish more books for young people read like this one—sort of Anne of Green Gables meets Little Women, only in late 20th century Massachusetts. Heck, I wish more books for old people read like this one.

But once more, I found myself marveling that this book, another New York Times bestseller, did not follow the cardinal writing rule, “conflict on every page.”

Oh, there was plenty of conflict, and it was delightful to read, but it was not conflict as we usually think of it. It was quieter: burnt cookies, a summer crush, run-ins with snooty Mrs. Tifton (whom I delighted in despising), runaway bunnies, runaway bulls, runaway children, and a puking dog.

And while all those incidents were interesting, I was really reading because I cared about these characters. By page three, I had fallen in love with the Penderwick girls and their dad. I even liked their dog (and I’m not a big dog person, especially when they’re pukers). As I kept reading I came to love Cagney and Jeffrey and Churchie. And I loved loathing Mrs. Tifton and Mr. Dupree.

I loved getting to know these characters, loved watching them interact, loved seeing what they were going to do next.

I wanted to be with them, and that desire is what kept me reading—262 pages in two days.

I wanted to be with them. Is there any higher compliment I can pay?

Here’s what I’ve noticed 50 pages in: I see no overarching “conflict” or plot arc that is keeping me hooked. There is not tension, let alone conflict, on every page. There are hints of vocational struggle and possible romance, but they’re hardly burning questions that compel me to turn pages.

And yet—I am turning pages. And I am not the only one. This book was on the New York Times bestseller list. Apparently lots of people found it compelling enough to buy—and recommend.

“Conflict on every page” is the mantra of most every writing book. Yet here is a bestseller that flaunts this cardinal rule.

How can this be?

I think it’s because the book is full of likeable characters, most of whom would probably drive you nuts if you lived with them but who are delightful to read about.

Whatever “conflict” (if you can even call it that) there is in this book comes in the form of unanswered questions: Who is Susan? Who is Markham? What’s the relationship between Sidney and Juliet?

These are not questions whose answers will be profound. But from page one, I cared enough to wonder what the answers would be—and to keep reading to find out.

Such unanswered questions are almost inevitable when you (the writer) have richly imagined characters. You can’t possibly tell the reader everything right away—and neither of you would like it if you did. Letting readers discover who the characters are and how they’re related (or not) will create enough “conflict” or “tension” or just plain interest to keep them hooked.

I’m beginning to think “conflict on every page” is a red herring. Richly imagined characters that readers care about (or love to hate) will be inherently interesting and will keep readers turning those pages all the way to the end.

Here’s my question for you: Who are your favorite characters? What made you care about them?