21 Aug / Teenage girls are not right
I’m trying to get my protagonist places that she needs to be in the first draft of my current novel. That sounds easy enough, right. I know where she needs to go. I have a pretty good idea of what’s going to happen once she gets there. But will she go there. Will she hell.
This chick is fourteen years old. And do you know how she’s acting? Like she’s fourteen years old. I want her to go somewhere and I want her to do something, she won’t do it. Just strops off on some tangent or other and mucks up all my plot-lines. Why? Why? Why? If I’m honest I’d quite like to chuck her in and start off again with a nice older woman. Maybe someone aged around – oh, I don’t know – forty-one. A decent age for a woman to be. A decent woman doing decent things in a decent manner. Someone I can understand and work together with.
The whole book would fall apart of course, but at least I’d make a nice friend with a decent protagonist.
Promise to self: no more teenagers. Ever. Even as children of main characters. You are out. Banned. You had one chance and you blew it.
No. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t give me your sad eyes, and your hang-dog look, and your grim stories about your short-lived life. Don’t tell me that I have to let people know what happened to you. That there’s no one else to tell your story through. That I’m your one chance. No. I said no.
Fine. Whatever. Go ahead. But this is the last time, you hear me? Pretty sure this is the last time.