This week I wrote: Whatever this is. The teenagers in YA fiction do not sound like teenagers. Everybody knows this, but I don’t think anyone can really define what a teenager should sound like. Obviously, the main problem is that we all sound different from one another, being humans and that, but there is something really odd about the way teenagers are usually written, and it only gets stranger when these poor adult authors start doing their best to make their “youngsters” sound just right.
For years, I’ve wanted to write a coming of age story, and I’ve written a decent number of terrible openings in that time, before eventually I realising- teenagers don’t write coming of age books, because they have yet to come of age.
Am I about to fight my better judgement and have another go? You bet.
Some nights, the world starts to make sense. Those nights when you’re washing up, staring out of the kitchen window, and the last light of a summer evening is slightly too bright in your eyes; when even daddy-long-legs look like golden balls of thread. That might be a little bit too specific to be relatable. To be fair, I probably lost most people around the “washing up” mark- I think I live in the only home in England which still doesn’t have a dishwasher.
Anyway, when the world looks like that, everything comes together in some way, and I tend to fall over the brink of great realisation. I land on the philosophy that everyone needs, or a plan to get my mess of a life in order. It’s a perfect gem, my very own lightbulb moment, and then I sleep off the genius and remember that my surroundings get the better of my sense every couple of weeks. I am not, in fact, the modern Socrates. I’m disappointed every time.
Last night was not a beautiful night, and the realisation was not accompanied by fading firelight or dodie music in my headphones. Instead, I was lying awake after a good cry, and it was about one in the morning. I was doing what I do when I’m sad, and focusing on one particular thing that I can see: being in almost total darkness, I was resigned to gazing at the slit of light coming through my curtains. I relate it the thing that’s making me sad, although it’s difficult to find a metaphor for period hormones, so that was a short-lived step, and then I find a way to vanquish the beast. I pour water on the flames and I slay the dragon. Then I can get on with my life.
Having pulled the literal curtains closed on the metaphorical hormone imbalance and fumbled back to bed, I had my eureka.
In four months, I start at college, taking subjects I want to take. I will know nobody. I will reinvent myself.
This is a good eureka moment.
YOU ARE READING
This Week I Wrote
RandomIf I commit to uploading some writing every week, there's no room for perfectionism. At least, that's the idea. This year, I aim to upload something- a story, poem, script, or general rambling- every week. I don't know how it will turn out, but the...
