Children have eluded me. (The point that I no longer have a uterus is not the point here at this bloggy junction. Although I am willing to giddily reiterate every reason not to have one if so asked… which I haven’t been… so, just never mind.)
Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the writing of children of a certain age has eluded me? Yes. Let’s go with that.
Oh, toddlers and tots up to the age of ten, pushing eleven even, I can pull off rather delightfully. It is their older siblings, the teenaged ones, that scare the living bejeezus out of me.
With my forte being “quirky” characters, you would think the odd creature dubbed teen would be a natural fit for me. You would think wrong.
So, I avoid them like the plague, crafting multi-generational sagas without a single 12 to 16 year old. (Apparently, my age of writing consent is 17. Don’t ask. I have no idea.)
Bottom line: Every writer’s got a blindspot of character. This would be mine.
Post-note: A new post is up at my travel/mental health blog, “Tiptoeing Soul.” Use this information wisely. *winks* “Her Name is Zelda”