A writer I read a lot also writes about children. But his children are always brilliant, precocious, eloquent philosophers who just happen to inhabit the bodies of twelve or nine or five year olds. I have no interest in this, and when I started a recent book of his only to discover that the protagonists are three lil geniuses who range from six to eight, well, I nearly put it down. Sure, it seems to interest him to write about prepubescent Einsteins, and maybe my buddy Jeff and his cranially-endowed megaminds, but that alienates the hell out of me, and I can't relate to something like that, or long to read about their exploits.
To me, being a child was never knowing the answers, never understanding how the world works, never being able to have the upper hand. Hell, the world STILL feels like that. So I write kids that don't get the joke, that don't know the definition of some bonus vocabulary test word, and seldom have a brilliant retort or riposte handy. I'm one of those guys who thinks up something clever to say two hours after the argument, but only manages to stammer in the heat of the moment, and that's after years of practice trying to be a smartass.
So, maybe too many of my characters are like me. In my mind, there's something suspicious of the child who speaks or behaves like the grownups, and something ugly about a kid who acts like he knows all the answers. I originally meant for Brekkyn, the villain of my last blogged story, to be one of those because the girl that inspired her was always a bit smarter than the kids around her when she was little. But as she got older, she was so used to not having to try to find the answer, that she became lazy, and eventually, pretty dumb. I figured Brekkyn, who never had to work hard and anything or do anything she didn't actually want to do, would be lazy too, and even though she's probably got a higher I.Q. than Tanissa, she seldom uses any gift but her magic.
I didn't mean to type quite so much here, I only meant to preface my story writing for the day. But reading that book about the eight year old that speaks a SECOND LANGUAGE so fluently that he tricks everyone into thinking he is an adult made me shake my head with the opposite of enjoyment, and made me want to write the kids in my story . . . as kids.