Feb. 12th, 2019 09:04 pm
Musing on Writing - Ages
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beast_belowOver the last 5 or so years, I've become very interested in writing teenagers. Which, for me, is actually pretty weird.
I was the one who was always preferred to write characters that were functionally 15-20+ years older than myself. (I say "functionally" as it covers the nonhumans and immortals, basing it around their maturity and/or equivalent age rather than literal years.) But once I hit my mid-twenties, I may not have done a total 180, but a lot of my focus certainly did shift younger. And I've been thinking about it.
CW: chronic illness, mentions of child abuse, memory loss
Some of it is a sad disenfranchisement. I feel like I've done so little that it's hard to write older characters who have accomplished things and not just feel like a failure, not wonder why my own achievements are so paltry in comparison. Writing younger characters lets me focus on Potential. On a hopefulness for the future, rather than things already done.
Certainly there is a certain level of mourning youth lost. Not only in a general sense, but I very much got what people told me were "the best years of my life" stolen from me: I developed severe arthritis at 19. I spent my 20's in crippling pain, barely able to get dressed and completely unable to do all the things I had dreamed of doing. I had so many plans, so many things I had wanted to try or places I wanted to go... but instead, I spent much of my time incapacitated and fighting against a medical system that told me I was "too young" to be in so much pain.
The loss of my 20's was even more of a blow because... well, only after I was 22 was I free. I had finally escaped my abusive childhood home, and could finally be my own person and not live in terror of my mother's rage.
... but there's more to it than just that. As if that wasn't enough.
Over the last year, I've had to come to terms with the fact that... I'm missing so much of my memory.
I know certain facts. I can put together likely happenings, like going to school, taking classes, changes of the weather. But people, events, days, moments... so much of it is just... gone. Sure there are a handful of bright spots, clear moments or instants, but that's really it.
I've quietly had to come to terms with the fact that the abuse likely damaged my memory. (Would repressed be the right word? I don't know.) The more that I've realized how much I've lost... the more I've been interested in writing teenagers. High school AUs.
I already felt like my youth was taken from me. Even before the arthritis, my mother was a tyrant, and I was too busy surviving to even consider living. I missed out on so many experiences -- I know because I've mourned that a long time, and I remember the mantra more than the fact of it. But now, even what I did have... is gone.
It's like some part of me is desperate to cobble together the adolescence that was taken from me. To somehow piece together better might-have-beens, explore that burgeoning selfhood and freedom and identity and, yes, sexuality. To actually get to experience support for it all.
The "discourse" of "adults shouldn't be writing teens" really came at the worst time for me. Even though I never subscribed to it, seeing it thrown around still hurt. Still does hurt. It feels like strangers want to deprive me of my last chance of enjoying my youth, all for some ill-conceived Ideology.
(And I'm not even going to touch the "teen saved from abusive household through romance with older adult" fantasy, because hooboy, I'm pretty sure even just imaging that has put me on some Thought Crime watch list. Escapism is clearly Dangerous and Predatory.)
Just... I don't know. All of it has been hard to swallow.
I was the one who was always preferred to write characters that were functionally 15-20+ years older than myself. (I say "functionally" as it covers the nonhumans and immortals, basing it around their maturity and/or equivalent age rather than literal years.) But once I hit my mid-twenties, I may not have done a total 180, but a lot of my focus certainly did shift younger. And I've been thinking about it.
CW: chronic illness, mentions of child abuse, memory loss
Some of it is a sad disenfranchisement. I feel like I've done so little that it's hard to write older characters who have accomplished things and not just feel like a failure, not wonder why my own achievements are so paltry in comparison. Writing younger characters lets me focus on Potential. On a hopefulness for the future, rather than things already done.
Certainly there is a certain level of mourning youth lost. Not only in a general sense, but I very much got what people told me were "the best years of my life" stolen from me: I developed severe arthritis at 19. I spent my 20's in crippling pain, barely able to get dressed and completely unable to do all the things I had dreamed of doing. I had so many plans, so many things I had wanted to try or places I wanted to go... but instead, I spent much of my time incapacitated and fighting against a medical system that told me I was "too young" to be in so much pain.
The loss of my 20's was even more of a blow because... well, only after I was 22 was I free. I had finally escaped my abusive childhood home, and could finally be my own person and not live in terror of my mother's rage.
... but there's more to it than just that. As if that wasn't enough.
Over the last year, I've had to come to terms with the fact that... I'm missing so much of my memory.
I know certain facts. I can put together likely happenings, like going to school, taking classes, changes of the weather. But people, events, days, moments... so much of it is just... gone. Sure there are a handful of bright spots, clear moments or instants, but that's really it.
I've quietly had to come to terms with the fact that the abuse likely damaged my memory. (Would repressed be the right word? I don't know.) The more that I've realized how much I've lost... the more I've been interested in writing teenagers. High school AUs.
I already felt like my youth was taken from me. Even before the arthritis, my mother was a tyrant, and I was too busy surviving to even consider living. I missed out on so many experiences -- I know because I've mourned that a long time, and I remember the mantra more than the fact of it. But now, even what I did have... is gone.
It's like some part of me is desperate to cobble together the adolescence that was taken from me. To somehow piece together better might-have-beens, explore that burgeoning selfhood and freedom and identity and, yes, sexuality. To actually get to experience support for it all.
The "discourse" of "adults shouldn't be writing teens" really came at the worst time for me. Even though I never subscribed to it, seeing it thrown around still hurt. Still does hurt. It feels like strangers want to deprive me of my last chance of enjoying my youth, all for some ill-conceived Ideology.
(And I'm not even going to touch the "teen saved from abusive household through romance with older adult" fantasy, because hooboy, I'm pretty sure even just imaging that has put me on some Thought Crime watch list. Escapism is clearly Dangerous and Predatory.)
Just... I don't know. All of it has been hard to swallow.
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