Tilting the Void

Child characters can be difficult to deal with in popular fiction. I need only point at Star Wars I as evidence. It's very easy to end up with a wide-eyed, trite, annoying creature that has nothing of any consequence happen to it because, well, THE CHILDREN, WON'T SOMEONE PLEASE THINK OF THEM. Oh, you know what I mean, I'm sure.

I don't have kids, but I used to be one about a millionty years ago. What I remember? Kids are messed up. Really. Lord of the Flies messed up. The only reason they don't take over the world and eat the weak is that they're small and weak themselves. Like cute little wild animal babies, they have no moral references except what we adults give them, and THAT scares the living crap right out of me, since we're all doing so well running the world as it is (snort). We're not sweet, golden little creatures hatched by the sun and left under cabbage leaves; we're not born nice, or thoughtful, or caring of others; we have to be taught, either directly or indirectly, through observation or actual practice. And even then, it's sometimes a stretch. All you have to do to sink into abject despair over the future of the human race is watch a fifteen minute stretch of The Cartoon Network--and no, I'm not even complaining about the wooden, formulaic, badly-animated shows, but the commercials. They'll make your eyes bleed. Who knows intimately what children are, and driven by what visceral forces? Ad executives. That should be enough to freak you the hell out RIGHT NOW.

One of the really, truly awesome thing about kids--and which Spielberg et. al. sometimes get right--is the imagination thing (though even that, sometimes, is blown all out of proportion into doofus territory. One word: JUMANGI) and the bravery thing, which Philip Pullman got really, really right in the Golden Compass.

So I've always had a liking for stories about real kids--kids who aren't little avatars of how we wish kids were, but dirty, bug-chasing, snot-bubble-blowing, selfish, hilarious, intelligent, greedy, mess-making, brave, frightened, insightful, imaginative, cruel, and even sometimes surprisingly kind kids.

Which is why, in this stupid novel I'm writing, I want the princess to be a ten year old horrible manipulative little brat with an opiate addiction, a growing crush on her mostly clueless guardian, and an inordinate fondness for beetles.

It's not, by the way, a book meant for kids.*

*not that I don't think kids should read it if they want to. I'm a terrible person that way; I think kids should read whatever they can get their grubby little mitts on, and it's up to us to answer their questions about it afterwards. And tell them not to use any of the bad words they read in public; those are for grown ups when they stub their toes in the dark.