Writing for the Lost Children

 

If you know me, you know I write young adult (YA) novels. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the writing industry, YA is a category of fiction written for kids from 12 – 18 years old.  I don’t write adult fiction, which is anything for readers over 18 years old. Or, at least, I haven’t yet.

It’s kind of a big deal for me to put “yet” at the end of that sentence.

Why?

Well, the greatest difference between the categories are the ages of the protagonists. Young adult books are told through the perspective of teen heroes. Adult books are told through the perspective of adult heroes. Even though I largely consume content for adults, I don’t like writing their stories. I like having adults as supporting characters in my novels, but I never want the story to centre around them.

To me, adults are boring. (Don’t worry – I acknowledge that may be because I am a boring adult. But there’s more to it than that, which I will delve into later more thoroughly. And, frankly, more personally. Consider yourself warned.)

There’s a kind of magic when you’re writing for a younger audience. When kids can be heroes, it feels like you have more options. There’s a greater suspension of disbelief, sure. Will fifteen-year-olds be smuggling cocaine across the border? Eh, probably not. But, on the other hand, there’s a larger willingness to accept that maybe they truly are The Final Girl, The Chosen One, or The Hot Trope of the Day. 

Now, don't get me wrong. I've had several ideas for adult novels. Concepts I absolutely loved. However, I would try to sit down to write them with little success. It was like I didn't know how to write adults despite being one. Have a field day with that, all of you armchair psychologists.

On the flip side, my imagination is limitless when I think of the raw experience of being a youth. Add to that the daring and fantastical adventures teens can go on, and it's the perfect creative storm. There’s a freedom to their existence that isn’t bogged down by car payments, saving up for a house, or fighting with the in-laws.

I should add that I don’t like writing contemporary fiction, which is fiction that deals with the everyday slog of existence with some drama splashed in. I know, I know. That’s severely undermining the achievements of many a Pulitzer Prize winner. But I don’t care. Genre fiction is my jam, my bread and butter, my — I didn’t realize there were so many food idioms — thing!  I love horror, fantasy, or a blend of both. And I’d love to try my hand at writing sci-fi eventually.

I adore wild, over-the-top stories with fun characters who grow over the course of a novel, and teen protagonists have some of the biggest room for growth. They can learn how to take agency, harness their strengths, and overcome their weaknesses.

But … don’t adult characters do the same?

Yeah. They do. All of the time.

So what’s so appealing to me about writing that story for kids?

This is where things get personal.

Disclaimer/trigger warning: I grew up in an extremely unstable environment and acquired childhood trauma from it. I’m not going to get into gritty details, because that’s a bit too heavy for this post. Just know that things were difficult, and it’s put me on a path to be better than the people who raised me. A low bar, but I digress.

Back to the subject at hand!

When I was younger we didn’t have a lot of money. My dad “won” a junk bucket of a computer from his work. It was really more like his job was giving them away as opposed to delivering them to an Eco Station themselves. But that’s okay. It was brought into our home, which was close enough.

I was a lonely kid. I didn’t have siblings living with me, which was for the best. I spent a lot of time with that computer. There weren’t really any games on it aside from Solitaire or Minesweeper. I grew bored of those quickly. Microsoft Paint was kind of fun, but I also became tired of that. And we didn’t have internet at the time. I was running out of things to keep me entertained.

And then I found perhaps the dullest program on the computer and opened it:

Notepad.

I saw that blank rectangle and was hit with the same feeling I am today when I see an open document — the desire to create.

I loved books back then, too. Particularly the Goosebumps series by R.L Stine. I read those books religiously as a child and guaranteed it’s why I’m a horror buff today.

So I decided to try my hand at writing my own little stories.

When I wasn’t allowed to watch what I wanted, I went into the office to write. When I was sad, I went into the office to write. When things got too loud, I went into the office to write.  When I was scared … well, you get the idea.

My stories featured kids my age, or a bit older. They were strong and independent, had friends, loving families, fought battles, and occasionally had superpowers. Not everything was horror, as much as I loved spooky stories. There was lots of magic, laughter, happiness, and hope, too.

Things I was lacking in real life.

But they were there, buried in my imagination as I sat in a dimly-lit office, typing away. Certainly, I was having fun. But the sad truth was that I was creating fiction for escapism.

As an adult, I realize that I fell under certain dysfunctional family roles. When I was a child, I was a blend of “The Hero” and “The Lost Child.” As The Hero, I tried to do my best in school and around the house mostly because I had to take care of myself. As the Lost Child, I shrunk into the background at home to keep safe, disappearing into my imagination.

Recently, I was sharing some of my experiences with a friend who has a similar past as me. He told me that he didn’t really like supernatural things. That he preferred grounded content that featured real life problems, like abuse or drug addiction.

As someone who grew up in chaos, I didn’t see the appeal.

I lived it.

Why would I want watch it? Read it? … Relive it?

Our discussion got me to thinking. And thinking. And even more thinking. Because that’s just what I do.

I suddenly realized that I’m still writing for that Lost Child. Maybe in hopes that other Lost Children could relate and find sanctuary in story like I did.

After that, something clicked.

I started thinking that maybe I could seriously write adult fiction. That it didn’t have to be boring. That I could still add whimsy, wonder, and darkness to novels for adults. That I could bridge that gap between writing the same content, but for people my own age. For myself. As I am now.

My hang up with writing adult fiction vanished.

All because I reached that epiphany.

Will I still write YA? Of course!

Am I excited to try something new with drafting adult fiction? Definitely!

But most importantly, I’m happy this Lost Child is finally out of the dimly-lit office, safe. She’s older now, resilient and capable. She’s still filled with magic and imagination, even if she does have credit card payments to make and complains about work.

Thanks for reading!

Another disclaimer: I don’t own Peter Pan, the Lost Boys, Wendy, Disney, J.M. Barrie or his remains. I especially don’t own this image. Don’t sue me. You’d have better chances getting blood from a stone.