Yesterday afternoon, the main character of a short story began acting out in earnest. I’ve been struggling with the whiny little brat for days, and things came to a head during one of the emotional climaxes of the thing. He threw a temper tantrum I would have been proud of back in my rebellious days. He’s done property damage to other people. He’s gotten the police involved. He’s given me all sorts of red tape to deal with. All in all, he made the story far more interesting than it was.
Unfortunately, the side effect is that he’s becoming a whiny little bitch. He’s supposed to be in his mid twenties, and he’s acting sixteen. Granted, I’m in my mid twenties, and I still act sixteen on occasion, but I grew out of smashing out random car windows over perceived slights when I was twenty at the LATEST. (I hope.)
There are perfectly good reasons why I don’t have children. My characters give me hell enough.