Since I've gotten my orange belt in Tae-Kwon-Do, I have to now partake in free sparring so I can practice all the techniques on a real person.
This started a couple weeks ago. I struggled into my arm pads and chest protector and stared nervously at the black belt across from me.
The instructor barked a sharp "Begin!" in Korea, and I realized.
I am a pansy.
I don't like hitting people. I don't. I don't care if they have protective gear on, or if my wussy kicks wouldn't do any damage if they had them off. I don't like hitting people.
Because I am a pansy.
I just thought I should get that out there.
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I was (and still am) working on a continuation of that short story from the last post. It takes place four years after the event of that story, and that's pretty much all I will say about it.
But struggling to write part 2 made me realize...
I don't know how a 12-year-old thinks. Or acts. It's been, oh, three and a half years since I was twelve. Do I remember how I was back then? Not really. I was kinda depressed and kinda cynical and kinda nothing like the narrator of the story, so that really doesn't help me.
So I wrote a first draft, and I liked it. I ran it through my mother, and I asked, Would a 12-year-old do that? (Sorry, no spoilers)
She looked at me and said, Would a 12-year-old do that?
I thought.
And realized... No. A twelve-year-old would not do whatever it was that he did, unless he was a serious case of arrested development. He still seemed to be eight-years-old.
So, in a fit of self-directed rage, I tried to write a second draft.
And I realized.
No!
Now he talks like he's 16.
And so my struggles continue.
Also, school starts on Monday! Whoo hoo!
Just... kidding... I didn't....
I didn't mean that.
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