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A few years ago I spent the Christmas holidays with extended family. During one of the evenings I was watching a cousin’s two young boys horsing around and was suddenly struck with a realization. The eldest of the two boys was eleven. A typical if slightly shy eleven year old kid who liked toys, video games, getting goofy with his younger brother, and even occasionally attempting to tackle one of us decrepitly ancient types. I remember watching him careen away to his next adventure, after having spent several minutes turning him upside down and tangling him up in his own limbs in response to being ‘zombie pounced’, and musing to myself. So that’s what eleven years old is supposed to look like.
I was always an introspective and independent minded kid. I made friends easily enough and enjoyed spending time with them, was outgoing and didn’t mind being the center of attention when the spirit so moved me, I was often more comfortable interacting with my parents’ adult friends than kids my own age, but being an only child I spent a fair bit of time on my own which actually suited me just fine. I was quite happy to spend endless hours alone in my room listening to music, conducting epic quests and grand tales with my various toys and figures, singing songs, crafting stories, creating and practicing theatrical performances of…