[This piece first appeared in Shuffleboil in December 2007.]
Warning: character disrespect, non-consensual immersion in fan fic. To my beta, John Mitchell, with chocolate and tears!A literary review of fan fiction — stories based on books, comics, and television shows, written by fans — proved a challenging assignment. I had not realized just how much there is and how various — some too embarrassing to admit having read.
I refer, of course, to the bad porn. Only the best porn wanted here. Not that I’m so high-minded, but I backed slowly out of certain sites. [It was research!]
In fact, some fan fic is quite good, with beautifully described characters, relationships, action, and scenery, deep exploration of alternative pasts, presents and futures — and sometimes even well-written sex (if that isn’t an oxymoron). There’s worse stuff in print.
But what to review, of the many thousands of fics?
And in one column? The way in to the subject was unclear. Then a friend lamented that there would be no more Harry Potter. Bingo. There can be more. There is more. Nyah nyah.
Some worlds are so richly imagined that they escape their creators.” Star Trek,” “Sherlock Holmes,” “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” “X-Files.” ‘Fan fic’ is modern folklore. It is also a serious literary movement with web archives, ratings, editors, and awards. One of many such sites, fanfiction.net (which has a broader collection than most) hints at the scope: television, movies, books, cartoons, games, and musical theater. Rounding a few numbers:
BOOKS (303 books, authors or genres listed): Harry Potter - 330,000 entries Lord of the Rings - 40,000 Twilight - 10,000 Da Vinci Code - 210 Symphony of the Ages - 1
TELEVISION (595 shows listed): Buffy: The Vampire Slayer - 32,000 CSI -18,000 Stargate - 17,000 Man from UNCLE - 191 Taxi -1
Take Buffy. Buffy was brilliant, and not in the casual British sense (a brilliant lunch). The premise is, at first glance, queasy-making: A long line of teenage girls slay demons and die in the line of duty. It’s just like that. Each new Slayer has a Watcher — a scholarly guidance counselor with sword-fighting skills who runs interference with the Council of Watchers (like a museum run by the CIA, only British). Think girl gymnasts and middle-aged male coaches. Queasy-making.
Looked at another way, it was a story of female power. Buffy *fought*, and won. Comedy and tragedy arose from the demands of slaying the undead while keeping up grades and a social life. Slayers are not supposed to have friends. Buffy had friends. They saved each others’ lives, fell in and out of love, went through hell, and grew up. Built literally over Hell, Buffy’s high school was oddly like mine, and possibly yours, which was the point. The writing, acting, and often music were head and shoulders above anything else on (broadcast) TV. Buffy staved off mediocrity right to its brilliant end in 2003. I salute its memory, but it didn’t occur to me to improvise on the theme.
It occurred to a lot of other people, who churn out stories piggybacking on canon (Buffy-Angel) or flouting it big time (Oz-Giles), re-imagining imaginary pasts to suit themselves, and imagining futures. Just as with Robin Hood stories, except: “It’s Mutant Enemy’s world, please don’t sue.” You wouldn’t see this in a Robin Hood story. Nobody owns Robin Hood. (Do they? Next of kin?)
This was to be a witty review of fan fic, not a lame attempt at writing it. But Scully had had enough. Enough of the pain and sacrifice, despite which the day might yet be lost.
They waited together, swords unsheathed — old alliances renewed by loyalty and, what could no longer be denied, love. All kinds of forbidden, non-canonical love.
From the crater that had been Gotham City, the Orcs boiled up out of their ships, wielding odd black squares. Scully’s heart sank. Briefcases. As the Orcs streamed upward, she strained to make out their chant. “Copyright. Copyright.”
There were so many. If Willow failed — The witch raised her Ring and the first wave of Orcs pitched headlong into her Wall of Energy. Scully had a glimpse of their surprised faces and then they were gone, sizzling into nothingness. On and on they came, and finally there were no more of them, only a heap of briefcases.
Dr. Robbins emerged from the undergrowth, pushing a gurney. “That was cool,” he said. Cigarette Smoking Man sat up, coughing blood. “I asked to be taken to Princeton-Plainsboro.” “You’re not dead,” said Dr. Robbins, “What’s up with that?” Scully’s pulse quickened as Cigarette Smoking Man balled up a bloody tissue in a muscular fist. Then her gaze was wrenched away from his sensitive lips and her momentary elation turned to dread. It seemed briefcases could, with encouragement, sprout legs and shoot flame. Dr. Robbins whipped out a tricorder. “I’m calling in our position. Hello, Romulan fleet?”
The sky lit up with laser beams that carved the briefcases into day-planners, then into number two pencils. The incoming thestrals made short work of what was left.
The Romulan commander wore her habitual holographic smirk. “Greetings, adored one. The Council of Watchers wanted *you* bombed, into . . . I believe the word was smithereens. I don’t answer to them. And their old spacecraft that’s blocking our driveway — Jupiter 2? Consider it towed.”
Scully was weary, but if Holmes were alive, he would need her. Cigarette Smoking Man, Buzz Lightyear, Peter Pan, Erik — girlish infatuations. This was the real thing. Arwen would just have to stand aside.
Halfway down the crater, Holmes, scraped and bleeding, was sifting the ashes for his broken wand. Scully held him while he wept. “I miss Watson,” he said. “I miss Fred and Sirius. But mostly I miss Mulder. Why did I not tell him while I could?”
Scully reached for the silken manacles. They would get through this. Shows would be canceled, romances with obvious potential left undeveloped, but fic lived on.
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