Also, at some point today I'm going to make myself sit down and make a list of all my WIP and unposted fics, and then I am going to make a plan. A plan to finish things, so I can stop obsessing about them.
Because in fandom, as in life, labels are very, very important. If not for labels, how would we know who to judge? If we did not judge, who would we argue bitterly with over meaningless minutiae? The very foundations of our fandom civilization would crumble, or burn, or be crushed by the sudden impact of a metaphorical meteor, and then what would we do?
We would be extinct, my friends. We would die, and in the distant future bored school children would be forced to study terms like "FTW" and "TL;DR" as remnants of a long dead language, and elaborately-coiffed television preachers would claim that our bones were planted in the earth by God Himself as a (really rather idiotic) test for the faithful.
Basically, it would be bad.
( but seriously, folks. )
Your result for The Fan Fiction Personality Test...
Everything is possible, nothing is ever really over.
Fanfiction is a creative outlet for you. You don't intentionally write it, it just happens. You find inspiration in several fandoms, but are not obsessed with only one.
You like to explore "what if" situations. What if this character had never made this very choice? What if this event had taken place sooner, never, elsewhere? What if these people had never met?
You are likely to write Alternative Universes, fan seasons or sequels and just follow your (sometimes pretty strange) plot bunnies.
Take The Fan Fiction Personality Test at OkCupid
Doesn't sound like me at all. Except for the parts that sort of do.
Also, speaking of fic -- I've been thinking a lot about this Diana Gabaldon kerfuffle, and I admit that it's been bothering me a bit. Now, the only fandoms I've ever written anything at all for are Who (obviously), West Wing, Star Trek, and Merlin, and of those West Wing is the only text that isn't pretty much a form of fan fiction itself. And while I can't really imagine Russell T. Davies waking up one morning and announcing that fic writers are perverts who need to get their dirty pervert hands off his precious creations (who are, of course, like his children, despite the fact that they are fictional and thus, you know, not really like that at all) I still find all this a bit troubling.
I love fan fic -- I love reading it, and I love writing it. And when I read that Gabaldon post, and the George R.R. Martin one that followed it, I immediately felt the need to defend this world of fandom and fan fiction which has become such a part of my formation as a writer. Then I read Michael Chabon's essay about Sherlock Holmes in his book Maps and Legends: Reading and Writing Along the Borderlands, and decided to just point to it and say, THIS. THIS IS WHY THE WRONG LADY IS WRONG. He wrote:
Yeah, see, this is why I haven't posted. I'm a lunatic.
I was bumped up to full-time at the bookstore a couple of months ago (I don't think I posted about that. Did I?) and so my life has been rather internet-lite of late. I have kept up with fandom brouhaha (at least, as much as I ever have) and I have been writing fic, though not much and not terribly well. There has been some small amount of REAL LIFE DRAMA, which I may post friends-lockedly later, but first I wanted to say:
I am not dead. I am still working on fic. I enjoy munster cheese. I love you all.
These are the things I wanted to say. Also:
READ CHRISTOPHER MOORE'S NEW BOOK. IT IS AWESOME.
(Buy it at Borders! Yay Borders!)
Radio deejays, weathermen, the teller at my bank and the guy who spends the night at my bus stop each give this dire prediction every day, and next morning they are always proven wrong. It makes you wonder - just what does a city have to do to get a little gray, miserable weather around here?
A note on my continued adventures in Nannydom: I spent a good part of the day corralling a house-full of small children (and suffering defeat after crippling defeat at Candyland, but we won't go into that) and aside from sniffles and skinned knees and the occasional misdirected mudpie, everything went remarkably well. But just before dinner time, the situation got a little...wild. It reminded me of something my very favorite teacher used to say when our middle school science lab would get out of hand. "Tread carefully, Rose," he would say, voice just above a whisper. "The natives are getting restless."
(Actually, he called me Rosie, but that nickname and its associated angst deserves an entry of its own, I feel.)
In retrospect, I'm not entirely confident that this is the most politically correct way to express this particular sentiment, but now that I spend most my time surrounded by runny-nosed pygmies who cheat at Candyland and occasionally try to eat my hair, I find myself caring less and less about such things.
In the end, dinner was served and order restored. The parents arrived to collect their spawn and I returned to my apartment and my dog and other things that remind me just how very long ago it was that I sat on a rickety stool in Mr. Burroughs' science lab as I spent my free period dissecting owl pellets and chatting with my very favorite teacher (and the closest thing, I told him once, that I'd ever had to a father) about the skulls of rodents and maps of the stars.
Then I got online and checked my friends list, scrolling past entry after entry about fandom and Rose Tyler and the series that is to come, and I said to myself: "Tread carefully. The natives are getting restless."
Which is harsh and terribly judgmental of me (and maybe just the teeniest bit hypocritical) but sometimes life is just too precious and fleeting to read something in which Rose has the vocabulary of a particularly slow nine-year-old and has to constantly ask the Doctor what that big ol' word means, because any word in the English language of more than two syllables won't fit inside her gorgeous, goddess-like little head.