A Fan of Fiction, Not a Fan of Fan Fiction

I’ll start by coming clean—I have a serious aversion to fan fiction. Something about it just gives me the creeps. Maybe it’s simply that I’m a product of the Harry Potter generation, for whom the notion of fan fiction evokes a gamut of nasty things. From J.K. Rowling’s successful lawsuit to stop publication of Steven Vander Ark’s The Harry Potter Lexicon (the $6,750 in statutory damages didn’t bother the defendant nearly as much as his idol’s wrath did—Vander Ark cried when ask to reflect on the repercussions of his actions) to conflict over “Potterotica,” smutty stories involving Rowling’s characters, fan fiction means nothing but trouble to me.

Last week, this attitude led me to enter a spirited debate with a friend. He was enthusiastically explaining the trend of fan fiction Twitters,cq where enthusiasts Tweet as their favorite characters. (A choice selection from the “Darth Vader” Twitter, on Nov. 5, 2008: “I wasn’t around for the fabled celebration when the Empire fell, but I’m told it looked a lot like what happened last night, Ewoks & all.”) “Sure, it’s clever,” I said, “but it’s not creative.”

“I don’t understand your definition of creative,” he said. It was a good point, one that left me asking more questions than I could answer. Much of literature is, to some extent, derivative. Must a work be totally original to be considered art?

For the sake of argument, I considered the consequences if I were to say that, yes, complete originality is necessary. Would this mean that factually accurate historical fiction is out? If a novel hinges on the actions of a historical figure, the author certainly hasn’t created those actions. What about those books and poems that re-examine ancient myths and stories? My head began to swim. The paradox of T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound’s brand of modernism swam before my eyes. “Make it new,” Pound famously stated, but he and Eliot both stole liberally from the giants of classical literature. Yet it is nearly impossible to argue that these two men weren’t strikingly innovative poets and critics.

The real question is, of course, where we draw the line. Although Michael Cunningham’s Pulitzer Prize-winning The Hours takes its inspiration from Mrs. Dalloway and the life of its author, Virginia Woolf, the novel’s deft use of language, its unique tri-fold structure, and its creative plotlines rescue it from being fan fiction. Colm Toíbín’s novel The Master is based on the life of Henry James, but its accolades (it won the IMPAC Prize, the Los Angeles Times Novel of the Year Award, and the Prix du Meilleur Livre Etranger and was short-listed for the Man Booker Prize) indicate the esteem it holds. And Grendel, a 1971 novel by John Gardner that retells Beowulf from the monster’s perspective, is a well-respected book that remains on many academic reading lists.

Yet things aren’t always so clear-cut. Chick-lit favorite Bridget Jones’s Diary, a fluffier, modern version of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, hasn’t received awards and acclaim, and it certainly lacks the literary merit of The Hours and The Master. It’s possible that it is simply a shallow and poorly written novel. It’s also possible that it is more derivative and thus less worthy of praise. And of course, these two statements are not mutually exclusive. We’re still left with the same questions. When does fan fiction take on a creative life of its own? What does Grendel have that Bridget Jones’s Diary does not? Somewhere between Paradise Lost and a Darth Vader Twitter, a line has been drawn, and I want to know why.

Of course, the factors that influence this line are numerous and nuanced. Originality is key—a derivative story line, recycled with nothing of value added, can be said to be an exercise at best. And, pure and simple, the caliber of the prose is also of vital importance. Only when these qualities come together is a work of merit created. A good writer telling the same old story may be entertaining, but it doesn’t have substance. Even the most compelling and unique plot is nothing without strong prose to back it up.

I’m forced to admit that, in theory, a Darth Vader Twitter could be considered creative art after all. If the writing was strong and the perspective offered something more than novelty—something closer to provocative commentary, something that changed and deepened its readers’ perspectives on the world—there’s no reason it couldn’t be. At present, of course, the author, like most writers of fan fiction, is still so delighted at the ability to name-drop Luke Skywalker that he or she hasn’t pushed beyond easy humor—it remains a series of sloppily worded, slightly amusing one-offs. But given the right editorial hand, this could change. Imperial hubris is, after all, a common enough theme in contemporary literature. Darth Vader could earn his own Pulitzer—unless Yoda’s autobiography beats him to it.