Fan Culture: Theory/Practice 9781443838627, 1443838624

Table of contents :
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
INTRODUCTION
“PROPER DISTANCE” IN THE ETHICAL POSITIONING OF SCHOLAR-FANDOMS
IDENTITY, ETHICS, AND FAN PRIVACY
DISCOVERING THE AUTHENTIC SEXUAL SELF
THE ANGRY! TEXTUAL!POACHER! IS ANGRY!FAN WORKS AS POLITICAL STATEMENTS
DISTRESSING DAMSELS
STORIES BY/FOR BOYS
ROMANCE, FRUSTRATION AND DESIRE
STAR TREK (2009) AND THE RUSSIAN ST FANDOM
JUST WHO IS THE PASSIVE AUDIENCE HERE
FANDOM IN THE CLASSROOM
STUDENTS AS FANS
A POST-SECONDARY WRITING COURSETHAT STUDENTS WILL LINE UP TO TAKE
BIBLIOGRAPHY
CONTRIBUTORS
INDEX

Citation preview

Fan Culture

Fan Culture: Theory/Practice

Edited by

Katherine Larsen and Lynn Zubernis

Fan Culture: Theory/Practice, Edited by Katherine Larsen and Lynn Zubernis This book first published 2012 Cambridge Scholars Publishing 12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2012 by Katherine Larsen and Lynn Zubernis and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-3783-0, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-3783-5

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements .................................................................................. vii Introduction ................................................................................................. 1 Katherine Larsen and Lynn Zubernis “Proper distance” in the Ethical Positioning of Scholar-Fandoms: Between Academics’ and Fans’ Moral Economies? ................................. 14 Matt Hills Identity, Ethics, and Fan Privacy............................................................... 38 Kristina Busse and Karen Hellekson Discovering the Authentic Sexual Self: The Role of Fandom in the Transformation of Fans’ Sexual Attitudes....................................... 57 Heather Meggers The Angry!Textual!Poacher! Is Angry! Fan Works as Political Statements ................................................................................................. 81 Catherine Coker “Distressing Damsels:” Narrative Critique and Reinterpretation in Star Wars Fanfiction.............................................................................. 97 Christine Handley Stories By/For Boys: Gender, Canon and Creativity within Warhammer 40,000 Fanfiction..................................................................................... 119 John Walliss Romance, Frustration and Desire: Oppositional Readings and Narratives in Twilight Fan Fiction ............................................................................ 134 Simone Becque Star Trek (2009) and the Russian ST Fandom: Too Many Batteries Included ................................................................................................... 148 Larisa Mikhaylova

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Just Who is the Passive Audience Here?: Teaching Fan Studies at University ............................................................................................ 162 Lincoln Geraghty Fandom in the Classroom: A Pedagogy of Fan Studies .......................... 174 Paul Booth Students as Fans: Student Fandom as a Means to Facilitate New Media Literacy in Public Middle Schools .......................................................... 188 Michael Lachney A Post-Secondary Writing Course That Students Will Line Up to Take: Fan Fiction Makes the Grade................................................................... 208 Lisa Macklem Bibliography ........................................................................................... 225 Contributors ............................................................................................ 246 Index ....................................................................................................... 249

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to all the contributors, for your thoughtful analysis, professionalism and patience as this collection took shape and came to fruition. Several of the essays in this collection were originally delivered at the Popular Culture Association national conference in 2010. Kathy would like to thank John Bratzel and Delores Rauscher for agreeing to create the Fan Culture and Theory area, for inviting her to serve as Area Chair, for their ongoing efforts to support the study of popular culture, and for their grace under pressure. She would also like to thank her colleagues at George Washington University for their thoughtful input at several stages of the process – via Works in Progress faculty workshops, formal feedback and informal encouragement. She would particularly like to thank “The Breakfast Club” - Joe Fruscione and Danika Myers for the support and conversation at ridiculous hours of the morning. And finally, Kathy would like to thank Dave, Alex and Mikah for putting up with both her academic and fangirl endeavors. Lynn would like to thank her colleagues at West Chester University for their support, and her students for always keeping her on her toes. She is also grateful for the many fans with whom she’s had the privilege of interacting on a daily basis, both online and in person, and the divergent perspectives, shared squee, laughter, empathy, compassion and intellectual challenge that fandom continually offers. Last but not least, Lynn would like to thank Kevlin, Emily and Jeffrey for their unwavering family support, whether it’s for researching a book or flying off to a fan convention.

INTRODUCTION KATHERINE LARSEN AND LYNN ZUBERNIS

A recent fan convention for a popular U.S. television show featured actors who repeatedly told the gathered fans how much they appreciate the fans’ efforts to keep the show on the air. In private, one actress told us that The Powers That Be (typically the last to know what fans want) are now turning to this show and its fandom as a new (and lucrative) model for cultivating a fan base. The actors in attendance have certainly demonstrated how clearly they understand both the power of fandom and the new model of interacting with their fans. They tweet to us, they have friended us on Facebook. And in opposition to the historical construction of fan/producer interactions as strictly para-social relationships (see for example, Horton and Wohl 1956; Berger 1997; Meyrowitz 1985) , they have even formed more “meaningful” relationships with some of us – friendships, business partnerships, and connections that further mutual charitable causes. Over the course of the convention weekend, they chatted with us in intimate meet and greets. They joined us for drunken karaoke. When one actor was informed that a scholar/fan was in the process of writing a paper about him and his relationship with his fans, he immediately expressed a desire to read the paper. If there are boundaries here between fan/scholar/producer, they are increasingly difficult to identify. For further evidence of this we need look no further than a recent article in the popular entertainment news magazine, Entertainment Weekly. “Just do It!” (Jensen 2012) welcomes readers to the “shipper nation,” explaining the tendency of fans to vocally champion a romantic pairing between their favorite television series characters, and to read and write fan fiction and produce videos featuring their preferred couples. The article also acknowledges the impact of shipper passions on series’ popularity. Not surprisingly, both fans and “experts” are quoted in the article – including the expected executive producers and actors. More unexpected is the input from academics Kristina Busse and Christine Scodari. Once again we are reminded of the ever more porous boundaries

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between academic, fan, and mainstream understandings of the underpinnings of fandom. Those boundary crossings are not limited to fans, academics, and those who produce our favorite texts. During a university class exercise in which students were working in groups discussing an article on fan fiction, one of the groups suddenly became quite animated. A phone was being passed from one group member to the next and one or two “OMG’s” were uttered. Apparently one of the students in the group had just discovered fan fiction written about him! (Actually it was about a character he had played as a child.) At first the student was amused and not a little flattered that someone had written a story about the character he portrayed. Class stopped, and discussion turned to what he had just found, veering off topic almost immediately when the rest of the students started to Google their classmate, pulling up his IMDB page and shouting “no way!” and “get out!” What had begun as a lesson on the ethics of fan fiction had shifted to an exercise on fame and celebrity. When the instructor and student met after class to talk about what had just happened, the discussion shifted once again. By then the student had read over the fanfic in question and discovered that the fan writer had described his character in the throes of despair over finding out that he was adopted. The suicidal character was attempting to cut his wrists (with no success since he was a robot) – something the student found deeply disturbing even as he recognized that the author may well have been working out her own personal issues via his character. Concern for his character quickly turned to concern for the writer, and another dimension of fan fic writing – the possibility for producer/fan interaction – was made strikingly clear. Similarly, (and as the title of this collection would suggest) the boundaries between theory and practice in fan studies are blurring more all the time. Previously we had theorized what fans do and why they do it, yet fan voices were often oddly absent from the discussion, and the theory seemed to bear less and less resemblance to what fans were actually doing online, at fan gatherings, and on fan pilgrimages. Researchers described the increasing interaction between fan and producer, but often without access to producers themselves. All this is changing. Not only are fans interacting with producers, but academics are as well. And as the scope and practices of fandom are changing, so too are the ways in which we theorize, study, and teach it. The essays in this collection are an attempt to give voice to that broadening scope, to move away from valuing certain practices over others, to question accepted or dominant theory, and to examine these issues from perspectives that reflect the multi-disciplinary and global nature of the field.

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Far from being “merely” theoretical concerns, these issues have real world implications for our scholarship and our lives as educators. For instance, at the beginning of our own classes, we encourage students to embrace their inner fans. We then, of course, almost immediately tell them to stop “squeeing” and require them to approach their chosen and perhaps newly acknowledged fandoms through a critical lens – that critical lens being a thoroughly researched and rigorously chosen (and approved) framework that has in the past ranged from Chomsky to Said, Fiske to Jenkins. What does this say about the way we position ourselves? We acknowledge our own fannishness. We even acknowledge our own “guilty pleasures” – to a point. A poster for the Showtime series The Tudors hangs in Kathy’s office. One for the series Supernatural hangs in Lynn’s. Do we let our students know that we have been fans for years and that these (let’s be honest here) infatuations began, not because we noticed a certain actor’s skills as a thespian, but rather his attractive appearance? No. Do we couch most of our own fan experiences as “research”? More often than we would care to think. Do we rationalize this behavior by reminding ourselves that we are charged with teaching students the rigors of academic research and writing and therefore we must move them past the “Oh gosh!” moment? Do we think this is a weak argument at best and one which undermines our adopted field at worst? We have to say yes. The goal of this collection, then, is threefold – to raise questions about our own practices, to consider where some of those practices lead us as scholars, and to ask how they impact our teaching. In keeping with these newly blurred boundaries, we have not divided this collection into discrete sections of theory and practice, since one inevitably impacts the other. We do see four broad themes emerging across the essays in this collection: a re-evaluation of aca-fandom, a new attention to the ethical questions necessarily raised by our work in fandom studies, a need to reexamine fan/producer relationships, and a fresh look at some of our assumptions surrounding “gendered” fan behaviors. These four themes often overlap and are dependent on one another, and again, no easy divisions are possible. We also see a movement from re-examining our own scholarship to reassessing what we do in the classroom. Thus the last four essays, while raising many of the same questions about ethics, fan/producer relationships and our own sometimes fraught relationship with our scholarship, focus more squarely on how we negotiate the ways in which we approach teaching and the challenges we face with our students.

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Rethinking Aca-Fandom Inevitably, we all bring our own passions and proclivities to bear on our research. We let our fanboy or fangirl knickers show either proudly, reluctantly, or from some negotiated position between those two poles. In other words, as Matt Hills observes, we tend to focus on what is familiar. Kristina Busse and Karen Hellekson prioritize fans’ desires for privacy and a safe space over the disciplinary conventions that can sometimes be at odds with fan expectations of privacy. Heather Meggers defines the online community as a female-dominated space and fanfic writing as one of the primary fannish activities, to put forth a theory about the positive effects of exploring sexuality for women. John Walliss observes that women locate themselves primarily in fan communities, men primarily in their academic discipline. Catherine Coker embraces the view of fandom as a utopian space free of racist vitriol, and together with Larisa Mikhaylova, she sees fandom as a politically negotiated space, both from within and from outside the community. In our own work, we have privileged certain activities – fan writing, the particular lexicon of fan icons, and attendance at fan conventions, for instance – over others, mindful of the fact that we are inevitably leaving things out. Much of the academic work on fandom is influenced by acafans’ pre-theoretical investments in specific fan practices, often with transformative fan practices emphasized over mimetic ones. Thus certain fan practices are over-valued and rendered canonical, while the rest are “othered”. Rethinking our position as aca-fans requires interrogating our own processes and challenging our own blind spots. We might also consider revisiting some of our assumptions, and schooling ourselves to look past some of our self-constructed boundaries. This involves moving out of our safe spaces, including outside the predominantly AngloAmerican formulation of fan studies. Thus, Larisa Mikhaylova looks at Star Trek fandom as it is constructed and performed in Russia, from the perspective of a researcher working within Russian norms and belief systems. Revisiting boundaries that are sociological rather than geographical, Heather Meggers and Simone Becque explore other reasons for female fan fiction – not as disruptive to the texts but as actually upholding the moral economy of the original -- and Catherine Coker asks us to revisit the foundational theories of Henry Jenkins. Kristina Busse and Karen Hellekson ask us to step outside our disciplinary structures in order to see fandom from the perspective of the fans. Lincoln Geraghty encourages us to recognize the existence of blind spots and pre-existing investments in our students as well. Just as we, as

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aca-fans, prioritize our own favored fan practices, students attribute value to their own interests and patterns of media consumption, and devalue others. Some may be reluctant to recognize their own fannishness or acknowledge their participation in fan practices, even as they wrestle with assignments to write fan fiction or join fan communities. Students struggle with the multi-disciplinary nature of the field just as researchers do, particularly as the field evolves rapidly across an increasing array of platforms and practices. Geraghty reminds us that students must find their own voice in their writing – something that we, as aca-fans, must also do. Similarly, Paul Booth attempts to de-“other” fandom by encouraging his undergraduate students to discover and acknowledge their identity as fans, while mentoring graduate students to embrace the “aca” side of the equation. Both Geraghty and Booth recognize a resistance to recognition of oneself as “too fannish” in students and aca-fans alike, with both tempted to take a position of superiority that prioritizes certain (rational) fan practices over other (overly emotional and invested) ones.

Ethics and Fan Studies Several of the essays in this collection grapple with the ethical dilemmas of being a scholar fan – beginning with a rethinking of the very terms. Academic disciplines are shaped by their own moral economies; in a multidisciplinary field, there is thus a need to unpack the relevant disciplinary silences and assumptions, rather than merely performing one’s disciplinary affiliation. There is also the need to avoid speaking only for a highly selective fan experience, and the risk of “taking sides” in rival moral economies. Our own biases have the potential to impact fans themselves, as our ability to understand the field as a whole is limited not only by our interests, but by the disciplinary lenses we look through. Kristina Busse and Karen Hellekson discuss the impact of the researcher’s discipline on how we study fandom – in this case, how we cite, reference and source the work of others, including fans. Busse and Hellekson prioritize fannish norms which expect privacy, and their “fans first” position asks us to think about the meaning of that term in a postinternet culture. The presence of such companies as Reputation.com is a telling reminder that we no longer enjoy the (illusion of?) security and privacy that we once supposed we had. But Busse and Hellekson point out that theoretical discussions about the nature of privacy can have real world implications for a fan who does not want others to know that she writes kinky fan fiction. Once again, we are faced with a choice – whose moral and intellectual economy do we privilege?

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The positioning of the aca-fan is itself an ethical challenge. Even if we see ourselves as fans first, we occupy a position of power, able to influence public perception and select which semiprivate utterances get more attention and validation. Busse and Hellekson revisit the inherent dangers of being part of the community analyzed and the biases this may create in terms of objectivity and selection of analyzed works – an ethical dilemma as well as an issue shaping the evolution of the field. Some argue that we cease to be “fans first” the moment we set pen to paper to begin writing about fans. We experienced the difficulty of negotiating these challenges first hand as we simultaneously researched and participated in the Supernatural fandom (2012, Zubernis and Larsen), academics one moment and squeeful fangirls the next. Our resolution of the challenge was far from perfect. As Matt Hills emphasizes, the fannish code of secrecy is just one of many conflicting moral economies, both within fandom and within academia. This particular norm prioritizes fan expectations of privacy and leads us to ask “How can academic rigor be reconciled with fan privacy?” Further, do fan communities appeal to the same moral economy for acceptance? Are fans even struggling for such acceptance, or are they struggling instead to remain out of the mainstream? Can we even continue to use the collective “they” and “we” with any sort of agreed upon meaning? The danger of subscribing to a particular moral economy is related to the danger of locking fans into stereotypes, even if we believe those stereotypes to be empowering. Thus, Heather Meggers asks us to understand a different kind of empowerment, one that prioritizes individual female sexuality and identity development over transgressive societal change in women’s fanfiction writing. Lisa Macklem tackles one of the longstanding ethical issues in the field, analyzing the application of basic copyright law and fair use doctrine to current fan practices and academic study, and providing practical suggestions for introducing these important topics to students. Michael Lachney also questions how media educators approach issues of copyright, as students remix pre-existing media content in the classroom and confront issues of privacy and ethics in the digital age.

Fan/Producer Relationships The historical view of fandom as political, in the sense that it challenged dominant discourse, is expanding to capture other forms of “political” response. Such responses can occur within fandom or between

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fans and producers. Christine Handley discusses an instance of the former, in which a fan’s corrective text itself generated fandom antagonism, based on conflicting moral economies. Several other essays explore the politicized interactions between fans and the creative side. Particularly in the rapidly evolving reciprocal relationship between fans and producers in the time of Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, iPhones and instant access, Catherine Coker argues that entertainment and politics have become increasingly conflated and calls for “textual liberation” – the expansion of canon as separate from considerations of authorial intent, viewing canon as a “living thing”. Similarly, Christine Handley proposes a view of fanworks not as poaching, but as part of a dialogue between fans and the creative side – rejoinders instead of appropriations. Handley explores intertextuality as inevitable, present in all writing, and increasingly visible. While this is a departure from Jenkins’ early descriptions of textual poaching, Handley nevertheless acknowledges the continued subversive potential of fanworks, as fan authors counter the dominant media representations that give primacy to the exploits of male heroes and traditional patriarchal themes, rewrite equality for marginalized and subordinated groups into texts, and open up the possibilities for alternative voices silenced in the source material. Both Coker and Handley focus on the problematic portrayals of female characters in media texts, and suggest fanworks as offering a different perspective and opening up possibilities for alternative voices silenced within the source material. Coker also cites the exposing of Twilight’s sexist and patriarchal themes in several popular fanvids and music/vid mashups, as an example of the overt use of fanworks as a political critique, not just a media entertainment one. Simone Becque, in contrast, cites ways in which those themes are upheld and extended in Twilight fanfiction, filling in blanks that author Meyers has teased her audience with – intended, yet not articulated. Handley views textual production as continuous and communal, with producers increasingly responding to their fans through further textual production, but seeks to replace the concept of “poaching” with the more collaborative term “dialogic”. In our own work on Supernatural’s unprecedented breaking of the fourth wall, we have found a similar potential for transformation (Zubernis and Larsen, 2012). The dialogue between fans and producers has impacted both the interpretation of the source text by the fans, and the evolution of the canon universe in view of its continually changing perception in the media and the writing room. As Handley notes, “the texts meet, contradict, and revitalize each other, and the producers in turn respond to their fans through further textual production.”

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However, Coker, like Hills, also reminds us of the inherent power imbalance in the “reciprocal relationship” between creators and fan creators, even in a shared meta-textual property which is collaborative, mutable and constantly evolving. Coker discusses the ways in which the reciprocal relationship can either work or fail miserably, citing the case of Marion Zimmer Bradley and “the Contraband incident” of a disgruntled litigious fanfic writer and a heartbroken author (and former slashwriting fanficcer herself). Both Larisa Mikhaylova and Coker also explore fandom’s role in the creation of Star Trek’s recent reboot, and the mixed reactions once the final product made its way to the big screen. Mikhaylova asks us to consider what happens when fan/producer relationships cross cultural boundaries and reminds us again that texts reside in the hands of the fans.

Gender Several essays in this collection examine themes related to gender, which continue to impact the field. Fan shame persists across gender lines, with media portrayals of fans still tending toward depictions of bizarrely overinvested people who engage in strange, borderline illegal practices. The new reality television show Geek Love follows fans who date each other (because of course they cannot possibly mingle with the population at large). An episode filmed at New York’s Comic Con featured “speed dating with nerds.” The fact that the show exists means that geeks/nerds/ fanboys/fangirls have a more prominent place in culture. We recognize them. However the show is one of many that has popularized the exploitation of marginalized groups for entertainment purposes. Little people, hoarders, the significantly overweight are all put on display for us to get to know and love in ways that are ultimately voyeuristic and somewhat condescending (the audience is often left laughing or thanking their lucky stars that they are not like “those” people.) This is the context in which we are asked to embrace fans and fan culture by mainstream media. Often those who are portrayed as the most overinvested, and those who come in for the most ridicule, are women. On “Mr. Monk and His Biggest Fan,” (6.1) Sarah Silverman portrays “Marci Maven”, a fan of the obsessive compulsive titular detective. She combs through his garbage, wears his cast off clothes and has clearly sexual designs on the character. “Becky the Fangirl” is well known to the fans of Supernatural as someone who loves too much and in all the “wrong” ways (she engages in the “icky” practice of writing Wincest fan fiction, cannot keep her hands off

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Sam when she meets him, and saves the day in one episode only to be definitively portrayed as a loser in her latest appearance). Fanboys, in contrast, are to some extent enjoying the new cachet of being a nerd. The president of the United States has been photographed on the White House lawn wielding a light saber, or posing with fanboy enthusiasm next to Nichelle Nichols, Star Trek’s original Lt. Uhura. Simon Pegg’s recent autobiography (2011) positions him as a smart, funny, socially adept man who also happens to be a nerd – a huge Star Wars fan as well as a fan of popular culture in general. The very first stories he tells are of his early sexual encounters, perhaps in an effort to once and for all dispel the idea that fanboys live – either literally or figuratively -- in their parents’ basements and have never kissed a girl. Pegg assures us that he’s kissed his fair share of girls (and even married one of them). No such work yet exists for the fangirl, and the stereotype persists that fangirls are overweight cat ladies with unhealthy fixations on the male leads of their favorite television shows. Inequality in mainstream portrayals of fans is mirrored by the continued (mis)understanding of the ways in which male and female fans participate in fandom, perhaps influenced once again by our blinkered approach to our research. We most often sidestep discussions of sexuality or take them on without questioning the hierarchy that created them. Slash writers have traditionally been understood as embarking on subversions of the dominant hierarchy, challenging gender norms and exploring both masculine and feminine identity. Yet shame, and a concomitant desire for secrecy, persists among female fans, particularly when any expression of sexuality is added to the mix. The shame is especially intense around the most “othered” fan practices, such as slash and hurt/comfort. Even within fandom, and certainly from outside, the idea of women writing slash continues to elicit reactions of confusion, shock or even horror, while men indulging in the analogous genre – lesbian porn – is mainstream enough to be the focal point for a tour de force of ribald humor. In the British series Coupling (1.4), the character of Steve is questioned about watching lesbian porn by his girlfriend Susan during a dinner party. In an attempt to justify his interest in Lesbian Spank Inferno, he first tries to describe the film as an art house production in which an independent collective of lesbian filmmakers comes together to screen their films (rather than a group of women with cameras in their bedrooms filming themselves). When the “high culture” gambit does not work, Steve winds up delivering an eloquent speech in which he explains his interest in lesbian porn as being completely “natural” (“I’m a bloke! We’re supposed to like naked women!”), and indeed the foundation of all civilization (fire was less

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useful for cooking than for seeing women’s “naked bottoms”). No such declarations of normalcy exist in the mainstream for women. Despite lack of outside validation, female fans report finding sexual self acceptance as a benefit of fandom participation. Heather Meggers’ original research study on online sexual activity is in line with our own theories about fandom as an antidote to persistent female shame about sexuality and a means of validation and identity exploration for women. Meggers’ respondents reported that fandom had played a significant role in changing their attitudes about others’ sexuality, bringing greater acceptance and discouraging stigmatization of others’ orientations, behavior, preferences, and kinks. In line with exposure theory’s “contact hypothesis” as powerful in reducing stereotypes, fans gained greater empathy and perspective taking skills from participation in fandom and its established norms of acceptance and tolerance. Female fans also reported greater acceptance of their own sexual selves, reduced shame, guilt and embarrassment, and increased freedom from social proscriptions that limit female sexuality. Similarly, our own research has located the therapeutic aspects of fandom in both the perceived safe space that allows for open discussion and exploring of identity, and the validation of the fandom community in creating and sustaining change (Zubernis and Larsen, 2012). The notion of fandom as play has influenced our understanding of the therapeutic aspects of fandom, and points up other gender-related issues addressed here. As in gendered play itself, males may be more likely to play competitively, while females may be more likely to play cooperatively. This distinction is suggested by the divergent ways in which fans participate in their chosen fandom. For example, John Walliss examines the (mostly male) Warhammer fandom, noting that in its original incarnation, Warhammer players collected and painted scale miniatures, amassed their armies, and played wargames, negotiating power and identity. However, Walliss also undertakes a relatively rare examination of male Warhammer fanfiction writers. Many have suggested that fanfiction and vidding are stereotypically female, while fan films and machinima are stereotypically male, so Walliss’ essay is unique for its comparison of fanfiction across genders. At least within the Warhammer fandom, he finds an overt and strict emphasis on canon compliance, to the extent that the norm of “never go against the fluff” is articulated and well understood. Warhammer fanfiction communities overtly define the role of fanfiction as “not to attempt to change the nature and parameters of the existing universe”, emphasizing staying within the boundaries. Thus, fanfiction is created to fill in the gaps, but not to expand the universe outside the lines.

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In contrast, female fanfiction writers have been hypothesized to be more likely to create “transformative works”, deliberately coloring outside the lines to expand canon in order to either focus on female characters not sufficiently painted in canon or to slow down the action to explore themes of sexuality and emotionality in more depth. Walliss’ finding that malewritten fanfiction tends to be more orthodox and canon compliant, he suggests, may reflect the fact that the fictional worlds are already malecentric and presented with the patriarchal themes of the broader culture intact. Thus, males may have little need to transform a universe which already fits their needs and interests – as Walliss notes, the canon yields “easy pleasure” and requires no transforming, transvestism or refocusing. Indeed, Walliss locates some of the differential attraction as located in attributes of the media property itself, describing Warhammer’s fictional universe as “100% mansauce, a universe of testosterone-fuelled conflict with little or no room for emotional complexities or morally grey areas.” Females, in contrast, may be more inspired to subvert existing cultural norms in their fanworks, by changing the focus or the gender norms. Our work in the Supernatural fandom, which skews heavily female, reveals a text which seems to offer appeal to both male and female fans. On the surface, the dystopian, graphically violent fictional world, seems to skew to stereotypically male interests, and indeed, the network certainly had the coveted young male demographic in mind when it launched the show. Scratch the surface, however, and the appeal of Supernatural becomes less about the weapons and more about the relationships, specifically the close, conflicted one between brothers Sam and Dean, described in canon as “erotically co-dependent” (Zubernis and Larsen, 2012). The Supernatural universe, in contrast to that of Warhammer, is almost entirely morally ambiguous, with the series played out in shades of grey and delving into repeated angst-driven moral conflicts. Thus the media text becomes a fertile playground for female fans interested in emotional elements, not to mention slashers who are there for the subtext. Both Twilight and Supernatural offer the appeal of attractive male characters, certainly an additional explanation for the gender skew of the fandoms – and the emphasis on sexuality and emotionality in fanworks. Walliss finds that Warhammer fanworks, in contrast, tend to lack sexual themes, and there is virtually no slash in the fanfiction. Interestingly, the canon world is occupied by prostitutes (smile-girls), graphic violence (mutant clowns disemboweling each other with chainswords) and drug use – but little finds its way into fan fiction. In our research on sexuality and fandom, male Star Trek fans also spoke about their attraction to fandom as

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being an escape from the perceived burden of being male and the pressure of being both sexual and sexually successful. Female fans, on the other hand, as Meggers describes, often cite the freedom to express their authentic sexual selves in fandom – a freedom they have not experienced elsewhere. While male fans may use fandom as a way of escaping the pressure of being not sexual enough, female fans may find escape from the criticism of being too sexual, mirroring the dominant cultural expectations of both genders. The slash fiction of female Star Trek and Supernatural writers, which reverses the subject/object positions to objectify the male characters, is often about as far from fade to black as you can get. Walliss also suggests that the reasons for writing fanfiction may be different in an additional way for males and females. While traditional female fanfiction culture is structured as a gift economy, with fans valuing the creating of fanworks as something given to fellow fans without expectation of anything in return (other than the savored comments), the male fanfic writers in Warhammer fandom tended to view their writing as a competition for publishing rights. The difference in purpose may contribute to a closer adherence to canon as well, since writing inside the universe may be more likely to be published by The Powers That Be. Christine Handley, however, challenges the overly simplistic breakdown of ascribing certain modes of participation to female versus male fans. As Becque and Coker highlight, Twilight fanfiction, like the canon texts, often reads as a romance novel of the type described by Radway, adept at making both the female main character and the reader feel like the object of a courtship. The female Twilight readers who supply the missing bits that author Meyer may have intended but didn’t provide are engaging in the same type of “male” behavior that Walliss discusses. Similarly, Handley examines a work of fanfiction written by a female fan which nevertheless indulges in the stereotypically male tradition of taking pleasure in technology, elaborating on starship technical specifications and weapons capabilities. Since Handley only looks at one example here, it’s difficult to say whether the studied fan novel is merely an anomaly. However, the admonition to avoid making broad assumptions is well taken, and Handley’s research underscores the limitations of artificially imposed textual gender divisions.

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Conclusion All of the issues above come back into play when we enter the classroom, and some new ones are raised as well. One of the additional difficulties in teaching fan studies is that we teach our students the goals of fan participation, but we expect them to demonstrate this understanding through the scholar subject position – a position which, as we’ve seen, can be at odds with the fan position. Ultimately we are asking them to accept, understand and then reject the very acts they were originally asked to embrace. How do we create a space for them? What do we teach them about research in fan communities? Our own text-centric proclivities as academics are evident in the consideration of fan practices included in this collection. A recognition of the breadth and depth of fandom, and a concurrent expansion of aca-fans’ research endeavors, are beginning to occur, reflected in the diversity of conference presentations and theoretical work on gaming, cosplay, mashups, and furries, among the many underexplored practices in which fans engage. Fan practices, fan spaces and fan/producer relationships are rapidly evolving, and the field of fan studies is endeavoring to keep pace. The essays here offer a starting point from which to nurture that growth and change.

References Berger, Arthur Asa. 1997. Narratives in popular culture, media, and everyday life. Thousand Oaks, CA Sage Publications. Horton, Donald, and R. Richard Wohl. 1956. “Mass communication and para-social interaction.” Psychiatry: Journal for the Study of Interpersonal Processes 19: 215-229. Jensen, Jeff. “TV (Relation)shippers: Just Do It! | EW.com.” EW.com. http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20468636_20570669,00.html. Meyrowitz, Joshua. 1985. No sense of place: the impact of electronic media on social behavior. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pegg, Simon. 2011. Nerd Do Well: A Small Boy’s Journey to Becoming a Big Kid. New York:Gotham. Zubernis, Lynn, and Katherine Larsen. 2012. Fandom At The Crossroads: Celebration, Shame and Fan/Producer Relationships. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing.

“PROPER DISTANCE” IN THE ETHICAL POSITIONING OF SCHOLAR-FANDOMS: BETWEEN ACADEMICS’ AND FANS’ MORAL ECONOMIES? MATT HILLS

This chapter tackles a number of issues which have been embedded in the theory and practice of work on fan culture, focusing on the hybrid identity of the scholar who is also a fan. In the opening section below, I consider how the scholar-fan has been represented in cultural studies and fan studies, suggesting that we still have rather limited and singular images of scholar-fandom, assumed to productively combine elements of fandom (passion/knowledge) and academia (critical detachment). Set against this rationale is an emergent view that scholar-fandom is no longer a useful concept, since scholarly and fannish identities can now be lived and experienced as continuous, without any question of institutional or discursive limits. I argue that we need to move beyond these reiterated and restricted arguments, or discursive mantras, to consider scholar-fandom not just as one entity or one concept to be valued/surrendered. A more multiple view of differently positioned modes of scholar-fandom is, instead, called for at this point in fan studies’ development. In the second section of my chapter, I therefore consider how approaches to scholarfandom, in the plural, can be analysed as adopting different positions of closeness/distance in relation both to sections of fandom, and to academic disciplines. I draw on the notion of ethical “proper distance” (Silverstone 2007, 23) to argue for specific values and approaches in scholar-fan writings, before concluding in the final section by linking these debates to multiple academic and fan “moral economies” (Jenkins 2006). Above all, I am interested here in the need for those of us writing academically about fandom, but also drawing on fan identities, to carefully consider just who we are speaking for, and what scholar/fan exclusions might structure this engagement. To begin with, then, how has scholar-fandom been defended as a useful practice in fan studies, and attacked as no longer necessary?

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Old and new discursive mantras of scholar-fandom In Fan Cultures, I argued that there were structurally different ways of hybridising academic and fan identities; I defined “scholar-fans” as professional academics writing primarily for fellow scholars via the publishing institutions of the academy. By contrast, I discussed “fanscholars” as fans using academic concepts within their writing, outside the licensed spaces of “pro” academia (Hills 2002, 2). Scholar-fandom or acafandom has become an increasingly normative form of academic identity across the past two decades within specialised areas of TV, cultural, and fan studies (Hills 2010b, 212; Burr 2005). Typical rationales are given for the performance of scholar-fandom; as Will Brooker has noted, “in theory at least [this] combines personal passion with the objective analysis of scholarship.” (Brooker 2007, 48). And Henry Jenkins has similarly argued in favour of aca-fandom “which acknowledges and explores our emotional connections to popular culture and the way it functions as a resource in our everyday life” (Jenkins 2010 online). Again, the fan's presumed passion is drawn upon, but articulated with a detached, critical sensibility, i.e. exploring functions of resources. A related aspect of the discursive mantra of the scholar-fan has been reiterated in a special issue of Flow, focused on aca-fandom. Contributors Catherine Coker and Candace Benefiel observe that the “fan” component of scholar-fandom is not just a matter of passion, but is also about textual accuracy (2010 online). In short, the scholar-fan is presumed to combine scholarly practice with the depth, detail and rigour of fan knowledge. Scholar and fan identities are rendered contiguous, or brought closely together. Now, if one strand of thinking in what’s been termed “fan studies” valorises the scholar-fan’s hybridity as scholarship plus fan passion/ knowledge, then a second, emergent position can also be discerned. Here, rather than scholar-fans proffering the best of both worlds, scholar-fandom is approached itself as a limitation on the fuller integration of fan and academic identities: By remaining fan-scholars at the same time that we become scholarfans, we hope to shift the concerns from a dichotomy of academic and fannish identity to subject positions that are multiple and permit us to treat the academic and fannish parts as equally important. Our identities are neither separate nor separable. We rarely speak as fan or scholar; we rarely differentiate between an academic and fannish audience, except perhaps in formality of tone (Busse and Hellekson2006, 24—5).

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Rather than aspects of (institutionally and discursively) separable identities being combined, it is argued that fan and academic identities can be experienced as unified, integrated and continuous (although note that “formality of tone” recurs as a marker of academic identity; that is, certain protocols of writing likely to be linked to forms of cultural and educational capital actually continue to demarcate academic distinctions). Issues of cultural power seem to dissolve: fandom and academia can supposedly coexist positively and productively, without any tension. As a result, such identities can be balanced or equated, each being equally important. Similarly, Paul Booth has sought a route out of the “post-structuralist quagmire” allegedly instantiated by Fan Cultures (Booth 2010 online). In such approaches, it is presumed that fandom and scholarship can be smoothly aligned. Reflexively theorising scholar-fandom as linked to forms of institutional, discursive and cultural power is thus apparently rendered unnecessary. Indeed, recent debate has taken this position forward, with the very value of the term “acafandom” being further challenged (see Stein 2011). As Jonathan Gray suggested as part of the SCMS 2011 Workshop on “Acafandom and the Future of Fan Studies”: Ultimately, it’s unclear how each half – the aca and the fan – is commenting on the other half... Is one side an apology for the other, as in, “no, no, don’t worry, I’m not a fan, I’m an aca-fan”? If so, the phrase protests too much – just be an academic, and be a fan, and don’t feel they need to clash. Or is one side modifying the other, suggesting a special type of fandom or academia, above that of the middling masses, as in “I’m not just a lowly fan, I’m an acafan”? Or is there some suggestion that the two are a binary, and the hybrid formulation is meant to suggest a marrying or greying of the two, as with “infotainment”? If so, haven’t we moved beyond the point when they were seen as binaries? Not completely, I know, but still, it ain’t the 1950s, so can’t we abandon the term? (Gray 2011 online)

Again, the sense here is that fandom and academia can readily be integrated, such that “acafandom” becomes conceptually redundant. Gray usefully directs attention to precisely how “aca” and “fan” may interrelate, and this forms much of my topic, and my area of concern, in what follows. However, suggesting that the individual scholar shouldn’t “feel they [scholarship and fandom] need to clash” evacuates questions of cultural and discursive power in favour of exaggerated agency. Rather than scholars being free to choose to “just be an academic, and be a fan”, I would argue that these continue to act as differential interpretive communities with divergent norms and discursive practices (Brooker 2011), meaning that the identities cannot be united without losing sight of

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these contexts (or, indeed, losing sight of the precise micro-context within which such a union may seem more possible, e.g. TV Studies or fan studies where acafandom has arguably been normalised for a generation of researchers). In this chapter, I want to take issue with these stances on scholarfandom – the “valorizing” approach where scholar-fans are superior to scholars without fan passion/knowledge, and the “leveling” or dismissive approach, where scholarship and fandom can co-exist without any difficulty or tension and where the need for “acafandom” as a term is contested. Each argument, I will suggest, positions scholar-fandom monolithically, whether as a positive phenomenon or a restrictive/ unnecessary theorisation. Instead, and in line with my own ongoing return to scholar-fan debates (Hills 2010b), I will suggest that scholar-fandom needs to be viewed not as one “thing” to be celebrated or transcended, but precisely as a multiple series of bids for identity. As such, scholar-fandom cannot, ultimately, be defended or attacked as a singular entity nor as a singular concept. “It” is, instead, better thought of as an umbrella term for a coalition or conglomeration of academics whose hybridised “scholar” and “fan” identities can vary in a number of significant ways. This being so, I will go on to argue that we need to re-open questions about the positioning of scholar-fan work. And by thinking of scholar-fandom as variously positioned, we also need to consider the ethical status of relations between scholar-fandom and the fan cultures it represents (both in the sense of mediating and standing in for). In prior debates over how fandom and scholarship can be brought together via scholar-fandom – to “improve” scholarship, or to “overcome” discursive and institutional discontinuities – differential distances between scholar-fandom and fan cultures have been neglected. To address this, in the next section I will employ an avowedly ethical concept from Roger Silverstone’s Media and Morality, that of “proper distance” (2007, 23).

Scholar-fandoms as too close/too far: Speaking for whom? The conventional critique of scholar-fandom is that it is too in love with fans; that it becomes overly celebratory of fandom. This observation – a supposed forfeit of academic detachment – is present in some 1990s responses to Henry Jenkins' work (see Hartley 1996, 65) and it remains present in the field. For example, in the “Aca-fandom” issue of Flow, Michael Dwyer argues that:

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Between Academics’ and Fans’ Moral Economies? authors [such as Jonathan Gray and Jason Mittell – MH] position fandom as a concept that must inherently be respected and revered. In the long tradition of media studies, it would seem, fandom has gone from the profane to the sacred. ...as academics and as fans, we ought to seriously interrogate our investment in the social, political, and cultural potential in “fandom,” and recognize that we ourselves are predisposed to believe that empassioned engagement with cultural texts is valuable, laudable, and politically useful. ...[However], it ain’t necessarily so (Dwyer 2010 online; Robson 2010, 216).

This style of argument hinges on scholar-fandom allegedly being too close to its objects of study. That is, a supposed lack of symbolic, epistemological, and emotional distance is crucial to how scholar-fandom is devalued. At the same time, as I have noted, symbolic closeness/ distance is also vital to discursive mantras which defend scholar-fandom, since these revolve around scholar-fans sharing passion/knowledge with fan cultures. In what follows, I appropriate an approach that is not rooted in fan studies, nor even explicitly about the study of fans. Silverstone (2007) sets out to theorise the conditions for citizens’ productive participation in contemporary media culture. Perhaps surprisingly, fandom is significantly absent from this project, despite the work of Van Zoonen (2005) which fuses considerations of fandom with analysis of democratic politics. Nonetheless, I will suggest that Silverstone’s exploration of “the value of a notion of proper distance as a measure for ethical positioning in media work” (2007, 23) has much relevance for fan studies. Silverstone defines proper distance as referring to “the importance of understanding the more or less precise degree of proximity required in our mediated inter-relationships if we are to create and sustain a sense of the other sufficient not just for reciprocity but for a duty of care, obligation and responsibility, as well as understanding” (2007, 47: my italics). Drawing on theorists such as Arendt and Levinas, Silverstone offers examples of how media culture – on both its production and consumption sides – fails to attain this proper distance. The reduction of difference occurs when false sameness of self and other is constructed though mediation, and audiences’ imaginative (and ideological) engagements. Conversely, a denial of sameness, or basic humanity, occurs in the pronounced, mediatized othering of groups such as Moslems, Iraqis, Palestinians, Jews or Americans. Silverstone also refers to the cult of celebrity, which he says “destroys difference by exaggerating it (the ordinary made exceptional) as well as naturalizing it (the exceptional made ordinary), and denying, in its seductive dialectic, the legitimacy of difference.

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Neither close nor far.” (2007, 48). In this sketchy account, celebrity fandom seems to (potentially) involve the failure to accurately recognise difference, dialectically both elevating the celebrity, and bringing them into problematic focus as a spurious mirror for the self (see also Sandvoss 2005). An immorality of distance, where self-other relations are alienated, can thus be supplemented by the “refusal to accept difference, in its resistance to recognizing and to valuing the stranger. Perhaps this could be called the immorality of identity” (Silverstone 2007, 173). Against Silverstone’s accounts of “Too close... Too far... Neither close nor far”, proper distance is said to be “both close and far – [it] requires imagination, both from those who construct the narratives and images of the media, and... audiences and readers, who... construct their own images and narratives based upon them” (2007, 48). Given my argument that scholar-fandom should not be apprehended monolithically, how then might this dialectic of alienation and mirroring be used to illuminate the multiple ethical positionings of variant interpretations and enactments of scholar-fandom? We need to consider not just one axis of closeness/distance from fandom, but also what types or modes of fandom are mediated by scholarship – that is, what fraction of a fan culture or what specific fan activity is represented? And we need to simultaneously consider the closeness/distance between scholar-fans and specific academic disciplines; how are disciplinary norms mirrored, othered or ignored? Scholar-fandom approximates to Silverstone’s “too close” not simply when it celebrates fandom per se, but also when a scholar mediates his/her own area of fan experience without engaging with alternative or rival modes of fan activity. Thus we can find scholars whose work focuses on fanfic (see, e.g. Busse and Hellekson 2006) but does not engage with wider sets of fan practices, or work which theorises fandom of a specific actor/character, again reflecting the academic's own lived investments in fandom (e.g. Pearson 2004). For that matter, in my own work there has been an absence of fanfic theorisation, and a focus instead on fans’ interpretations of texts, or on “cult geography” (Hills 2002, 144). This also reflects my own particular investments in fan practices – that I haven’t written fan fiction since my teenage years, while I have continued to engage in fan pilgrimage. I would suggest that a wide range of work in fan studies, going beyond the few examples here, cleaves to this trajectory, with pre-existent fan commitments – whether to fanfic production, fan speculation, character/actor interest, vidding, pilgrimage etc – being mirrored in scholar-fans’ academic texts. The problem then becomes that areas of fan practice remain in the margins of academic work as long as

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there are not scholar-fans mediating these precise activities – what body of work exists on fan costuming in comparison with that on slash fiction? Or what of other mimetic fan practices such as the building of replica props? There is precious little scholarship on such activities, I would argue in large part because the scholar-fan community has yet to draw on such fan identities. Elsewhere, I have suggested that scholarship has felt more comfortable championing “transformative” fan activity which can be readily positioned as creative, rather than studying “mimetic” fan activity which seems to be merely secondary or imitative in relation to the fan object (Hills 2010c). Academics’ trained and tutored facility for dealing with texts also leads to a situation where fans’ textual practices are well studied and represented, whereas the material cultures of fandom (costuming/prop-building) are again far less studied and mediated (Gilligan 2011). The mirroring of specific fan identities in scholar-fandom is thus a skewed, distorting mirror which threatens to render specific fandoms academically canonical (Star Trek, Doctor Who, Buffy the Vampire Slayer) whilst also marginalising a massive range of media fandoms, and material cultures of fandom, whose participants have not yet been drawn into the ranks of scholar-fandom. More than this, by denying difference in favour of sameness, scholar-fans all too frequently represent their experienced fandoms not just in terms of favoured texts, but also in terms of their situated agency within the given fandom. I am not arguing that scholar-fans are simply “too close” to fandom. Instead, I want to point to the precise situatedness of the “fan” aspects of scholar-fandom, and how these can problematically give rise to academic work which replays scholar-fans’ pre-theoretical investments in specific fan cultural practices, and non-investments in other fan practices. We thus risk a scenario where far from perceiving a community of scholar-fans, what we really attain in current scholarship is a series of writers speaking and writing across one another, and a series of sub-communities which are more closely bound together not via scholar-fandom, but via the fact that they are mediating, in their scholarship, similarly situated fan identities, e.g. a community of Doctor Who fans producing scholar-fan work, or Joss Whedon fans doing the same, or groups of fanfic writers, and so on. The issue is not necessarily one of whether scholar-fans attempt to make broad, generalising claims across “fandom” instead of producing more limited conclusions based on the communities they stand (in) for. Rather, the problem here is that specific fan identities and communities are overrepresented, or rendered canonical in academic work, whilst other fandoms remain barely present in the literature (see Busse 2011).

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A version of “too distant”, or the denial of sameness in Silverstone’s terms, can be linked to this. When scholar-fans represent and mediate their own embeddedness in a fan culture, the other side of the coin is that they effectively “other” fan activities falling outside their fandom experiences. Such othering results not necessarily in negative stereotyping (although it can), but rather in a symbolic annihilation or exnomination of fan practices beyond the scope of the scholar’s pre-theoretical affective relationships (see Click 2011). Proper distance, where close and far, sameness and difference, are fully and critically acknowledged would not appear to be attained in this scenario (it being noted that I am including my own prior work within this critique, and not at all absenting it from censure). Having said this, there are also relationships of closeness/distance from precisely situated academic disciplines to consider in the case of hybridised scholar-fandom. If proper distance has perhaps gone awry in fannish aspects, what of academic commitments and lived investments? Here, I would propose that “too close”, or a denial of difference, occurs in work that mirrors and reproduces the norms of an academic discipline with which the scholar is affiliated. Simply carrying out a poststructuralist reading of fandom, or a Foucauldian reading of a fan object can leave disciplinary commitments unsettled and firmly reinforced. Normative disciplinary positioning results in work which tends to mirror foundational assumptions, e.g. a critical sociology of fandom can be expected to interpret fan subjectivity within societal power relations (Sandvoss 2005; Longhurst 2007). But the “critical” component of this work is produced via the citation of “critical” forebears and predecessors – that is, its critique is conventional (Sandvoss 2005,153 poaches from Marcuse), and can be predicted or anticipated, in disciplinary terms. Similarly, work in fan studies drawing more centrally on Winnicottian object-relations can be expected – in line with this strand of disciplinary commitment – to position fan creativity as healthy, non-pathological and ordinary: Persuasive as Hills is in expanding Winnicottian theory and adapting it to explain the cultural interface between psychic and social investment in texts... He makes no special case for what might be regarded as the extremes of fan devotion... Neither does he consider this “ongoing” adult process as anything other than normal. Could it not be that fans who establish what might be termed an unhealthy fixation upon a certain cultural object have not as infants effectively decathected transitional phenomena, but have repressed them in some way? (Smith 2010, 186).

The critical stances of the likes of Sandvoss and Longhurst, then, as much as my own specific Winnicottian stance, can all be interpreted as

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normative in disciplinary terms. Whether working in media sociology, fan studies, or TV studies, such scholarship performatively affiliates itself with dominant and disciplinary/disciplined ways of reading fandom. However, scholar-fandom in TV studies has been joined by scholarfandom focused on TV texts but produced within very different disciplinary norms. This is an issue which goes beyond the need for academics simply to acknowledge their theoretical lenses, and the impact these will have on interpretations of texts and fandoms, as it can result in work which is itself marked by specific blind spots and presuppositions, and which particularly tends to neglect medium-specific and industry=specific forms of knowledge (see Hausken 2004, 392-7). It is this alternative mode of scholar-fandom, hailing from beyond TV Studies and cognate areas, that I will consider next. Philosophers now write about popular TV as scholar-fans, as do classicists (see, e,g, Lewis and Smithka 2011; Garner, Beattie and McCormack 2010). Elsewhere I have contrasted this mode of scholarfandom with that which is more-or-less strongly contained by disciplinary codes and conventions, e.g. work done by TV studies’ scholar-fans. In marked contrast, philosophers’ and classicists’ scholar-fandom tends to venture outside its disciplinary home, usually as a result of lived fan identity, and can be referred to as “transitive” on the basis that it engages in a process of transition between disciplines, without necessarily being fully “interdisciplinary” (Hills 2010b, 212). Transitive scholar-fandom risks Silverstone’s “too far”, potentially failing to attain proper distance in relation to scholarly identity by not engaging with relevant work, e.g. assuming that television can be written about (as a renegade philosopher) without studying published scholarship on television as television. Here, auto-didacticism is substituted for (cross-)disciplinary awareness, seemingly premised on the model of autodidactic fan knowledge, where it is often not deemed important to cite scholarship, but rather to express one’s own (more-or-less tutored) view. Whereas normative, disciplinary scholarfandom risks being too close to its roots in TV studies or cultural studies, thus skewing representations of fan culture and denying any difference from the discipline’s assumptions, transitive scholar-fandom risks being too far from relevant scholarship, denying any shared sameness of academic knowledgeability or expertise between its “home” school of thought and those specifically premised on tackling popular culture, fandom, or television. I am therefore not ushering in any sort of straightforward “discipline war”, where TV studies or fan studies should be viewed as the “proper” location of work on television fandom, but am instead indicating that there

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are problematic issues of symbolic closeness/distance which fall as much on the “scholar” side of scholar-fandom as on the fan side. Scholarfandom is not just fragmented as a concept and an identity by differential lived fan experiences, but also divided by various disciplinary commitments and precise proximities from these. What, then, might “proper distance” look like in relation to these multiple enactments of scholar-fandom? As Silverstone reminds us, any “sense of proper distance is a moral sense... We need to know about each other in a way that can only involve a constant critical engagement... The everyday... can, and should, be made more critically aware... But this is not just about critique. It is about care” (2007,187). How could scholarfandom express a wider care for scholarship and fandom, going beyond speaking for specific situated fan agencies and specific academic disciplines? To address this question, which is where an application of Silverstone’s “proper distance” has taken me, I will deploy a further concept, this time one which has a history in fan studies: the moral economy.

The intersection of moral economies: Unsaid by whom? Moral economy winks in and out of existence at a foundational moment in fan studies. It is present in one of Henry Jenkins’ earliest publications on the subject of fan rereading and rewriting (2006 [orig. 1988]), but then absent from Jenkins’ Textual Poachers (1992). The concept is useful to Jenkins since it offers one way of accounting for the patterns – and the structuring, constraining limits – that are encountered in fan writings: No legalistic notion of literary property can adequately constrain the rapid proliferation of meanings surrounding a popular text. But there are other constraints, ethical constraints and self-imposed rules, enacted by the fans, either individually or as part of a larger community, in response to their felt need to legitimate their unorthodox appropriation of mass media texts (Jenkins 2006, 40).

The fannish moral economy is a set of ethical guidelines, observed within fan communities. Such policing can involve a sense of what constitutes “good” or “appropriate” fan behaviour. For example, a fannish moral economy may freely permit the use of characters in fan fiction, but prohibit or censure making money from the fan object as an intellectual property. Likewise, moral economy may critique, as excessive, expressions of fan interest in the private lives of actors, whilst licensing

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highly detailed fan interests in production history. The moral economy hence distinguishes between valued and unacceptable fan activities, rendering specific fan responses beyond the pale: I find myself returning to the concept of “moral economy”... In some cases, the moral economy of fandom justifies fans’ active appropriation of media content; in others, it sets limits on what they can do with those contents. The moral economy balances between the community’s own desires and its respect for creators’ rights. At the present moment, that moral economy is frayed because of the hostile rhetoric and practices of media companies eager to regulate peer-to-peer culture (Jenkins 2006, 38).

However, we might suggest that it is not only external forces (e.g. the policies of rights-owning media corporations) which can “fray” fans’ moral economy, and this is something I’ll explore in my concluding case study below. Just as scholar-fandom may, in fact, be multiple, so too may the moral economies at work within fan cultures be fragmented or contested by different fractions of fandom. As well as Jenkins returning to the concept of moral economy, Joshua Vasquez (2010) has recently analysed the readings of classic series Doctor Who fans using the term. Vasquez emphasises the prohibiting function of fan-cultural moral economy, suggesting that it works “to a negative degree as a limiting force” (2010, 248). In particular, Vasquez is interested in why Doctor Who fans have not tackled the racial stereotypes and problematic representations present in “Talons of Weng Chiang” (BBC, 1977), especially the fact that white actor John Bennett was made up to play a Chinese character, Li H’Sen Chang. Vasquez’s argument is that fans forgive their fan objects certain transgressions, excusing reactionary cultural politics by reading this Doctor Who story as authored “gothic horror”, and hence as “quality art” (2010, 239). Likewise, fans seek to redeem the tale by arguing that TV was made differently “back then”: “In the case of “Weng-Chiang”... the moral economy is... at work... acting to limit conversation, rather than stimulate it, by giving the fan a chance to excuse the text” (Vasquez 2010, 240). As a result, it is argued that within fan cultures, “the systematic avoidance of a certain critical reckoning is an ever-present danger” (2010, 247). This conclusion implies a rather conventional relationship between academia and fandom: fan culture is structured by what remains unsaid, whilst the scholar-fan is able to expose fandom’s reactionary silences and exclusions. In terms of Silverstone’s “proper distance”, we might say that Vasquez enacts a position of being “too close” to critical media studies; he assumes a normative position in the “scholarly” aspect of his identity, thus

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presuming to be able to correct the politics of popular culture and its fan readings. His work also neglects to consider that segments of a fandom may in fact focus on “meta”, and precisely upon critique of the media text and its representational limits. By contrast, I would argue that the concept of moral economy can be retooled to sustain proper distance in the positioning of scholar-fandom rather than obstructing such possibilities by assuming scholarly superiority. For, can it not be argued that academic disciplines are shaped by their own moral economies? Fandom is not the only interpretive community where certain types of activity and interpretation are valued or silenced. Indeed, in Cultural Studies in the Future Tense, Lawrence Grossberg has suggested that: cultural studies has to avoid two increasingly seductive traps that let the analyst off the hook. The first takes its own political assumptions (however commonsensical they may be) as if they were the conclusion of some analysis... Political desire trumps the actual empirical and theoretical work of analysis (2010, 54).

Grossberg points us towards consideration of the fact that “critical” media studies can itself be viewed as produced within a moral economy where political assumptions are exactly that, assumptions, and where “actual empirical and theoretical work” can be subordinated to valued terms of critique (and see Jenkins 1992, 285). If we accept this point, then the logical outcome is that both scholarly and fan identities are subject to structuring silences, marginalised viewpoints, and dominant, valorised practices. Rather than academically studying fannish moral economy, the proper distance of scholar-fandom, both close and far, would need to unpack relevant disciplinary silences and assumptions rather than merely performing disciplinary affiliation, as well as avoiding speaking only for highly selective fan identities/experiences. It is rare for work to achieve this, and perhaps one of the (less recognised) explanations of the long reach of Textual Poachers (1992) is that it comes very close to achieving “proper distance” in the sense outlined here. In this text, Jenkins is not immediately identifiable as a fan of a specific type – that is, the book does not speak strictly for a fraction of a fandom, but instead ranges across fan activities and objects. Simultaneously, Jenkins challenges his “home” discipline to do a better job of theorising fandom, meaning that he is alert to the disciplinary structuring silences which were in operation at the time of writing. A not uncommon reading of Jenkins’ work has been that he celebrates or romanticises fandom (Hills 2002), but this problem is at least present tout

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court – i.e. Jenkins does not in fact, unlike many later scholar-fans, single out a highly specific fraction of fandom (to which he belongs) for celebration. The difficulty, however, is that Textual Poachers doesn’t focus significantly on the unsaids of fandom – only the unsaids of critical media studies – which is, I would suggest, structurally why the concept of moral economy neither appears nor seems to fit in the book. In my argument, to more fully realise “proper distance”, Textual Poachers would have required a sense of at least two moral economies intersecting – those belonging to SF TV fandom and media/cultural studies. Work in scholar-fandom has frequently been more acutely engaged either with the unsaids of the academy or with the unsaids of fandom, rather than with both, despite the fact that there is no necessary binary at work here – there is no reason why each could not be tackled together and relationally. For example, Sandvoss’s work (2005 and 2007) is exceptional in tackling the unsaids of fandom – indeed, Sandvoss’s entire theoretical apparatus of neutrosemy and fan-text mirroring deals with interpretive limits and self-identity (2005, 145 and 2007, 30). Yet, by invoking a critical sociological disciplinary norm, this work remains weaker, I would say, in relation to the unsaids, mirrorings and moral economy of “critical” scholarship. Tom Phillips, writing again in Flow, proffers an inverse image: he acutely analyses the unsaids of disciplinary scholarship (fan studies itself), yet his Kevin Smith fandom is mediated not just as “personal taste”, but via performances of “good” or appropriate fandom – a photograph taken with Kevin Smith; a piece of commissioned fan art. Although it should be noted that the focus of Phillips’ article is specifically a critique of scholar-fandom, and not a critique of Kevin Smith fandom, nonetheless it is striking that empirical instances of “the personal” here are themselves aligned with a fannish moral economy which hence remains naturalised. Phillips challenges the constraints of scholarship acting on the scholar-fan, leaving the constraints of “proper” fandom strongly unremarked: does stimulating academic work necessarily have to adhere to the constraints of “proper” academic writing? ...embracing the overly confessional can add to a writer’s academic authority... Whether considering oneself a scholar-fan, aca-fan, or researcher-fan, perhaps it is time to reassess these labels, and whether they are still needed. In questioning the value judgements as to what constitutes “proper” academic writing, it is also worth questioning whether it is necessary to even categorise researchers in such a manner, or ask if we are all simply just researchers adhering to varying degrees of the confessional (Phillips 2010 online).

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Ultimately, Phillips’ conclusion joins that emergent body of work problematically viewing the scholar and the fan as continuous identities, unmarked by power differentials or institutional/discursive tensions. But his engagement with whether or not confessional disclosures might actually strengthen the academic authority of a scholar-fan, specifically somebody writing in relation to the norms of fan studies, helpfully exposes an unsaid of the moral economy at work here. Whilst scholarly norms of writing may still impact on what aca-fans can confess about their fandoms, scholar-fandom – as it has become ever “more accepted” (Hills 2010b, 213) – has in fact secured new disciplinary authority for writers precisely through autoethnographic exercises and through markers of “authentic”, knowledgeable fandom. I have returned to the notion of moral economy in this essay in order to argue that Silverstone's concept of “proper distance” can be recontextualised and developed via its use. The proper distance of variant modes of scholar-fandom, I am suggesting, can be achieved by highlighting both fan and academic moral economies, and addressing how they might be made to intersect. One example of this process can be taken from my own Triumph of a Time Lord, since there I argue that fannish moral economy restricts discussion of the programme Doctor Who to what is taken to characterise the show’s positive “essence”: what fandom could, I think, take from academia is the idea of exploring [a text]... without getting hung up on its “essence” and whether a given episode is “really” [worthy of authentic status]... Unlike fandom, media theory is anti-essentialist.... Letting go of the ‘essence’ problem actually opens up a whole new world ...where... tones and qualities can be analysed rather than celebrated/condemned, and where... limitations can be addressed (Hills 2010a, 8).

And if fandom is marked by unsaids which could be opened up by borrowing from scholarship, then scholarly unsaids, and academia’s moral economy, can also be interrogated in return: “Television Studies... downplays the emotional experience of a “first viewing” – in which the narrative twists and turns, and the ending of an episode are not entirely known – in favour of displaying cognitive mastery” (Hills 2010a, 9). Scholarship stands to learn from fandom by interrogating its structuring silences, and paying closer attention to fans “first viewings”, just as fandom can learn from academia's anti-essentialism. This approximates to “proper distance” by recognising sameness between fandom and academia (each is limited by structuring silences of a specific moral economy) but also by recognising difference (especially the lived, ongoing chronology

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of fan readings and the “finished” or artificially masterful reading of the scholar). However, this example from my work fails, ultimately, to fully live up to Silverstone’s “proper distance”, as I have applied it to scholarfandom, since I am basically speaking for a specific fraction of a given fan culture. In terms of ethical positioning, then, Triumph of a Time Lord is finally “too close” to one fan constituency, despite in effect seeking to critically and relationally bring fans’ and academics' moral economies into intersection or dialogue. Rather than concluding by revisiting prior work, I will close by offering a new case study, in order to more fully exemplify my arguments. I want to address a particular controversy within Torchwood fandom, and consider its ramifications for the proper distance of scholar-fandom. A spin-off from Doctor Who, created and executive-produced by Russell T. Davies, Torchwood (2006--) features the seemingly immortal Captain Jack Harkness (John Barrowman) and a team of experts who deal with alien activities on Earth. Torchwood was conceptualised and formatted as an “adult”-targeted addition to the Doctor Who franchise, and as such it is a series recurrently marked by characters’ deaths, this being a textual and industrial indicator of its “gritty” realism. The very first story, “Everything Changes”, introduces a sense that diegetic prominence is not enough to secure a protagonist’s safety by killing off Captain Jack’s second-incommand, Suzie Costello (Indira Varma). Thus, we might expect Torchwood fandom to not only be familiar with the show’s convention of killing off major characters (after all, it does so in series one, two and three), but also to be comfortable with it – even to celebrate it as a marker of the series’ “quality TV” credentials or “edgy” status. However, fan responses to the death of Ianto Jones (Gareth DavidLloyd) in “Children of Earth” reveal a significantly divided, and divisive, set of fannish interpretations. Indeed, contra Jenkins (2006, 38), I would argue that Torchwood fandom’s reaction to Ianto’s demise proffers evidence that fan-cultural moral economies can “fray” and even diverge or multiply within a given fan culture. One fraction of fans, for whom either the Jack-Ianto relationship had been a focal point of their reading, or for whom the character of Ianto had provided an especially affectively-marked entryway into the show, were moved to mourn Jones, and to perform this process in material, ritualised ways. A memorial or “shrine” to the character was established at Mermaid Quay in Cardiff Bay, a site of Torchwood location filming, and fans have left pictures, letters and a range of items here by way of commemorating Ianto’s meaningfulness to them. The transformation of commercial space into a place of fan significance has also been supported by Mermaid

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Quay’s management, who eventually put up a plaque notifying visitors of the fictional status of Ianto Jones, contextualising the fans’ memorial for the uninitiated. Racheline Maltese, presenting at the “Desiring the Text” conference at Bristol University (10th July, 2010) puts forward an analysis of fans’ mourning of Ianto. Maltese argues that a specific type of fan, termed an “enchanted believer”, is likely to mourn a fictional character without naively believing them to be real, and without an “ironic” recognition of the character’s as-if-real status: It is, at least in current fandom culture, this enchanted believer who is most likely to both mourn for fictional characters and lead – that is, seduce or enchant – the larger fandom culture into participation in, and at least partial acceptance of, these acts, despite an at times vociferous opposition to such activities from within the community. As such, these enchanted believers serve a number of roles within the fandom, including that of a bridge not only between fact and fiction, but also between life and death in the narratives to which they have dedicated themselves... Thus, within fandom, the enchanted believer is both chief mourner and shaman (Maltese 2010, 35: my italics).

The key point for my argument is that “enchanted belief” – immersively positing a continuity between fact and fiction – has given rise to severe interpretive conflicts within Torchwood fandom. As Maltese further observes, this tension is emblematic of the way in which such acts of fandom mourning can receive censor from within the fan community itself and highlights specifically the suspicion with which enchanted believers are viewed. Yet, despite this type of disapproval, there is little evidence of enchanted believers curtailing their mourning behaviours, only limiting the degree to which they discuss them with the broader, non-enchanted audience community (2010, 42).

In terms of my approach here, it could be said – at least in relation to the mourning of Ianto – that there is absolutely not one fannish moral economy at work. What should be an unsaid or unsayable act for part of fandom (mourning a fictional character) is very much enacted by other sections of the fan culture. This pronounced division, amounting to rival moral economies uneasily encountering one another, has been mediated in the letters pages of Torchwood: The Official Magazine. Fan Tony Molari initiated the controversy in print:

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Between Academics’ and Fans’ Moral Economies? a small but highly vocal group of fans bombarded the media with complaints about the death of Ianto..., obscuring the wider story about the show’s success, and tarring it with exactly the kind of obsessive sci-fi stigma with which the BBC famously hates to be associated. Okay, so it’s too much to blame the lack of a new series on these people alone, but I truly believe that the failure to commission a fourth series [at the point of writing – MH] is, at least in part, connected with the furor surrounding this... FICTIONAL character... this sort of emotional campaign is exactly what gives us supposedly grown-up fans a bad name. ...In the unlikely event that this letter gets printed, I’d be very interested to know what other fans think (2010, 14-5).

Molari displays recognition that his sentiments may be beyond the pale – i.e. out of alignment with one version of a fannish moral economy – by suggesting that his critical views might not be published in this official, commercial venue. A variety of responding views were expressed in subsequent issues, ranging from “How dare Tony Molari accuse Ianto fans of being responsible for the lack of a new series!” (Wood 2010, 11) to “ A big part of the Torchwood community is debating, so please make sure you keep all sides level!” (Passey 2010, 14-5). Molari also received some qualified or outright support from self-described “Ianto fans” who had “moved on” (Osborne 2010, 13), as well as from those opposed to “Ianto fandom”: A year on from Children of Earth, I can’t believe you’re still getting letters from people... saying they’re not going to watch the show or read the magazine again because they thought you’d suggested Ianto was coming back when he isn’t, whatever... Seriously people, you’re making yourselves – and, by extension, the rest of us fans – look ridiculous. There’ll be a whole new series of the show starting up soon, so why not focus on that, eh? (Manning 2010, 13; Barker 2010, 15).

Given the specifically fragmented, contested moral economies of this fandom, what would it mean for scholar-fandom to “speak for” Torchwood fans? And how could this factor into an ethical “proper distance” whereby one section of fandom would not be valorised over and above others, as well as where fan and academic moral economies could both be critically engaged with? Here, scholar-fandom runs the risk of merely taking sides in an existent and already self-reflexive debate, either being “pro” or “anti” the enchanted believer. Established patterns of reading in fan studies suggest that a likely academic interpretation would be one which respected the cultural practices of the Ianto mourners, and this is what Maltese (2010) sets out to do. However, this results in

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“speaking for” one fan constituency against another. And though it could be argued that the scholar-fan is championing marginalised (and quite possibly gendered) fan practices against “dominant” fan responses, the power relationships in Torchwood fandom are, I would hazard, not this clearly fixed in an enclosing binary. Furthermore, by “speaking for” mourners who may be assumed to be marginalised within the fan culture, scholar-fandom might also coincide directly with arguments set out in the fan debate itself, which even in a relatively “fan-mainstream” venue like the official magazine, can nonetheless take on a critical, “meta” dimension: Tony Molari implies that fans aren’t living in the real world by getting upset about the death of Ianto. ...That’s what fiction is for! ...Many scientists believe that it’s our ability to fantasise in this way that has brought about most of humanity’s great achievements. Rather than simply seeing what is, we have the power to envision what is not, and what could be. Anyone who leaves a tribute at the Ianto shrine in Cardiff Bay... isn’t stupid or delusional. They’re just making the most of what fiction gives us to play with, and their powers of imagination and reasoning will be all the richer as a result (Sheppard 2010, 11; see also Maltese 2010, 54—5).

Where fannish moral economies themselves internally fray and split, then, scholar-fandom lacks a clear unsaid to critically engage with in the fan culture, contra Vasquez (2010). “Proper distance”, in Silverstone’s terms, therefore seems to recede as a possibility by virtue of scholarfandom’s inevitable positioning as “too close” to at least one school of fan thought: pro/anti/meta/inclusive (“everyone has a right to an opinion”). In this instance, rather than viewing scholar-fandom as redundantly aligned with a particular fan constituency, I would suggest that aca-fan identity be performed precisely via critical distance from the very concept of “moral economy”. This avoids the second analytical trap which Lawrence Grossberg has argued dogs current cultural studies: cultural studies has to avoid two increasingly seductive traps that let the analyst off the hook. ...The second assumes that the world exists to illustrate our concepts. Instead of a detour through theory, it substitutes theory for social analysis, as if theoretical categories were – by themselves – sufficient as descriptions of a conjunction (Grossberg 2010, 54).

Proper distance from “academic” disciplinary identity might thus be attained by offering a critique of “moral economy” in this conjunction, rather than assuming that the theoretical tools of fan studies are a priori up to the task. And in terms of simultaneously achieving “proper distance” from an analyst’s fan positioning, it would remain important not merely to

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catalogue or map the widest possible range of differential fan responses to Ianto’s death (and fan responses to other fan responses) but to at least attempt to discern the multiple, decentred power relationships in operation. Rather than defending one “type” of fandom, or one fan fraction, this mapping would involve assessing the discursive forms, protocols and powers of fan passion/knowledge – mourning Ianto in specific fan microcontexts (LiveJournal groups) could be a highly normative articulation of fan identity, whereas in other contexts (on the GallifreyBase forum, for example) it may be frequently devalued as “deviant”, bad fandom. This may, ultimately, lead to the consideration of fairly well-documented axes of fan distinction along the lines of gender and age. At the same time, we must consider that such power relationships are not unidirectional: in the different micro-contexts of multi-sited fandom, a supposedly “dominant” older male fan decrying the mourning of Ianto may find his discursive power, and fan passion/knowledge, wholly undermined and unrecognised by a rival fraction of the fan culture. And this multidirectionality and micro-contextuality of discursive power is what, I would say, should caution contemporary scholar-fandom from the too-obvious taking of sides. Sameness and difference can be discerned across fan struggles and debates: each rival moral economy is premised on a variant “unsaid” (mourning of Ianto is beyond the pale; criticism of this mourning is utterly unacceptable), and each moral economy, in its strongly articulated form, is premised on a problematic symbolic exclusion of others’ practices – an exclusion which is open to critique. At the same time, to merely insist on a position where “everyone can have an opinion” converts communal, discursive power struggles into individualised or psychologised selfexpression, hence evacuating concerns with (fan-)cultural power. As such, this move is akin to the “leveling” of aca-fan identities that I began with, where power differentials are also short-circuited. In this chapter, I have argued for the continued importance of scholarfandom or aca-fandom, suggesting that we should nevertheless also continue to challenge discursive mantras which legitimate this hybrid identity in rather restrictive ways, and which can give rise to problematic scholarship where a scholar-fan does little more than implicitly or explicitly “speak for” their own situated fan agency, or indeed does little more than “speak for” their academic, disciplinary position. I have also suggested that scholar-fandom remains a useful term, for if we move too quickly to assume that scholarly and fan identities are now continuous, and can be articulated willy-nilly without repercussion, then we miss the power relationships, assumptions, and institutional/discursive prohibitions that remain at work on this terrain. From these starting points, I have

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developed the sense that scholar-fandom needs to be thought of in terms of multiple hybridisations, as scholar-fans can be very differently situated in relation to different fan constituencies or fractions, and different disciplines. I have used Roger Silverstone’s ethical terminology of “proper distance” to argue that scholar-fandom should seek to be critical of its disciplinary and fan roots, speaking back to the limits of academic and fan knowledge, and I have noted that scholar-fandom frequently fails to attain this bi-directional ethical critique, advancing criticism of academia which leaves fannish moral economy unremarked (Jenkins 1992), or critiquing fans’ limits of meaning while leaving a set of disciplinary norms and an academic moral economy in play (Sandvoss 2005). Following Will Brooker’s (2011) call for more “meta-aca-fandom”, I have included my own work in this critique – Fan Cultures (2002) I would now say fails to address scholar-fandom adequately as multiple, and Triumph of a Time Lord (2010a) risks implicitly “speaking for” a specifically gendered and generational fraction of new Who fandom, thus failing to analyse practices such as fan squee or fanfic writing, and so potentially othering sections of fandom s engaged in these activities (see Williams 2011). Bringing the limits of academic and fan moral economies into critical and relational dialogue offers one way forward in scholar-fan debate. Finally, I have also questioned how useful a singular concept of “moral economy” can be in relation to contemporary fandoms which are made up of many different subgroups, rather than viewing this term simply as a magic key to unlocking the ethical positionings of proper distance. Even if, in the final analysis, proper distance remains difficult to attain in the theory and practice of fan studies – or itself becomes a matter of contestation – Silverstone’s work in this area still has the capacity to reopen discussions of scholar-fandom, rather than leaving discursive mantras in place which assume it is either the “new norm”, or the “old way” that’s no longer needed. Instead, like sections of Torchwood fandom, perhaps we need to carry on the debate.

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References Barker, Elen. 2010. “Don’t Miss Out!” Torchwood: The Official Magazine, Issue 23, 15. London: Titan Magazines. Booth, Paul. 2010. “Fandom In/As the Academy.” Flow Vol 13, Issue 5, available at http://flowtv.org/2010/12/fandom-in-as-the-academy/, posted Dec 17th, 2010. Accessed 11/2/2011. Brooker, Will. 2007. “The Best Batman Story: The Dark Knight Returns.” In Alan McKee (ed) Beautiful Things in Popular Culture, 33—48. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. —. 2011. “Balance of the Force.”,SCMS Workshop 2011 on “Acafandom and the Future of Fan Studies”. Available online at http://lstein.wordpress.com/2011/03/16/scms-2011-workshopacafandom-and-the-future-of-fan-studies, posted March 16th 2011. Accessed 13/4/11. Burr, Vivien. 2005. “Scholar/’Shippers and Spikeaholics: Academic and Fan Identities at the Slayage Conference on Buffy the Vampire Slayer” European Journal of Cultural Studies Vol 8, No. 3, 375—83. Busse, Kristina. 2011. “The Ethics of Selection: The Role of Canonicity in Acafannish Pedagogy and Publication.” SCMS Workshop 2011 on “Acafandom and the Future of Fan Studies”. Available online at http://lstein.wordpress.com/2011/03/16/scms-2011-workshopacafandom-and-the-future-of-fan-studies/, posted March 16th 2011. Accessed 13/4/11. Busse, Kristina and Hellekson, Karen. 2006. “Introduction: Work in Progress.” in Karen Hellekson and Kristina Busse (eds) Fan Fiction and Fan Communities in the Age of the Internet, 5—32. Jefferson: McFarland. Click, Melissa. 2011. “Eclipsed Fan-Groups: Why Aca-fans Should Study What We Do Not Love.” SCMS Workshop 2011 on “Acafandom and the Future of Fan Studies”. Available online at http://lstein.wordpress.com/2011/03/16/scms-2011-workshopacafandom-and-the-future-of-fan-studies, posted March 16th 2011. Accessed 13/4/11. Coker, Catherine and Benefiel, Candace. 2010. “We Have Met the Fans and They Are Us: In Defense of Aca-Fans and Scholars.” Flow Vol 13, Issue 5, available at http://flowtv.org/2010/12/we-have-met-the-fans/, posted Dec 17th 2010. Accessed 11/2/2011. Dwyer, Michael. 2010. “The Gathering of the Juggalos and the Peculiar Sanctity of Fandom.” Flow Vol 13 Issue 5, available at

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http://flowtv.org/2010/12/the-gathering-of-the-juggalos/, posted Dec 17th, 2010. Accessed 11/2/2011. Garner, Ross P., Beattie, Melissa, and McCormack, Una (eds). 2010. Impossible Worlds, Impossible Things: Cultural Perspectives on Doctor Who, Torchwood and The Sarah Jane Adventures Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Gilligan, Sarah. 2011. “Heaving Cleavages and Fantastic Frock Coats: Gender Fluidity, Celebrity and Tactile Transmediality in Contemporary Costume Cinema”. Film, Fashion and Consumption, 1.1, 7—38. Gray, Jonathan. 2011. “I really don’t care much for the term acafan”, SCMS Workshop 2011 on “Acafandom and the Future of Fan Studies.” Available online at http://lstein.wordpress.com/2011/03/16/scms-2011-workshopacafandom-and-the-future-of-fan-studies, posted March 16th 2011. Accessed 13/4/11. Grossberg, Lawrence. 2010. Cultural Studies in the Future Tense. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Hausken, Liv. 2004. “Coda: Textual Theory and Blind Spots in Media Studies”. In Marie-Laure Ryan (ed) Narrative across Media: The Languages of Storytelling, 391—403. Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press. Hills, Matt. 2002. Fan Cultures. London and New York: Routledge. —. 2010a. Triumph of a Time Lord: Regenerating Doctor Who in the Twenty-first Century. London and New York: I.B. Tauris, —. 2010b. “Afterword: Scholar-fandom’s Different Incarnations”. In Ross P. Garner, Melissa Beattie and Una McCormack (eds) Impossible Worlds, Impossible Things: Cultural Perspectives on Doctor Who, Torchwood and The Sarah Jane Adventures, 210—7. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. —. 2010c. “As seen on screen? Mimetic SF fandom & the crafting of replica(nt)s.” In Media Res, available at http://mediacommons.futureofthebook.org/imr/2010/09/10/seenscreen-mimetic-sf-fandom-crafting-replicants, posted September 10th, 2010. Accessed 13/4/11. Jenkins, Henry. 1992. Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture. New York and London: Routledge. —. 2006. Fans, Bloggers and Gamers: Exploring Participatory Culture. New York and London: New York University Press. —. 2010. “Comment #59646 RE: Ian Bogost – Against Aca-Fandom,” at Bogost.com, July 31, 2010, available online at

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http://www.bogost.com/blog/against_aca-fandom.shtml#comment59646, accessed 15/2/2011. Lewis, Courtland and Smithka, Paula (eds). 2011. Doctor Who and Philosophy. Chicago: Open Court. Longhurst, Brian. 2007. Cultural Change and Ordinary Life. Maidenhead: Open University Press. Maltese, Racheline. 2010. “Fan Communities and the Mourning of Fictional Characters,” paper presented at “Desiring the Text, Touching the Past: Towards an Erotics of Reception”, Bristol University, 10 July, 2010. Manning, Jordan. 2010. “Never-Ending Story!” Torchwood: The Official Magazine, Issue 24, 13. London: Titan Magazines. Molari, Tony. 2010. “An Angry Fan Writes...” Torchwood: The Official Magazine, Issue 21, 10—1. London: Titan Magazines. Osborne, Jemima. 2010. “We Came Through!” Torchwood: The Official Magazine, Issue 24, 13. London: Titan Magazines. Passey, Jodie. 2010. “Keep Your Balance!” Torchwood: The Official Magazine, Issue 23, 14—5. London: Titan Magazines. Pearson, Roberta E. 2004. “’Bright Particular Star’: Patrick Stewart, JeanLuc Picard, and Cult Television.” In Sara Gwenllian-Jones and Roberta Pearson (eds) Cult Television, 61—80. Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press. Phillips, Tom. 2010. “Embracing the ‘Overly Confessional:’ ScholarFandom and Approaches to Personal Research.” Flow Vol. 13, Issue 5, available at http://flowtv.org/2010/12/embracing-the-overlyconfessional/, posted Dec 17th, 2010. Accessed 11/2/2011. Robson, Hillary. 2010. “Television and the Cult Audience: A Primer.” In Stacey Abbott (ed) The Cult TV Book, 209—20. London and New York: I.B. Tauris. Sandvoss, Cornel. 2005. Fans: The Mirror of Consumption. Cambridge: Polity Press. —. 2007. “The Death of the Reader? Literary Theory and the Study of Texts in Popular Culture.” In Jonathan Gray, Cornel Sandvoss, and C. Lee Harrington (eds) Fandom: Identities and Communities in a Mediated World, 19—32. New York and London: New York University Press. Sheppard, T. 2010. “The Land of Fiction.” Torchwood: The Official Magazine, Issue 22, 11. London: Titan Magazines. Silverstone, Roger. 2007. Media and Morality: On the Rise of the Mediapolis. Cambridge: Polity Press.

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Smith, Justin. 2010. Withnail and Us: Cult Films and Film Cults in British Cinema. London and New York: I.B. Tauris. Stein, Louisa. 2011. “On (Not) Hosting the Session that Killed the Term ‘Acafan’.” Antenna, available online at http://blog.commarts.wisc.edu/2011/03/18/on-not-hosting-the-sessionthat-killed-the-term-acafan/, posted March 18th, 2011. Accessed 13/4/11. Van Zoonen, Liesbet. 2005. Entertaining the Citizen: When Politics and Popular Culture Converge. Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield. Vasquez, Joshua. 2010. “The Moral Economy of Doctor Who: Forgiving Fans and the Objects of their Devotion.” In Chris Hansen (ed) Ruminations, Peregrinations, and Regenerations: A Critical Approach to Doctor Who, 233—48. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Williams, Rebecca. 2011. “Desiring the Doctor: Identity, Gender and Genre in Online Fandom.” In Tobias Hochscherf and James Leggott (eds) British Science Fiction Film and Television: Critical Essays, 167—77. Jefferson: McFarland. Wood, Vanessa. 2010. “Mourning Glory.” Torchwood: The Official Magazine, Issue 22, 11. London: Titan Magazines.

IDENTITY, ETHICS, AND FAN PRIVACY KRISTINA BUSSE AND KAREN HELLEKSON

The worst fannish sin As scholars trained in the humanities, our training taught us to focus on close readings and sourcing the work of others. To those of us who do not work with human subjects, the way academics in the social sciences and in medicine do, the text is all. Proper citation ensures that others can find the text. When working with texts freely available on the Internet, it may never occur to a humanities scholar that anything other than pointing to the source might be required. After all, it’s available for all to access; surely if the author did not want us to read it, she would not have posted it. A perusal of style guides geared to the humanities—the MLA Handbook, the Chicago Manual of Style—provides examples of styling URLs, but the style guides say nothing about the limitations of citing URLs. To a humanities scholar, the notion that something is published and freely available means that permission to critically discuss the work is implicit. A scholar researching the work of, say, Margaret Atwood would not write Atwood and ask whether it was acceptable for her to work on Atwood’s texts; the very idea is ludicrous. So why would working with a piece of fan fiction be any different? In this essay, we seek to explain why fans and fan artworks ought to be treated differently than the traditional academic model for freely accessible texts. Most importantly, fans perceive the space where they create their artworks as closed, a topic we will examine in much more detail below. Unlike, say, Margaret Atwood, the fan did not submit her work to the public via a traditional publication venue meant for broad dissemination, such as a publisher or a newspaper; she submitted the work to her fannish circle. Also relevant is the nature of the fan work. Fans’ prose and images may be sexually explicit; some depict characters in situations or poses that might disturb or offend readers; and many rely on copyrighted or trademarked characters, the legal status of which is unclear to many fans, who are keen to avoid the interest of the property’s owners and the cease-and-desist letters that may follow. Some have not shared

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their fannish interests with their families, much less their employers, and they wish to avoid their fan artworks popping up on Google searches of their names. When writing about fans and their creations, it is not ethical to ignore fans’ expectations of privacy—an expectation that is absent in the traditional publishing model. Fans ought to be treated differently because real harm, such as loss of livelihood, could come to them if the researcher is not careful. Fans have repeatedly described incidents where their work and personal relationships were negatively affected by an outing, especially fans who work with children and write sexually explicit fiction. A cardinal fannish sin is to publicly link a real-life name with a pseudonymous identity—a point that ethical researchers must keep in mind. Of course, none of these issues is singular to fans; online bloggers detailing sexual BDSM exploits, for example, likewise often use pseudonyms and are careful to divorce their real-life names from their online identities, but we are concerned with fans here. When working with artworks written and created by media fans, such as fan fiction, fan videos, and fan art, many fans find unacceptable the notion that their works may be freely perused by outsiders. Fan publications, be they in hard-copy fanzines, in online fan fiction archives, or in blogs, are perceived as existing in a closed, private space even though they may be publicly available. In the fan world, the text–author dichotomy upon which humanities scholarship rests does not exist. This is so for complex reasons: the context of the shared space, the desire some fans have to separate their real-life self from their fan self, the fear of unwanted attention, the danger of inadvertently outing a fan by providing information that would permit a writing pseudonym to be linked to a reallife identity, the desire to retain total control over an artwork. This desire, which on its face appears to contradict the fannish practice of reworking so central to fan transformative activity, springs from a fan’s desire to control the artwork’s spread: it is one thing to have a story rewritten in a remix challenge, and quite another to have fan fiction posted without permission to a fan fic archive, or have laboriously crafted manipulated images taken and used, without credit, as avatar artwork or Web page banner images— modes of copying that do not involve transformation but plagiarism. As in the academic world, fan practice requires crediting, but the two modes of expression exist in different registers.

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Figure 1. The second panel of "Good Fourth Walls Make Good Neighbors," Supernatural fan comic by Counteragent (LiveJournal.com community Supernaturalart, January 9, 2010). Used with permission.

A 2009 Supernatural fan comic illustrates one of the dangers of collapsing fannish and real-life identities, emphasizing one of the reasons academic scholars must be especially conscientious: Counteragent’s “Good Fourth Walls Make Good Neighbors” comments on several Supernatural episodes that present fan activities to the audience and participate in ensuing debates within fandom (Figure 1). In the first few panels, a young mother fills out a journal poll, indicating that “outing a fellow fan” is “the worst fannish sin.” In the following images, she convinces her husband to watch the Supernatural season premiere with her, and the panels include screenshots of the show itself, which features an incest story about the two principal characters written by a fan. The husband’s response is angry as he realizes what fans—including, apparently, his wife—are doing and writing. The last image has her typing a good-bye message to her online friends as the baby cries.

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Counteragent originally posted the comic elsewhere, where all the comments are housed. When we asked her whether we could link to her artwork, Counteragent requested that we link to the community repost. By contacting the artist directly, we were able to get her consent to duplicate the artwork and take into account her specific linking and citation requests. Discussions surrounding this comic were heated and multifaceted, in part because the show’s producers used the fan fiction genre of slash, or homoerotic fiction, for humor and shock value, and in part because of the depictions of fans as obsessed. Responses to Counteragent’s work were divided between those who saw the work as accusing Supernatural’s producer, Erik Kripke, of outing fans and those who did not. Tied in with these arguments is a practical debate among fans about how visible fandom is (and ought to be) as well as a theoretical one about what aspects of fandom, in fact, ought to be hidden from mundane (or relative’s) eyes. Although many fans believe that they ought not hide and that fictional (homo)erotic fantasies ought not be shameful, most are well aware that exposing fannish activities in real-world situations can be a difficult situation for some fans; it may negatively affect their family or work life. Counteragent’s comic shows the real-world repercussions of such an outing: a fan’s forced withdrawal from a community important to her.

We give credit; we work for free; we respect pseudonymity Fear of unwilling exposure and its repercussions are the sorts of concerns that touch on ethics in qualitative online research within the humanities when researching and citing online fan works (Capurro and Pingel 2002; Elgesem 2002; Hamilton 1999). In our role as researchers and editors, we have had to confront issues of citing, naming, and referencing pseudonymous fans and their writings, and we have had to develop a workable policy for others. We address the particular negotiations necessary to remain a participating member within a subculture while simultaneously researching and writing academically about these communities. Yet we also need to acknowledge the inherent dangers of being part of the community analyzed and the biases this may create in terms of objectivity and selection of analyzed works. Given the range of positions among and within different fan communities and different disciplines’ diverse methodologies and conduct of research, there can be no hard-and-fast rule. We thus suggest a policy that remains open enough to accommodate different scenarios while protecting fannish

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spaces and individual fans—as well as a researcher’s code of ethics and academic rigor. Consideration of fan privacy has remained one of the central tenets of what might loosely be called a fannish code of conduct. Although these are mostly unspoken rules, handed down to new fans and often learned via fannish osmosis or by seeing a clear closing of ranks when these rules are violated, one fan articulates the three most important ones, including respecting fan identities: But every once in a while…someone takes an action that goes Too Far, even for the most unflappable fans. The unforgiveable act usually involves one of three things: (1) Privacy; (2) Credit; or (3) Profit. If a fan violates another fan’s privacy (posting private email without permission, hacking email, posting real name or contact information, contacting an employer, contacting an ISP to get them in trouble for copyright violations), steals another’s credit (plagiarism or clip-theft or failing to credit an icon), or tries to profit directly off fan activity (selling fic on Amazon, asking for money so she can stay home and write)—these are the things that violate the terms of the fannish social contract. We give credit; we work for free; we respect pseudonymity. (Cofax7, LiveJournal.com [LJ], July 23, 2008)

Most online media fans who share creative works online protect their privacy via pseudonyms. They expect that the shared online spaces are at least partially protected. Even though these Web sites are openly accessible, a strong internal ethos of protecting fannish spaces presents specific ethical issues for researchers. Fans’ norms, values, and expectations of privacy must be considered (Nissenbaum 2009). As Elizabeth H. Bassett and Kate O’Riordan (2002) note, The Internet is not only a text-based medium made up of communities, newsgroups and email lists. It is also a medium of publication, and significantly one where users can take control of the means of production, create their own cultural artifacts and intervene in the production of existing ones. The Internet can thus be perceived as a form of cultural production, in a similar framework to that of the print media, broadcast television and radio.

Negotiating expectations of privacy in the context of cultural production with academic demands of citeability is a central ethical concern for acafans, a project made difficult because cultural production and publication have the public, not the private, at their center. We use danah boyd’s (2005) notion of layered publics to describe this perceived understanding of semiprivacy and the difficulties this can cause for

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researchers. These concerns are complicated by two issues: fan texts are artistic and/or intellectual documents whose authors deserve to be credited: they are what Amy Bruckman (2002) calls amateur artists. Yet there are often excellent reasons to protect fan identities in ways similar to sociological human subject research that can expose its informant. Thus, academics employed by institutions often have to follow specific legal guidelines, generally laid out by an institutional review board (IRB), that circumscribe ethical research behavior. These rules are sometimes applied rigorously in ways that are not always right for the project; for example, researchers wishing to perform face-to-face interviews may have to comply with inappropriate requirements meant to control experiments on human subjects created for medical or behavioral science research, such as providing all questions in advance or destroying data when done (Walther 2002; FGCU IRB Policy n.d.). Related to this is the fact that very early in media fandom, many fans published under their legal names, before the adoption of pseudonyms became commonplace. The full names of many fans thus appear in print on the covers of fanzines, in their tables of contents, and in ads circulated to market the zines. These fans, who wrote from the 1960s onward, likewise deserve privacy, whether they are deceased, have left fandom, or have remained active members. Many older fans may not be vetting their identities and policing their online traces the way more current fans do. They wrote under their legal names with an expectation of privacy—and of course they could hardly have predicted that fanzines would be collected in libraries, or digitized and spread worldwide. They wrote for fanzine editors who were fellow fans and friends, and they wrote for publications with small print runs marketed to a small, targeted audience. Fanzines were never meant to move mainstream; they were a mode of transmission of fannish stories and art, not a formal publication, a point emphasized by most fanzine editors, who usually sold the zines for the cost of materials to avoid any hint that money was being made. This lack of profit motive remains a central fannish tenet, linked to fans’ fears of copyright holders cracking down on their activities. Many fans have extensive private zine collections, and several libraries, including those of the University of Iowa and the University of California–Riverside, hold impressive fanzine collections seeded by the donation of a private fan-held collection. As analysis of fan artworks moves mainstream, scholars working with private or library collections— and the library archivists themselves—have an ethical obligation to protect the privacy of the writers. For example, from the point of view of the fan, it would not be a good idea to scan the documents and put them online in

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their entirety, or create publicly searchable databases of tables of contents that list fans’ full names. Yet these notions of fan privacy may not necessarily occur to librarians, curators, and archivists. All of these concerns are equally valid for any digitization of previously seemingly private material with limited circulation. This ethical imperative for fan studies may be a model for other creative amateur writing and the potential need to protect the authors. It cannot be denied that these treasure troves of fan artworks are culturally important. In the case of old fanzines in particular, it may not be possible to contact the author and obtain permission to discuss her artwork—yet scholarly work of early fan fiction is clearly of great interest. How can academic rigor be reconciled with fan privacy in these difficult cases? As Sharon Polancic Boehlefeld (1996) reminds us, central tenets of online human-subjects research include “doing good,” “avoid[ing] harm to others,” and “respect[ing] the privacy of others.” To these may be added “protect[ing] the subjects from harm as a result of the research fieldwork and the research practices” and “not unnecessarily perturb[ing] the phenomena studied” (Allen 1996, 175), as well as ensuring that the work performed is consensual (Herring 1996). In short, the fans must come first.

Fans first! When we decided several years ago to co-edit Fan Fiction and Fan Communities in the Age of the Internet (2006), an anthology by and for acafans and fan scholars, our short and easy ethical imperative in regard to citing, discussing, and linking fan textual artifacts (stories, but also meta discussions) was simple: fans first. In our own work, we have always been careful to inform the fans whose work we were discussing, to request permission before linking, to share our academic work with our fan friends when possible, and we expected to extend this ethos to our collection. But within this fairly well-defined and narrow selection of topics and methodologies, we realized that not only was our approach not necessarily generally accepted, but it was also often unfeasible or even methodologically problematic. Thus when founding the peer-reviewed Open Access onlineonly academic fan studies journal Transformative Works and Cultures (TWC), we had to expand on these guidelines to create ones that did not violate our own and our communities’ standards, yet were open enough so that they did not interfere with the expectations of other communities or disciplines. Our initial approach was simple: indicating on TWC’s Web site that we expected informed consent to be obtained (Frankel and Siang 1999)

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and linking to the Association of Internet Research’s guide to ethical decision making and research (Ess and AoIR Ethics Working Committee 2002). However, considering our own position and the fact that the journal’s sponsor was a fan advocacy group, the Organization for Transformative Works (OTW), we also added another section, entitled “Protection of Fan Sources,” where we strongly recommended that researchers obtain permission for linking and citing their sources. We also encouraged a citation format for citing LJ (and similar blog-based journaling sites) that would provide sufficient citational references without directly linking: TWC prefers that the direct URL to a page not be provided. Instead, submissions should use the following format: blog source (LiveJournal, Dreamwidth), user or community name, and date of post. This provides correct sourcing information while permitting fans a modicum of privacy. (TWC Editor n.d.)

This policy results in texts without hotlinks, so people reading the academic article cannot directly click through to the original document. Instead, they must perform a search or visit the blog and figure out how to find the appropriate date. This inconvenience means that readers have to be interested enough to do a little work to find the text. Still, it reduces the amount of traffic sent directly to a blogger’s personal site, and that is the point. This policy also has a metaphorical aspect: it signals to the fan that her space is worthy of protection, however small—and perhaps, in this era of search, ultimately meaningless. We have explained our rationale for this requirement in more detail elsewhere (Hellekson and Busse 2009), and indeed, to our knowledge, TWC remains unique in academic journal publishing in that it points out to the authors who publish in the journal that fans should be approached, the research project explained, and, if possible, permission obtained. This ensures the fans’ autonomy and power to control their artwork. For example, in our experience, one common request that fans make of researchers is to cite a particular version of a fan artwork—a piece of fiction at an archive, perhaps, rather than at the writer’s blog. Below, we explain the public–private and author–text splits in terms of fandom, describe the document we created in response to fan objections of scholarly citation of their artworks and our justifications for it, and address the various objections that we think the document fails to address. We also address the debates within scholarship on how to properly protect sources and how this affects citation policies.

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Layered publics and expectations of privacy Even as fandom is becoming more public, as more people are aware of and even comfortable with fans writing their versions of characters and stories, many fans desire to continue creating in obscurity or to keep their fannish and other lives separate. Many fans labor in a space they perceive as closed, with little idea of how many lurkers are reading but not engaging (King 1996; Lotz and Ross 2004). Fans use pseudonyms that often cannot be traced to legal names, although, as several authors have pointed out, thoughtless provision in a public forum of details of one’s city and profession may make it possible to infer identity (Donath and boyd 2004; Kraut et al. 2004; Zimmer 2010). Fans also lock blog entries to specific groups of readers and disable Internet search hits. In fact, fans use these network technologies to limit access, and this discontinuity of interconnection is an element that confuses Internet scholars new to working with fans. The use of these strategies—a “management of boundaries between different spheres of action and degrees of disclosure within those spheres” (Palen and Dourish 2003, 3)—indicates that many fans prefer their spaces to remain out of the public eye. When fans choose to not engage these available privacy tools, the fact that anybody can access and view online pages “can give rise to the assumption that all texts are created in a public domain or public sphere” (Berry 2004, 323). Yet plenty of fans who post publicly still expect certain forms of privacy: they consider themselves part of a closed subculture that has traditionally existed under the radar and whose members have followed specific privacy rules. It is often difficult for an outside observer to understand these seemingly unrealistic expectations, but fans are certainly not members of the only subculture that exists in semipublic spaces and nevertheless expects outside observers to respectfully and conscientiously abide by their internal rules. In fact, beyond the Tuskegee syphilis experiments and Milgram’s obedience study, one of the most often cited study illustrating unethical research behavior that had the potential to harm the human research subject is Laud Humphreys’s Tearoom Trade study, where he observed and studied openly homosexual bathroom encounters, identifying some of the research subject through their license plates and conducting follow-up research interviews in their homes (Neuman 1997; for more diverse opinions, see the special issue on Humphreys’s Tearoom Trade study in International Journal of Sociology and Social Policy 2004). And if we were to believe that careless research is a sin of the past, the recent A Billion Wicked Thoughts: What the World’s Largest Experiment Reveals

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about Human Desire (2011) presents itself as scientific research by two cognitive neuroscientists, yet both of them worked without IRB oversight or any equivalent code of conduct. As a result, authors Ogi Ogas and Sai Gaddam created a methodologically flawed questionnaire, changed their questions midstudy, and finally aborted their research in the face of vehement fan community responses (Pepperell 2009; Fanlore, “Surveyfail” n.d.). Nevertheless, they continued to use their deceptively and faultily gathered material to support an argument that clearly had been developed before the facts, and with a book contract in hand. Even when it is difficult for outside observers to distinguish between what Dennis Waskul (1996) identifies as publicly accessible versus publicly distributed, we argue that it is the responsibility of the embedded researcher to ascertain these differences and err on the side of caution. As danah boyd (2010) notes, “because access controls [as on LJ] are so common, we’ve lost track of the fact that accessibility and privacy are not the same thing.” The blog structure makes it unlikely that any random Internet user will stumble on a particular post unless given the direct URL. Blocking search engines prevents these posts from being archived and from showing up via keyword searches. By not permitting search engines to index their sites and by expecting only a small number of readers, many LJ bloggers consider their journals semipublic: their writing is fully accessible, but because the author has gated it, and because she mostly interacts with a relatively small group of in-the-know friends, it seems to her to be in a private and protected space. Many fans thus do not lock content down, yet they expect their readership to remain small and restricted to their fan community. Unlike their predecessors, the archives and mailing lists of the 1990s, fannish blogs freely connect fan works, meta commentary, and an individual’s personal life. Thus, when a researcher sends someone to a fan’s site to source a fan artwork, anyone who follows the link may also come across deeply personal information. With enough clues dropped, and with publicly available information, such as listings of LJ friends on user profiles, it may be possible to infer identity because “a public display of [social networking] connections is an implicit verification of identity” (Donath and boyd 2004, 73). Related to an expectation of privacy is the expectation that fan pseudonyms and real-life names not be publicly linked—that fannish cardinal sin. The common use of legal names in early media fandom has been replaced with pseudonyms. Pseuds, which are usually meaningful to the fan, also have the benefit of masking behavior that employers or family might find objectionable. As Constance Penley (1992, 494) notes,

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“fans use pseudonyms not just for the joyful and imaginative expression of alternative and shifting identities. They also have something to hide: It’s one thing for your co-workers, domestic partners, or children to know you’re a ‘Trekkie,’ it’s another to know you’re a producer of pornography with gay overtones.” These pseudonyms and the fan’s related online persona and identity are carefully cultivated and should not be mistaken for anonymous postings: they become the fan’s alter ego, a site of status and reputation (Fanlore, “Pseudonym” n.d.). The pseud cannot be dismissed as unimportant or meaningless, or as a simple way to deflect unwanted attention: many fans have an extensive body of work associated with the pseud, as well as social interactions that rely on the deep connections cultivated with fellow fans. For a researcher, the issues that these practices raise have ethical implications. Scholarly work will draw attention to sites whose owners prefer them to be less than public, whether these expectations are realistic or not. Moreover, in so doing, citation may incidentally allow readers to connect fannish pseudonyms to real-life names. Fans may inadvertently leave breadcrumbs in their online traces—a stray comment about a job, a remark about where they live—that may permit their identity to be inferred. These important aspects of journal spaces thus complicate the ethics of providing direct URLs. If scholars aren’t careful, they may decontextualize what many fans consider a dialogue, an “ongoing conversation that spans over various posts and comments (and often even a variety of blogs)” (Busse 2009). By drawing attention to one aspect of the conversation, scholars may misrepresent the blog’s tone and framing. By this, we do not mean purposeful misrepresentation of a quotation within its context; rather, we mean the larger tone of a blog, or of a conversation. We do not expect a Woolf scholar to read Woolf’s letters and diaries when analyzing her novels, yet bloggers don’t write for posterity; they communicate, often directly, with a specific audience that has more than likely read the online equivalent of those letters and diaries. Blogs are communicative spaces where writers participate in lengthy, ongoing conversations with a specific assumed awareness of the writers’ position and tone. An offhand dismissal or ironic comment may easily be misunderstood unless the researcher reads all the blogs—not just that of the writer under consideration, but also those of her friends. Furthermore, the expectation of fan privacy presents distinct problems for researchers. Although the texts being addressed can be considered openly accessible, public material, fans may not agree, and fans’ assumptions are crucial here. Finally, preventing potential outings is a central fannish goal and should be accommodated as much as possible

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by researchers. All of these are ethical concerns linked to direct citations and linking that responsible scholars need to take into consideration.

Representations or people? Media fandom studies has historically been the realm of ethnographic research on the one hand and literary textual analysis on the other. In the age of the Internet, however, the two modes merge as personal interactions are both textually rendered and publicly accessible. Moreover, as qualitative fan studies has become primarily situated within the disciplines of television, media, and communications studies, the ethical position of the researcher and the status of electronic texts have become central. Michelle White lays out the distinction between expectations of citation and needs in different disciplines, bemoaning the fact that most Internet research guidelines have been dominated nearly exclusively by approaches that regard textual material as people—that is, human subject research guidelines apply. Drawing from a humanities perspective (as we did at the beginning of this essay), she suggests that instead, Internet texts be considered as textual documents that should be studied via close textual analysis, arguing that it is important to “interrogate the ways that Internet material becomes people” and the dangers such limited representations may ensue: “[T]he specific ways that some Internet representations support racist conceptions and the tendency in popular and academic literature, Internet material, and guidelines for Internet research ethics to turn these representations into viable people can support the most limited views of different individuals” (White 2002). In fan studies, this dilemma remains ever present. As we pointed out above, the merging of fan works, general analyses, and personal information, often within one post, makes it difficult to draw clear lines between literary and sociological text, between material that fits into the humanities and the social sciences, between representations and people. Authors should be cited for their works, so an exclusive human research subject approach that double-blinds or anonymizes sources is not a viable solution for many fan studies scholars (Barchard and Williams 2008). Respecting a user’s or group’s perceived privacy should not prevent authors from receiving credit for their creative work or theoretical insights. An approach that juxtaposes authentic research subjects and disinterested researchers is condescending. In fandom, for example, many fans theoretically address and discuss their own subject positions (Monaco 2010), and they use a myriad of theoretical approaches to analyze their and other’s work as well as the site of fannish engagement (their TV show or

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film). To not attribute these ideas is unethical and perpetuates an uncomfortable power hierarchy between academia and its subjects. In turn, however, an approach that regards all journal material merely as textual representation is equally problematic. Although there is a strong theoretical justification for reading all pseudonymous journal entries as performative and thus not subject to social science IRB rules (Berry 2004; Bruckman 2002), the danger to individuals simply remains too great. As Jim Thomas (1996, 197) notes, when performing research, “the Golden Rule remains a solid principle, and it can be practiced by three general guidelines: (1) Never deceive subjects; (2) never knowingly put subjects at risk; and (3) maximize public and private good while minimizing harm.” Many essays in the fan studies corpus written by acafans lay out the subject position of the writer, often indicating that the writers themselves are fans, but just as often seeking to justify studying fans in the first place. Often this impulse grows out of the now-outmoded notion that researchers must be disinterested observers, so as to better engage with the text or research subject. This stance, common in the humanities, is luckily growing more rare across all disciplines, spearheaded by those fields most often confronted with these concerns, such as anthropology and ethnography. Following ethnography’s awareness of the authorial position (Clifford and Marcus 1986) with its turn toward language (Gertz 1988), we do not believe that it is possible to be a neutral outside observer; the observer will always affect the observed. In fact, even online lurkers “may be perceived as intruders and may damage the communities” (Eysenbach and Till 2001). But the fraught subject-position analyses crafted by acafans do make an important point: there are definite drawbacks to researching one’s own community, even as the acafan’s own interest generates the passion to perform the work in the first place.

First do no harm Because it is not really possible to separate the researcher from the subject of study, we advocate discourse and dialogue between the two parties. Fans, like members of many other groups, may like the sense that they are somehow different and apart from everyone else, with that difference celebrated by the creation of the fannish structure itself. But fan artworks have gone mainstream; even popular TV shows like Supernatural and Glee, with a wink and a nudge, talk about writing fan fiction and posting it online. Failing to discuss them altogether to preserve the sanctity of an online space is no longer an option. While there is a vocal faction of fans who thrive in their subcultural status and for whom some of the

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appeal of fandom its countercultural aspect, industrial fan interpellation is continuing, if not increasing. We agree with the OTW’s position that fans can gain something by at least partially controlling the continued mainstreaming ourselves, whether that be by constructing a collective wiki or writing for a fan studies journal such as TWC, both projects that remain aware of the ethical dilemmas that may be specific to and magnified by fandom. It is not possible to avoid academic work on fandom, but it is possible to influence and direct it. As fans, we prefer to control and possibly direct this mainstreaming, as well as the messages that circulate about us. The best way to help fan communities be treated respectfully, and to protect individual fans by making fandom seem less frighteningly obsessive or kooky, is to provide resources that writers—be they academics, fellow fans, or journalists—can use to create sound, respectful, non-titillating scholarship. We advocate consulting fans and taking their input seriously. We think that fans can better understand nuances and underlying assumptions, can better explain fan communities of which they are themselves a part, and can thus write better academic works about fandom. Further, fandom is hardly a monolithic creation: every fandom has different rules and expectations, some of which touch on privacy. It is important to learn what these are and how to negotiate them, so that fans and their communities can be treated respectfully. This aspect of research is just as important as knowing the ethical, citation, and human-subjects standards in one’s own field, be it English, sociology, or media studies. TWC uses a method of full disclosure: as long as we obtain permission from all participants, and as long as everyone gets to see a draft of the work before it is published, the potentially initial private quality of data and information might be less of a concern. However, full disclosure increases the problems of implicit or explicit bias. If fans get to see an essay ahead of time, will they give permission if it puts them in a negative light? If we know that our friends will see the essay, will we select material that makes the community look good—politically enlightened, intellectual, self-reflexive? Will we select the very aspects of fan culture that we know academics will value most? Does the fan fully understand the consequences of consent (Reid 1996)? And of course giving a fan the power to veto an essay may mean that if she exercises it, perfectly valid scholarly effort has just gone to waste, and an important study may never see print—which is why we advocate approaching fans early on in a project, to gauge whether it would be so disruptive of a fan community that it would not be a good time to continue the work. Further, approaching a fan or fan community can have repercussions: in addition to

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behind-the-scenes angsting and agitating, swaths of text that the researcher hoped to have access to may be locked down in a bid to shut down the project. Yet even this solution may not be practical in all cases. What about items posted on a site such as Post Secret (http://www.postsecret.com/), or one of its fan iterations, where, by its very nature, all artwork is posted anonymously? What about writers and artists whose work appeared the aforementioned hard-copy fanzines in the 1960s and 1970s, where so much time has passed that tracking someone down to request permission is impractical, perhaps even impossible? What about fans who post in public forums, such as Television Without Pity (http://www.television withoutpity.com/), that have a much different sort of community, with different, more open expectations of privacy? In these cases, a requirement for obtaining permission may be waived; indeed, Charles Ess (2002) notes that informed consent from subjects may be waived if the research focuses on easily accessible content and identity is not revealed, or, if identity can be inferred, it would not cause risk to the subject. Of course, much depends on the nature of the research: a survey that hundreds of people have responded to is different from analysis of a single piece of fan fiction. The objections to singling out fans by granting them specific controls are many: beyond the practical understanding of public online statement that should indeed be quotable and the difficulties of negotiating social science and humanities approaches, the positioning of the acafan herself is the biggest hurdle. Indeed, it is this tenuous identity, both more and less than its parts, that remains the biggest ethical challenge in fan studies. Even as we see ourselves as fans first, we occupy a position of power, both in being able to influence public perception and in being able to select which semiprivate utterances suddenly gain more attention. In so doing, we can only continue to rethink potential effects and present our own positions as honestly and accurately as possible. It is crucial that researchers and fans—and fans acting as researchers—first do no harm.

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Lotz, Amanda D., and Sharon Marie Ross. 2004. “Toward Ethical Cyberspace Audience Research: Strategies for Using the Internet for Television Audience Studies.” Journal of Broadcasting and Electronic Media 48, no. 3: 501–12. Monaco, Jeanette. 2010. “Memory Work, Autoethnography and the Construction of a fan-Ethnography.” Participations 7, no. 1: 102–42. Neuman, W. Lawrence. 1997. Social Research Methods: Qualitative and Quantitative Approaches. 3rd ed. Boston: Allyn and Bacon. Nissenbaum, Helen. 2009. Privacy in Context: Technology, Policy, and the Integrity of Social Life. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Ogas, Ogi, and Sai Gaddam. 2011. A Billion Wicked Thoughts: What the World’s Largest Experiment Reveals about Human Desire. Boston: Dutton. Palen, Leysia, and Paul Dourish. 2003. “Unpacking ‘Privacy’ for a Networked World.” Proceedings of the SIGCHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems. doi:10.1145/642611.642635. http://portal.acm.org/citation.cfm?id=642635. Penley, Constance. 1992. “Feminism, Psychoanalysis, and the Study of Popular Culture.” In Cultural Studies, edited by Lawrence Grossberg, Cary Nelson, and Paul A. Treichler, 479–511. New York: Routledge. Pepperell, N. “Wearing the Juice: A Case Study in Research Implosion.” 2009. RoughTheory.org. http://www.roughtheory.org/content/wearingthe-juice-a-case-study-in-research-implosion/. Reid, Elizabeth. 1996. “Informed Consent in the Study of On-line Communities: A Reflection on the Effects of Computer-Mediated Social Research.” Information Society 12, no. 2: 169–74. doi:10.1080/713856138. Thomas, Jim. 1996. “When Cyberresearch Goes Awry: The Ethics of the Rimm ‘Cyberporn’ Study.” Information Society 12, no. 2: 189–98. doi:10.1080/713856140. TWC Editor. N.d. “Submissions.” Transformative Works and Cultures. http://journal.transformativeworks.org/index.php/twc/about/submissions. Walther, Joseph B. 2002. “Research Ethics in Internet-Enabled Research: Human Subjects Issues and Methodological Myopia.” Ethics and Information Technology 4, no. 3: 205–16. doi:10.1023/A:1021368426115. http://www.nyu.edu/projects/nissenbaum/ethics_wal_full.html. Waskul, Dennis. 1996. “Considering the Electronic Participant: Some Polemical Observations on the Ethics of On-line Research.” Information Society 12, no. 2: 129–40. doi:10.1080/713856142.

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White, Michele. 2002. “Representations or People?” Ethics and Information Technology 4, no. 3: 249–66. doi:10.1023/A:1021376727933. http://www.nyu.edu/projects/nissenbaum/ethics_whi_full.html. Zimmer, Michael. 2010. “’But the data is already public’: On the Ethics of Research in Facebook.” Ethics and Information Technology 12, no. 4: 313–25.

DISCOVERING THE AUTHENTIC SEXUAL SELF: THE ROLE OF FANDOM IN THE TRANSFORMATION OF FANS’ SEXUAL ATTITUDES HEATHER J. MEGGERS

Online sexual activity (OSA) is of immense interest to psychologists and sex researchers today, particularly as it affects the sexual function, dysfunction, and satisfaction of individuals and their partners. OSA as a construct includes any sexually-related behavior that is pursued through an Internet connection, and might include activities that are recreational, educational, or commercial, among others (Cooper & Griffin-Shelley, 2002). Early theoretical work by Cooper (1998) focused on “the Triple A Engine” as a driving force behind the growing popularity of internetfacilitated sexual behaviors. The Triple A Engine theory posits that access, affordability, and anonymity serve as the three primary factors that drive increasing OSA. In other words, sexual information is readily available and easy to access, it is usually available at no cost or low cost, and a person’s ability to remain anonymous while engaging in online sexual behaviors increases his or her sense of sexual freedom and willingness to experiment. These factors have been used to explain the occurrence of both negative and positive patterns of OSA, though the bulk of research in the area of psychology today focuses on negative behavioral consequences of online sexual activity. For example, several studies have focused on patterns of problematic or “compulsive” internet use related to OSA (Cooper, Delmonico, Griffin-Shelley & Mathy, 2004; Young, 2008; Meerkerk, van den Eijnden, & Garrettsen, 2006), as well as the role that OSA plays in increasing risky sexual behaviors offline (Carroll et al., 2008; Chiasson et al., 2007). The bulk of this research focuses on male Internet users and does little in the way of examining the positive correlates of OSA.¹ Although much of the research in this area focuses on the relationship between engaging in OSA and risky behaviors, some scholars have considered the opportunities presented by the ready availability of sexual

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materials on the Internet, particularly for women. In spite of the strides made in acknowledging women’s unique sexualities in the wake of the sexual revolution, there still exists a double-standard when it comes to women’s sexuality compared to men’s. Whereas men experience relatively few social prohibitions against having a high sex drive, engaging in frequent masturbation, and using pornography or erotica for sexual arousal, women remain more socially restricted across the spectrum of sexual behaviors. Five areas of opportunity that OSA may provide for women in particular include seeking reproductive and sexual health information, sex education, online relationship seeking, online erotica, and sex shopping (Leiblum, 2001). Here, the Triple A Engine might provide women with unique opportunities to seek out information, materials, and activities that they may feel unable or unwilling to pursue off-line. Online Media Fandom is one community of Internet users where women may be particularly encouraged and enabled to engage in OSA with potentially positive consequences. According to Clerc (2000), “Fandom is a community, a social network of small groups and individuals scattered across the United States, Canada, and other Englishspeaking countries, created and maintained through overlapping, conflicting, complex ties to each other.” Fandom scholars largely acknowledge the online community as a female-dominated space, and one of the primary fannish activities in which females engage is the reading and writing of fanfiction. In many cases, the stories that are produced and consumed by female fans have either explicit or non-explicit sexual situations; some stories use graphic sexual language and describe, in detail, sexual interactions between characters, while others employ classic “fade to black” scenarios, in which less graphic language might be used to describe or even imply a sexual encounter. The sexual behaviors presented in fanfiction vary tremendously, with fanfiction authors incorporating relational and sexual pairings across the spectrum of sexual orientations and writing their borrowed characters engaging in both conventional and unconventional sex acts. In some cases, sexual activity is presented in the context of a romantic relationship, but in others, the sexual activity may exist in adversarial relationships or without any contextual relationship information provided. In addition to being a source for female-oriented erotica, fandom is a community in which discussions concerning sex and gender occur frequently outside the realm of fanfiction, an activity that provides additional opportunities for sex education and information seeking. This chapter presents a portion of results from a large online survey of online media fans conducted in 2009. The purpose of the study was to

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investigate the positive and negative sexual correlates of participation in online media fandom by women. As one part of that study, fans were asked to answer a series of questions that assessed their consumption and production of erotic fanfiction as well as whether or not they had ever engaged in discussions surrounding sexuality with other fans. Following these questions, fans were asked whether or not they felt their participation in online fandom had played a role in changing their own attitudes or feelings about sex, and further, whether or not they felt their sexual behaviors had changed as a function of their fandom participation. The results of this qualitative exploration of perceived consequences of fan participation on sexual attitudes are presented in the following sections.

Fan Participants: A Description of the Sample A total of 485 fans completed this portion of the study. As expected, the fan participants overwhelmingly identified as female (95%), while an additional 2% identified as male and 3% identified as either transgender, gender queer, or as female-to-male transsexual. Participants ranged in age from 18 to 64, with an average age of 31. The majority of the sample selfidentified as heterosexual (66%), but the representation of bisexual (28%) and lesbian-identified (6%) fans was significantly higher than one typically finds in the general population. The fans in this study listed a total of 39 different sites for their fan activity, but the vast majority (79.1%) identified LiveJournal.com as the primary site of participation. Fans in this study identified 140 different fandoms as their “primary fandom” and were typically multi-fannish, or active in several different fandoms as well as fandom genres (e.g. television drama, sci fi, comic book). In addition, they reported participating in a wide variety of fannish behaviors, including reading and/or participating in discussions concerning the media source (93%), watching and/or creating fanvids (70%), and reading and/or posting news, interviews, or spoilers about the fandom (97%). The average fan in this study had been involved in fandom for 7.95 years (sd = 3.80) and spent an average of 18.48 hours per week engaged in fannish activity (sd = 14.42). The overwhelming majority of fans in the current study reported having read fanfiction (99.3%), and most considered “fanfiction reader” an active part of their fandom identity (96.6%). Approximately 81% of the sample had reviewed or commented on fanfiction directly to an author, 54% had recommended fanfiction to other readers, 40% had served as a beta reader at least once, and 60% had authored at least one piece of fanfiction. Of those, 26% reported that they identified primarily as a

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fanfiction author as opposed to reader, though they might still read fanfiction. These fans read and wrote in a variety of genres, including het ship (stories that focus on a heterosexual relationship pairing), slash ship (stories that focus on a male/male relationship pairing), femslash ship (stories that focus on a female/female relationship pairing), PWP (pornwithout-plot, or plot-what-plot, indicating erotic stories written for the sake of the sexual situation rather than a particular relationship or storyline), and gen (stories without a particular focus on a relationship or sexual situations). A significant majority (64.7%) of the fans in the current sample also reported that they had engaged in discussions concerning sexual topics with other fans, including discussions about erotic fanfiction but also about non-fan-related topics such as personal turn-ons and turn-offs, pornography, and discussions concerning sex and gender in a social context.

Fans’ Own Words: Fandom as a Source of Changing Sexual Attitudes Many fans indicated that they believed that participation in online fandom had played a role in changing their own attitudes about sexuality (55.7%). Fans who indicated that they had experienced a change in attitude since becoming active in online fandom were asked to respond to the following open-ended question: “If your attitudes or feelings have changed, how so?” This question prompted responses from 208 fans. In order to search for any common themes that might exist, two independent research assistants who were blind to the study’s purpose conducted a search for themes using a key-word-in-context methodology. Three thematic constructs were identified by both coders. For attitude change, the primary themes identified were a) increased openness, tolerance, and acceptance of others’ sexualities, b) increased openness to and acceptance of one’s own sexuality, and c) increased knowledge. “Well I used to be a homophobic asshole. Then I found slash and it taught me to be accepting, and even open my eyes to my own sexuality. It’s also taught me lots more about sex than a health class ever could.”

Openness, Acceptance, and Tolerance of Others’ Sexualities: Valuing Diversity The most commonly referenced change involved personal attitudes and feelings surrounding the sexuality of other people, particularly as it

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deviates from a fan’s own practices and preferences. The key words that were identified included variations of “open”, “accepting”, and “tolerant”. When combined due to shared context, they create a picture of online fandom participation as an activity that not only increased a fan’s awareness of and exposure to sexuality beyond her own, but also discouraged stigmatization. “Online fandom has made me more accepting to different kinks and lifestyles (eg polyamory) simply through exposure. Spending a long time in fandom, even as a bystander, has made me far less judging of others' kinks which I do not enjoy.” “I have become more accepting of the differences of others and less likely to judge (I hope).”

General statements referencing increased openness were particularly common. Viewed in isolation, these short responses might seem somewhat barren, but when seen in repetition, they highlight the degree to which many fans have found their fandom participation to not only be eyeopening, but encouraging of a greater openness to acknowledging the experiences of others as valid alternative expressions of sexuality and self. “I'm more open to lifestyles, ideas, and practices different than my own experience.” “More open-minded.” “I have become more open-minded in general.” “I've become more open to sexual expressions that are very different than my own.” “Not as naive as I used to be - I'm a lot more accepting.” “I think I've become much more aware of the variety of sexual interests people have and I think that having a greater visibility of sexual habits and interests is a good thing for society as a whole.”

The last fan’s reference to the social visibility of diverse sexualities was echoed by others. Many fans specifically mentioned increased awareness, acceptance, and/or tolerance of non-straight sexualities, either as experienced by gay, lesbians, or bisexuals, or as experienced by individuals who are gender queer, transgendered, or transsexual.

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Discovering the Authentic Sexual Self “I have met more people who are often invisible offline - trans* people, polyamorous people, asexuals, gay and lesbian people in isolated areas and so I'm much more careful about being dismissive or rude about any kind of sex life.” “I've been exposed to many more opinions on sexuality. I became A LOT more accepting of homosexuality after exposure to Queer as Folk and other bisexual/homosexual fans.” “My age group is largely uneducated about gays and lesbians. The internet allows you to mix with all kinds, and you can get a better understanding of other people. I'm much more tolerant now.”

As these fans note, in many cases it is the acknowledgement that the fan community itself is diverse and the understanding that one is or may be interacting with a fellow fan who is lesbian, bisexual, gay, or transgender that may prompt increased tolerance, while continued exposure to fellow fans encourages greater acceptance. In fact, this pattern is consistent with general psychological research on the “contact hypothesis” that finds that greater exposure to a stigmatized group member is associated with more positive attitudes toward that group (Anderssen, 2002; Cotten-Huston & Waite, 2000).² “I was a very sheltered 18-year-old with a conservative Christian background when I first joined fandom. Fandom helped me become more tolerant/appreciative of diverse sexualities and gender identities. It's been very educational! (Would like to point out I'm still Christian, just not as conservative as before.)” “More accepting homosexuality, genderqueerness/transexuality.”

bisexuality,

polyamoury,

and

“More accepting and aware of issues such of transexual and transgendered persons.” “Better understanding of non-heterosexual experiences and lifestyles. With better understanding has come a greater tolerance and stronger concern with their issues.” “I was already pretty tolerant of discussions of homosexuality... but I feel I am even more so since I have been active in fandom. I feel that when I think about love and sex now... I think about people in general... not necessarily about a man/woman couple.”

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Much of the increased awareness is attributed to interactions in the fan community itself, but some participants specifically mentioned the role that fanfiction has played in encouraging more open and accepting attitudes toward others’ sexualities. Fans discussed how the treatment of non-heterosexual relationships in fanfiction in particular opened their eyes to the commonalities shared among people of different sexual orientations, and how this increased understanding encouraged them not only to enjoy these stories at a fictional level, but be more willing to become more socially active on behalf of the LGBTQI community. “I come from a pretty conservative background and hardly anyone discussed any alternates orientations to heterosexuality, so finding a place where I can read about and discuss gay, lesbian, and bisexual relationships has been wonderful and greatly helped me come to terms with my own sexuality. I like how accepting everyone is and how often the emphasis of stories is focused on individuals; that there are equally wonderful stories to be told regardless of whether the characters are heterosexual, homosexual, asexual, etc. I like to believe that reading these stories and discussions of LGBTQI issues, I have fewer prejudices now and a greater ability to be accepting of those I meet, regardless of our differences.” “I am far more accepting of gay relationships than I was previously as the fanfic authors were able to convey that despite what goes into where or how, the characters were ultimately just looking for love and comfort and were no different in that respect than so called "normal" people. I am now very much in favor that homosexual marriage should be legal everywhere in America.”

As evidenced in these fan comments, fanfiction might sometimes encourage readers to empathize and identify with non-heterosexual characters in a way that transfers to real-world attitudes. In fact, perspective taking and empathy have both been found to decrease outgroup stigmatization using general population samples (Shih, Wang, Trahan Bucher, & Stotzer, 2009; Batson et al., 1997). Specifically, when individuals are able to adopt the perspective of an out-group member, they typically exhibit lower levels of prejudice, a relationship that is mediated by increased empathy. Perspective-taking in fandom may take one of at least two paths, one based on fan-to-fan interactions, and one based on fan-to-fanwork interactions. Fanworks that feature well-known characters engaging in same-sex activities may well provide some readers with a venue to understand the point of view of that character in the context of an established cognitive or affective parasocial relationship.³ For some fans,

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this established relationship with a character or fandom may even provide the motivation for out-group exposure in fanspace, both with fanfiction (e.g., “I like to read about this character enough that I’ll try reading them in a same-sex relationship”) and more generally with other fans who enjoy the source text (e.g. “We’re both fans of this show, maybe we’re more similar than I thought”). In combination, a willingness to expose onself to a gay character’s point of view in fanfiction and a pre-existing emotional connection to the text could increase both perspective taking and empathy among heterosexual fans, resulting in less stigmatization and more positive attitudes toward the out-group. This same result could also occur outside the context of fanfiction itself, but instead as a result of both general and sexuality-specific discussions with fans who straddle group boundaries as both in-group members (the fan community) and out-group members (a sexual minority).Ϻ Finally, though nearly all of the respondents who discussed their perception of attitude change as a result of their fandom participation reported increased openness and acceptance, one fan qualified that change by also discussing instances where certain sexual expressions of others affected her less positively. “Feelings about my own sexuality have remain unchanged, but coming into contact with women who have been abused, raped, feel sexless, are single parents, have partners of the same sex, etc. has broadened my understanding of sexual lifestyles that diverge from mine. Understanding the personal sex lives of my community members or, more accurately, those that I consider close friends, has been rewarding and helped me become a more inclusive and open person. It's informed how I write female characters, and how they process their own sexuality. I have also come into contact with thoughts and opinions about sexuality that I find distasteful and unrealistic. As such, I've become critical of writing that exists purely as escapist fantasy and fails to take into account the realities of the relationships described or the sexual acts undertaken.”

At least in this single case, fan experiences can also aid in the drawing of boundaries or comfort zones at the same time that the edge of preexisting boundaries has widened to include the sexual, relational, and gendered experiences of dissimilar others. Coming to understand one’s own sexual values, including likes and dislikes, is an important process in the development of a healthy sexual self-identity, and this theme is explored in greater detail in the next section. However, in this fan’s experience, these boundaries for self seem to have also been projected onto others, at least as far as sexuality is portrayed in writing, and perhaps beyond. One person’s “squicks” are another person’s “kinks,” and in the

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process of better defining one’s own likes and dislikes, there exists the possibility of increasing negative attitudes of others who enjoy something on the “squick list.” Taken in entirety, these fan comments highlight the degree to which online media fandom is seen as a community that encourages, directly or indirectly, a deeper analysis of one’s own assumptions and judgments of the sexual practices and preferences of other people. This analysis has in many cases led to either an awareness of commonalities, an acceptance of differences, or both. Some of these shifts in attitude might be related to the consumption of slash, particularly given that some fans directly alluded to it. It would make logical sense that regular readers and writers of slash might have had more opportunities to take the perspective of and empathize with gay, lesbian, or bisexual characters as they appear in fanfiction, resulting in a decrease in out-group stigmatization. However, fans in this sample tended to be readers and writers of both heterosexual and slash pairing fanfiction and an analysis of responses shows no particular pattern based on reading preferences; in other words, fans who reported reading and writing slash exclusively were no more likely to indicate changes in openness and acceptance of others than fans who exclusively read heterosexual fanfiction. Changes in tolerance and acceptance are likely also associated with broader community factors, including but not limited to interaction with other fans who are sexually and gender-diverse, interaction with fellow fans who are sexually or gender-similar but model openness and acceptance in their relationships with others, and exposure to and participation in open fandom metadiscussions concerning issues of social diversity, prejudice, and privilege. It should be noted that these community factors might be more likely to be true of the LiveJournal fan community than other fan spaces, particularly those associated with more “closed” message board and email list distributions. Given that the majority of the fans in this study identified LiveJournal as their primary fannish space, the potentially unique nature of fan interactions in LiveJournal fandom could be magnifying the tendency of fans to experience increasingly open and tolerant attitudes as a function of fandom participation. However, as noted by Busse and Hellekson (2006), LiveJournal has emerged as an important fan space for study given the large number of fans who participate in fandom, at least partially, through the blogging site. While increasingly open and tolerant attitudes concerning the sexuality of others might be more true in some fan communities than others, the sheer participatory size of LiveJournal fandom makes it an appropriate target for some generalizations to fandom as a whole.

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Openness to and Acceptance of One’s Own Sexuality: The Authentic Sexual Self The second most common theme that emerged in fan responses was in reference to their own self-perceptions of sexuality. In some cases, fans discussed the role of fandom and fanfiction in helping them better discover, articulate, and accept their own fantasies and turn-ons (i.e., “kinks”). In others, fandom participation served as an impetus for acknowledging and accepting one’s own sexual orientation or gender identity. In the words of the fan quoted below, participation in online media fandom helped many women discover their authentic sexual selves. “I didn't understand what really turned me on, what made me feel like an authentically sexual person until I read slash. Fandom and fandom friends were the safe place I could work through all those confusing feelings and make decisions about my sexual feelings, desires and orientation that were true to who I am as a person. Not who society meant for me to be.”

Online fandom spaces, then, provided a perceived safe space for selfdiscovery while at the same time helping give fans permission to acknowledge themselves as sexual beings. In the comments below, the perceived positivity of these metamorphoses is evident in the tone of the language chosen to express these changes. Liberating, comfortable, rewarding, confident: these are all words that fans used to describe their experiences with tuning into their own turn-ons. Beyond that, several people used the term “in touch” when describing this altered view of their sexual selves, indicating a more psychologically personal relationship with one’s own sexual desires and needs but also, perhaps, a more physical one as well. “I am much more honest about and in touch with my sexuality. Fandom has helped me discover turn-ons I never knew I had. I am also much more comfortable with and accepting of different expressions of sexuality in others.” “I feel like I've become more positive about my own sexuality as a result of my participation in fandom.” “I have become much more sexually liberated and comfortable in my sexuality.”

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“I feel like I know myself better, sexually. Since I have been reading explicit fanfiction and discussing the differences between RL sex, I've opened my eyes to what is and what could be.” “I've become more familiar with my own sexuality -- what I find arousing, what kinks I enjoy in fic, and why.” “I feel that I am more open to various expressions of sexuality, more willing to experiment, more in touch with my own fantasies.” “I feel that fandom has made me analyze my sexuality more deeply. It has broadened my spectrum and it made me more comfortable with my sexuality. Also it made me more open and confident about my sexuality in RL.” “I've become much more comfortable with expression of my sexuality, and through the medium of fanfiction have explored kinks that were there but undefined before. It's been educational and rewarding on a personal and sexual level.” “I feel more comfortable talking about sexuality and expressing my sexuality. It's easier, and I feel it's more accepted, saying something turns me on. I've also found other things that turn me on that I never knew would, which I think has made me more willing to explore.”

For some fans, the online community in which they were involved served as a safer place to acknowledge their own sexual identities. Several fans discussed coming out to their fan community first, while others attributed the very discovery of their sexual preferences to online media fandom participation. In this first set of comments, the connecting theme is fandom as a place where some fans either realized or became comfortable with their attraction to women. In some cases, this recognized attraction led to behavioral changes (i.e. dating), and in others, it prompted greater self-awareness and a shift in sexual identity. In particular, several fans reported adopting or acknowledging a bisexual identity as an outcome of this self-discovery. “Before I became active in my current fandom, I never would have considered dating a woman, which I am now doing.” “I am more open to being attracted to women--something I had not felt as strongly before I was involved in the fandom.” “I'm more inclined to accept my own bisexuality.”

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Discovering the Authentic Sexual Self “Fandom's overall tendency to embrace healthy sexuality in all its forms encouraged me to accept my bisexuality in a way my family could/did not. I've also learned a great deal about gender roles, monogamy and various kinks, and I think I've become much more tolerant overall- what happens between two or more consenting adults is none of my business. All of which I feel are positive developments.” “It made me much more comfortable about being open about my bisexuality with RL friends and family.” “I became more aware and accepting of sexuality in general and the various forms it can take. I also became more aware of my own sexuality. While I was not close-minded before, I had never been exposed to homosexuality as anything but theoretical - "gays exist and that's okay, but we don't actually know any of them" - and I had not heard of bisexuality. My family has very "old-fashioned" ideas about sex and marriage and I was too shy and sheltered to look "outside the box". I now have very different attitudes towards sex compared to my parents, and while I am not "out" and have not dated or been sexually active with a member of my own sex (or the opposite sex!), I think of myself as bisexual.”

For some, this process of identifying and articulating one’s own sexuality occurred during adolescence, with fandom serving a facilitative role. Sexual identity development during adolescence is greatly influenced by peer community, both in determining sexual norms, but also in providing context and feedback concerning issues of orientation. In fact, a significant literature is associated with sexual identity development in gay, lesbian, and bisexual youth (see Eliason, 1996, for a review), and several studies have linked participation in gay-related social activities in adolescence to earlier identification of one’s own sexuality (e.g. Morris, 1997; Rosario et al., 2001). For those adolescents who are isolated from similar others, sexual identity development is a longer and potentially more painful process. The fans quoted here clearly identify the community aspects of fandom participation, including exposure to other fans of bisexual, lesbian, and gay identity, as an important factor in their development of a sexual self-identity. Here, fans served as peers, and fandom helped create sexual and identity norms during a critical period of adolescence when searching for the sexual self is a major developmental milestone. “Before I became active in online fandom at the age of twelve, I had no definite idea what my preferences were, exactly. Through fandom I have learned that I'm both lesbian and polyamorous, and not averse to a *little* bit of kink... so... educational!”

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“I have become more comfortable with my own sexuality - prior to fandom I was unsure about finding girls attractive being okay (aged 14) but have long since moved away from that worry, partially due to fandom.” “As a teen (17-18), discovering Xena: Warrior Princess online fandom was the push I needed to question my sexual orientation and realize that I'm a lesbian. I suspect that fandom is largely responsible for me being 1) open-minded about other people's sexual practices and 2) more aware of my own kinks/preferences than I might otherwise be, but I've been in fandom for all of my adult life so it's hard to say.” “When I was in my first fandom, I was sixteen years old and struggling with my sexuality. The people I met in that fandom were open, accepting, friendly, and just plain didn't care that the geeky, sarcastic, ubercaffeinated girl in their midst was also a lesbian (but when they found out that they were the first people I'd ever come out to, they were hugely supportive). Six years later, I'm out and proud, and some of them are very close friends who I've met in RL. I don't feel wrong. I don't feel as though my sexuality is something that needs to be fixed. I am what I am... and fandom did that for me.”

In the process of reading or participating in sexual discussions, or alternatively, through the sharing of erotic fanfiction, many fans find relief from emotions related to negative self-evaluation, such as embarrassment, shame, and guilt. For some fans, this release of negatively-valenced emotions has given them permission to accept their own identities, as illustrated in the fan comments above. For others, a sense of shared sexual fantasies and turn-ons resulted in increased freedom from social proscriptions that attempt to limit female expressions of sexuality. For these fans, participating in online fandom was in many ways doubly liberating; they mention not only becoming more aware of their own sexual selves but also feeling less shame, embarrassment, discomfort and even fright at their own fantasies and desires. “My boundaries have expanded enormously. I've discovered a number of my own personal kinks and fetishes and I've found that I don't need to be embarassed about them.” “Im a lot more accepting of my sexuality, especially with regard to kink. I used to think I was the only person with these kind of fantasies, and felt pretty uncomfortable about it.” “I've become more open to talk about sexual things in real life.. and I nothing grosses me out anymore.. I don't get embarresed or am afraid to talk about explict things”

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Discovering the Authentic Sexual Self “I have become more frank and unembarrassed about my sexuality and sexuality in general. I have gained insight into desires, kinks, relationship choices etc. that I likely would not have been exposed to otherwise.” “I am by far more comfortable discussing sexuality since entering fandom. As a late teen, I felt out my own sexuality and gender differences in part through fanfiction. In general, fandom has made me bolder and less embarrassed about sex, as well as far more educated.” “I feel less guilty about being aroused by things that I objectively find shameful, because I realize that others feel the same way.” “i've become more comfortable with my own fantasy life, in particular around bondage fantasies which used to frighten me” “I am less embarrassed by frank depictions of explicit sexuality and I am far more open to depictions of homosexual pairings.” “I have come to feel less ashamed of the fact that I am attracted to both men and women. I have also become more open to alternative lifestyles.”

Women confront many challenges when considering their own sexualities; for many, attempting to come to an understanding of their own sexual identity can be confusing and complicated. Culturally, women are socialized to view sex in terms of relational intimacy, romanticism, commitment, and above all, privacy. Yet in practice, women often experience interest in less conventional sexual interactions and activities (Leiblum, 2001). For example, research on women’s sexual fantasies has consistently shown that a significant number of women have sexual fantasies involving aggression or violence, such as erotic force (Bivona & Critelli, 2009) or consensual dominance and submission (Zurbriggen & Yost, 2004). Fantasies involving voyeurism , exhibitionism, and engaging in other “taboo” or forbidden acts have also been documented to occur relatively frequently in women (Arndt, Foehl, & Goode, 1985; Hariton & Singer, 1974). In the sexual fantasy literature, many scientists note the role that sex guilt plays in women’s experience of their own fantasies, particularly regarding non-romantic or unconventional fantasies (Leitenberg & Henning, 1995). With increased guilt concerning either sex in general or the fantasy behavior itself comes a reduced frequency of fantasy, reduced arousal, and reduced subjective reports of sexual desire. For these fans, participation in online media fandom might have had a significant impact on multiple aspects of their sexual lives, both online and off, given what is known about the dampening role of guilt and other

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negative emotions such as shame. The experience of sharing and acknowledging female sexuality in fandom peer-to-peer (as opposed to sexual partner-to-sexual partner) may provide a safe, affirming, and educational context that normalizes both psychological and physiological sexual responses. In this community-oriented environment, open discussions concerning sex and sexuality can serve to alter personal perceptions of “normal” sexual interests of women, changing the very social norms on which feelings of guilt and shame stem.

Education and Increased Knowledge: Fanfiction as a Guide The final theme that emerged regarding changes in attitudes and feelings involved variations of education, learning, teaching, and knowledge as keywords. For some women, fandom participation was credited with helping them to learn about sexuality and gender in ways that they were not receiving through their family, friends, or schools. For others, fandom supplemented their sexual educations in ways that were experienced as informative and positive. “I entered fandom at the age of twelve. The extents of my sexual behaviors at the time were occasional furtive exercises in masturbation. Fandom pointed me in the direction of appropriate sex education, opened me to the idea of kink, showed me how the mind more of an erotic tool than the body. For good reason, I had no sexual behaviors before fandom. Thanks to the knowledge I have gleaned through my time as a fan, I have remained safe and intelligent through my sexual behaviors in the meantime.” “I've become better informed and more aware of all sorts of issues, including but not limited to gender and sexuality. I have become more feminist and more supportive of LGBTI rights movements.” “Have learned a lot of things I didn't know and am more open to trying different things.” “I feel that I'm much more knowledgeable about the range of human sexuality and far more tolerant of diversity than I was when i was younger.” “Greater level of knowledge/increased education”

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I've found that it's more common for females to masturbate than is commonly accepted or talked about in real life. I feel like I've become more open to talking about sexuality. Once again, some fans specifically attributed their changing sexual selves to the experience of reading fanfiction. Several fans reported that they learned about sex and also about the sexual situations that turned them on through fanfiction. “Mostly I've just learned more about it. Reading fanfiction has been somewhat educational, not in a bad way. My family doesn't discuss sexuality and I'm certainly not participating in it, so I think it's a safe way to learn a bit more about it while enjoying a well-written story (I don't read fanfiction for the sexuality...I've just come across it in some of the fics I read).” “I basically learned about sex through fanfiction” “I started reading fanfic in my late teens/early 20's. It sounds silly, but in a lot of ways sexual scenes in fanfic taught me quite a lot about sex, and in doing so I feel more comfortable trying different things in 'real life'.” “Fanfiction provided my education about sex beyond the most basic vanilla variety—not from seeking it out, just from being in fandom.” “I feel as if I have gotten more educated about sexuality via fandom. My family is kind of "don't talk about it" when it comes to sex, so what I didn't learn about it in school or from teen magazines, I probably learned from fan fiction. How potentially geeky is that?” “My sexual fantasies have been very much affected by fanfiction and scenarios presented in them. I feel like fanfics became my own sexual education documents into what was possible.”

In fact, one thread that connects all three of these primary themes is the acknowledged role of fan interaction through discussions as well as the sharing of erotic fanfiction in prompting or shaping these changes. Each of the following comments from fans specifically contextualizes psychosexual transformations within fan spaces and at least partially prompted by interactive fan behaviors. Some fans specifically reference their inability to have the same types of discussions off-line, illustrating that online media participation provides unique opportunities for self-andother discovery to these fans.

Heather Meggers “I feel as though fandom has brought many things to my attention. It has allowed me to talk about/discuss things that maybe I wouldn't talk to a person about face to face, but when shared through the common interest of the particular fandom are much easier to mention. On top of that it has made me much more accepting to many different sexual preferences.” “Through discussion with fellow fans I came to realize that I am asexual and genderqueer FTM.” “I sometimes feel closer to my friends within the fandom than I do with my RL friends because of our sexual discussions & shared stories/ experiences/preferences and feel that if we were to become RL friends, it would be a more solid bond.” “When I entered into fandom several years ago, I was essentially on the cusp of puberty as a twelve-year-old girl. I had grown up in a very religious household that tried to ignore sexuality completely. Essentially, fandom helped me to come to terms with my sexuality in a way that my family, friends, and locale have not. I went from being twelve and trying to ignore my sexuality to twenty-one, queer/pansexual, and kinky. I don't think that transition would have been possible without fannish discussions, serious and silly, of characters' sexualities, kinks, and psychologies.” “I was surprised to learn that many other fans seem to lean toward bisexuality and/or be very open to reading, talking about, and being excited about a wide range of fic and pairings from heterosexual to homosexual to groups, etc. I've been impressed for the most part by people's open attitudes and comfort with talking about such a range of topics relating to sexuality.” “I was younger when I began here and being part of fandom and talking about sex and sexuality so freely made me feel more open and welcoming of my own sexuality and to others' as well. And it opened my eyes to practices I may have once considered taboo and made it very every day.” “Fandom definitely changed my attitude toward my own bisexuality and understanding my own feelings and emotions both through fic and discussion.” “I've found sexuality is much more fluid than I would have thought before I became active in Fandom. Part of that is being exposed to a greater number of people on line than I would have been in real life (my reading list is over 200 people), and part of that is the freedom being anonymous. The internet allows people to talk about sensitive and difficult things.”

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Discovering the Authentic Sexual Self “Only in feeling good about helping others to open up to themselves and others and accept themselves as sexual beings. (Many fans are very shy or have self-esteem/body issues, I find. Writing out their desires via fandom has proved positive for many, I believe, and as a writer of published erotica as well as fanfic, I feel good about encouraging this.)” “More liberating. When you don't talk with "real-life" friends on this topic, you wonder what others think. Having a semi-anonymous forum that's partially centered around relationships makes it easier to talk about what's hot, what's not, and just generally feel like sex isn't a taboo.” “Most of my "real life" friends I've made outside of fandom are pretty conservative in terms of sexuality, I don't discuss sex with them at all. I feel much more comfortable discussing things with people online, and if I get to know them in person later, it carries over.” “Have become more inclined to seek out sex. (in other words, I'm Randy!)Have tried recommended sexual suggestions relayed by fandom friends in my RL. Have shared my own personal sexual experiences with fandom friends for camaraderie, support, advice, or just for a laugh.” “I've never had a problem with being bisexual, but I mostly kept my feelings to myself because I thought most people wouldn't understand even if I took the time to explain my viewpoint. Through reading discussions and threads on livejournal in reaction to a post/story, I’ve become more open to discussion. People really want to learn and connect.” “The way I think about sexuality has, I think, become more open, more . . . varied. I've always been a live-and-let-live sort of girl, but reading fanfic opens you up to other people's experience of sexuality in a way that you usually only get in physical sexual relationships . . . or more, probably, because how often do you really talk/write about the nuances of your sexual partner's feelings and experience of sex and arousal? Fanfiction isn't the writer talking about their own personal sexual feelings and relationships, or it isn't necessarily that-- but there is a correspondence. It's their imagination. And the same way talking to people about anything expands your worldview-- the same way reading literature expands your worldview . . . you get the same thing reading fanfiction. Just . . . often focused in a particular direction, and on particular subjects. :)”

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Interpretive Limitations: The Confounding Role of Age and Length of Fandom Involvement This study asked fans to retrospectively report on their own perceptions of changes that have occurred and that they attribute, at least in part, to their participation in online media fandom. Consequently, any interpretation of the data must acknowledge the limitations of this method, as it relies on the participant’s ability to both remember and accurately report on their own attitudes and behavior. More than that, it asks participants to speculate on the potential cause of the change (i.e., fandom participation) when in reality, in the event of an actual change, there are probably many unmeasured contributing variables at play. In fact, several fans spontaneously commented on this in their open-ended answers. In particular, the confounding influence of age was noted, with several fans mentioning that it was difficult to separate changes that occurred because of fandom participation from changes that occurred because of simple sexual maturation due to the temporal overlap. In some cases, online media fandom appeared to provide the context in which these changes occurred, as opposed to providing the impetus for them. “I really grew up participating in online fandom, so it actually helped form a lot of my sexual opinions.” “I wouldn't say that my attitudes were changed, but more that they were shaped in part by my interaction with fandom. I started participating in fandom when I was 12, so some of my earliest attitudes about sex had to have been shaped by what I read in fandom. A lot of my understanding of sex before I was sexually active came from fanfiction.” “I began participating in fandom at the age of 18, 10 years ago, and I know that my attitudes towards my own sexuality and other people's sexuality has changed, and much of that comes merely from the process of growing up. I was a politically liberal and accepting 18 year old, but I was also very hung up on gender, gender roles, and fairly sexually repressed. I do think that fandom is a place I've seen some very good discussions of sexuality from lots of perspectives different than my own and that is always something that helps attitudes change. I feel now that I am much more open with my own sexual desires and the desires of others. I also feel like I have a larger vocabulary to describe what I want, and what I want from others.” “Since I started reading fic as a younger teenager, fandom has been integral to forming my opinions about sexuality outside of tab A -> slot B.”

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Discovering the Authentic Sexual Self “Well, I was a very naive 13-year-old when I started becoming active in fandom, so I got a noticeable amount of my sexual education (intellectually speaking) from fandom. Which is not necessarily a bad thing—I think I'm MUCH more open minded about all things sexuality than I would've been otherwise. Fandom gave me trans friends, genderqueer friends, friends with almost every type or variation of sexuality you can imagine... How could I not benefit from such a wide range of experiences and viewpoints?” “Oof, where to begin? I came into fandom when I was pretty young— about eleven—so it definitely shaped the way I perceive sexuality, others' and my own. I've become a lot more open-minded and tolerant about other people's preferences or kinks, as a way of putting it simply.” “I've been in fandom since I was fifteen and in that time my feelings on sexuality, in general, have changed substantially, as they generally do from teenhood to adulthood. However, I would likely credit fandom heavily with making me enormously more tolerant and accepting of non-traditional sexuality in a myriad of ways.” “I joined fandom as I started puberty, so I think that my attitude toward my sexuality has been tied in with fandom. Fandom was an integral part of my life, so it helped to change what was already happening, I think. Fandom is something that influenced but did not define my sexuality as it was developing.” “...Well, I began fannish life at the age of 10-ish. So I didn't have any attitudes or feelings about sexuality at that point. So it would be totally impossible to separate one from the other, you know?”

Fandom involvement might have influenced these changes, as I have hypothesized, or it might have been a simple covariate during important formative years in many fans’ sexual and emotional maturation. Either way, it is important to acknowledge the perceptual association that exists in many fans’ minds. Whether discussing sexuality with other fans or reading erotic fanfiction directly caused a change in these fans’ attitudes is perhaps less important than that it is often perceived to have done so. Many fans attribute their increasing tolerance and acceptance of other people’s sexualities, their increasing openness and comfort to their own sexuality, and an increase in general sexual knowledge to their fandom experience, particularly those experiences that allowed them to interact directly and indirectly with other fans.

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Conclusion For a large number of online media fans, online sexual activity (OSA) is an everyday part of their fandom experience. Sex researchers have long acknowledged the potentially positive aspects of Internet sexuality, but comparatively few studies in the past have focused on the opportunities for sexual growth provided by the accessibility, affordability, and anonymity of OSA. This study attempted to address this limitation by investigating the perceived attitudinal effects of participating in fandom-related OSA in a predominantly female fan community. Fans were given the opportunity to, in their own words, provide information about the perceived role that fannish activities played in structuring their current sexual attitudes. The changes that were articulated were overwhelmingly perceived as positive, and involved three primary areas including being more open-minded concerning the sexual preferences and proclivities of others, being more comfortable with one’s own sexuality, and being more educated and knowledgeable about a wide range of sexual topics. These results provide some preliminary evidence for the role of women’s online sexual communities, particularly fan communities, in providing important opportunities for women to explore sexual topics with less threat of social censure. While more work is needed to better understand the nature of these relationships, as well as investigate any potential negative outcomes associated with fandom-related OSA, this study is an important first step in understanding the possibilities for positive sexual transformations associated with online media fandom participation.

Notes 1. For a more comprehensive review of this research, see Doring, 2009. 2. For a discussion of how the Internet provides special opportunities for increased contact above and beyond what is possible and probable off-line, see AmichaiHamburger & McKenna, 2006. 3. See Klimmt, Hartmann, & Schramm (2006) for a discussion of parasocial relationships between media characters and media audience. 4. This supposition is in line with Jenkins (1992, 2006) ongoing discussion of fandom community and social movement, particularly his and others’ views of fandom subversion and transformation, not only of original works through fanfiction and other fanwork, but also of the general cultural hegemony.

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Cooper, A. & Griffin-Shelley, E. 2002. “The Internet: The Next Sexual Revolution.” In A. Cooper (ed.), Sex and the Internet: A Guidebook for Clinicians, 1-15. New York, NY: Brunner-Routledge. Cotten-Huston, A.L. & Waite, B.M. 2000. “Anti-Homosexual Attitudes in College Students: Predictors and Classroom Interventions”, Journal of Homosexuality, 38(3): 117-133. Doring, N.M. 2009. “The Internet’s impact on Sexuality: A Critical Review of 15 Years of Research”, Computers in Human Behavior, 25: 1089-1101. Eliason, M. J. 1996. “Identity formation for lesbian, bisexual, and gay persons: Beyond a ‘minoritizing’ view.” Journal of Homosexuality, 30: 31-58. Hariton, E. B. & Singer, J.L. 1974. “Women’s Fantasies During Sexual Intercourse: Normative and Theoretical Implications.” Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, 42(3): 313-322. Jenkins, H. 2006. Fans, Bloggers, and Gamers: Exploring Participatory Culture. New York: New York University Press. —. 1992. Textual Poachers: Television Fans & Participatory Culture. New York: Routledge. Klimmt, C., Hartmann, T., & Schramm, H. 2006. “Parasocial interactions and relationships.” In J. Bryant & P. Vorderer (eds.). Psychology of Entertainment, 291-313. Mahwah, NH: Erlbaum. Leiblum, S.R. 2001. “Women, Sex, and the Internet”, Sexual and Relationship Therapy,16(4): 389-405. Leitenberg, H. & Henning, K. 1995. “Sexual Fantasy”, Psychological Bulletin 117(3): 469-496. Meerkerk, G.J., van den Eijnden, R.J.J.M., & Garrettsen, H.F.L. 2006. “Predicting Compulsive Internet Use: It’s All About Sex!” CyberPsychology & Behavior, 9(1): 95-103. Morris, J. F. 1997. “Lesbian coming out as a multidimentional process.” Journal of Homosexuality, 33: 1-22. Rosario, M., Hunter, J., Maguen, S., Gwadz, M., & Smith, R. 2001. “The coming-out process and its adaptational and health-related associations among gay, lesbian, and bisexual youths: Stipulation and exploration of a model.” American Journal of Community Psychology, 29:133-160 Shih, M., Wang, E., Trahan Bucher, A. & Stotzer, R. 2009. “Perspective Taking: Reducing Prejudice Towards General Outgroups and Specific Individuals.” Group Processes and Intergroup Relations, 12(5): 565577.

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THE ANGRY!TEXTUAL!POACHER! IS ANGRY! FAN WORKS AS POLITICAL STATEMENTS CATHERINE COKER

Introduction When Henry Jenkins published his seminal text Textual Poachers, he borrowed the language of the French sociologist Michel de Certeau to talk about the acts of reading and borrowing texts. “Fandom celebrates not exceptional texts but rather exceptional readings,” he wrote. “De Certeau’s notion of ‘poaching’ is a theory of appropriation, not of ‘misreading.’ The term ‘misreading’ … preserves the traditional hierarchy bestowing privileged status to authorial meanings over reader’s meanings” (1992, 284). Though Jenkins’ own texts ultimately view fan-produced materials as an active rather than a passive form of cultural production, they nonetheless primarily discuss fan texts as further forms of popular entertainment or literature rather than as a conscious act in which an author critically engages with another’s work. In the traditional, hierarchical view of creative works there is an assumed scale of value— with ‘original’ and ‘literary’ works on one end and ‘unoriginal’ material on the other. Some critics have attempted to conflate literary critique with contemporary copyright issues—that is to say, they not only want to judge fan works as being unoriginal but also of questionable legality, thus creating a zero-sum approach to creative expression that has proved problematic to original and fan authors in the last several decades and which cannot function in today’s media-saturated society. Thus recent years have seen both a radical rewriting of both fannish and academic attitudes towards fan works, not least because the omnipresence of the Internet has allowed for increasing dissemination and discussion of these materials. Fan writing and fan works are often seen by non-fans as juvenile or thoroughly imitative, rather than as works to be viewed in their own right: a position at odds with the record of historical literature. For instance, Jules Verne chose to write his own novel, Le Sphinx des Glaces, as a

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sequel to Edgar Allan Poe’s The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. Verne’s book, as it contains another author’s characters and continues their story in a way the original author did not and perhaps never intended to do, can thus be seen as an example of nineteenth century fanfiction. Though it does not function as a form of literary criticism as other such works, such as Jean Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea (which retells Brontë’s Jane Eyre), can or do, it does at least provide a more satisfactory ending for the readers of the original text. In other cases, rewriting texts is one of transparent revisionism, as with Kirill Yeskov’s The Last Ringbearer. The novel is a Russian parody of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings in which the ideologies of the main characters are repurposed so that the heroic epic becomes a critique of totalitarianism. Though openly published in Russia in 1999, the English translation of the text has only been circulating online due to fears of the litigious Tolkien estate. Yeskov’s work rewrites the War of the Ring as the story of multiple soldiers on both ends of a conflict that will ultimately conclude with the replacement of one bloody regime with another. With the idealistic elements removed, the story becomes very different and, emphatically, a work in its own right. The discussion of authorial intention and the text is a notable component in many critical as well as theoretical studies. As fan works have consistently been labeled as a form of imitation (and imitation is the highest form of flattery—hardly a critical perspective) if not pastiche, the relation of the derivative texts has often been subjugated in importance by the source texts. However, this attitude ignores the formidable historical dialogue of the canon. As Sheenagh Pugh and others have convincingly argued, where would Shakespeare be without Plutarch, or Milton without the Bible? The interplay of various texts—mythological, religious, classical, historical—make up most of what we conventionally think of as the basis for formulating literary ideas and thought. Depending on what side of the debate the critic is on, the creator-author’s intentions are thus either the most or the least important area of consideration, particularly for the fan-author whose own iterations and creations create a dialogue with the source work. Both Jenkins and Camille Bacon-Smith initially viewed fan texts as inherently subversive. Jenkins’s classic discussion of slash fandom in particular views the fans’ writings as being remedial in nature, adding a queer presence to an otherwise heteronormative space. Slash has proven empowering to its female fan readers and writers, helping them to articulate and explore their sexual fantasies, bringing them together into a community across various barriers which isolate them.

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Slash, by translating politics into the personal, gave them a way to speak about their experiences and commitments. [emphasis mine] (1995, 264)

Twenty years on, fan texts are no longer read as underground publications but as new, supplementary works in their own right. Early printed fanzines carried a samizdat-like air as they were quietly sold or exchanged via mail or at conventions; ad listings made use of codes to describe their content, with the symbol --/-- describing slash material and --- indicating hetero-normative adult material. This very literal coding of material that was itself passed around surreptitiously, partially for fear of a legal backlash from corporate bodies and partially because they were amateur publishing endeavors with little monetary overhead, reinforced the view of fanworks as a hidden body of literature. However, contemporary fan works are now predominantly distributed via the Internet in electronic formats. Though access to material online is greatly democratized at the press of a button, online communities and resources can be hidden as well: locked for members-only access as protections against minors viewing sexually explicit material like slash art or fiction, for instance. In other communities, stories and poems are posted as f-locked: the file can only be read by someone who is friends with the poster in that web system. Frequently, these barriers are used by the fan authors as ways of protecting themselves from criticism real or imagined. By examining fan texts closely, we will see both exceptional readings and exceptional counter-readings of source texts as fans actively engage their chosen material with their personal politics. By this I mean that when a fan chooses to look at a work as something more than mere entertainment, s/he is ascribing a belief to it—one that the original author may or may not have intended. Frequently, this fan engagement will carry with it an intense emotional charge, either fannish love or anti-fannish hate. In both cases, attempts to address issues found in these source texts liberate the text from the author’s intentions when creating it, thus creating an alternative text some may find preferable to the original. In this view, a reader of such a liberated text may find that Mr. Rochester’s first wife is a Creole named Antoinette rather than the ‘madwoman in the attic’ Bertha or that Aragorn is being manipulated by Elvish king-makers. Fan works can thus become the equivalent of committing a textual coup on the original author, displacing the hierarchical model of textual readings for a more democratic view. Viewing fan texts as liberations of original texts thus allows them to be read side by side with the source work, providing commentary and critique in addition to supplementing the story.

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What Is Textual Liberation? Jenkins’ view of textual poaching presupposes the hierarchical ownership of the text, that is, the traditional (Marxist) theory that intellectual property can be owned, bought, and sold. When fans create new works, they are poaching the intellectual property from its rightful owners to buy, sell, or trade in another market, bypassing the hierarchical model and creating a new, democratic model of textual trade. Rather like latter-day Robin Hoods, fan-authors steal from the rich (corporations) to give to the poor (other fans). However, to many fans, a source text is not solely a property, inanimate and lifeless, but a living thing all its own. As such, to create derivative works from a source text is not even to poach it—as this too would imply an ownership model—but to expand upon it. To engage with the text, to transform it, is in some instances to liberate and rescue a text by providing alternate or variant readings and thus forming new texts. Though Jenkins and academics have been more or less successful in their quest to bestow a similar “hierarchally privileged status”¹ to fan works, and increasingly gains are being made in textual allowances to fans, further critical attention is due the fans’ own authorial intentions and the ways in which these tests engage with and sometimes challenge, rather than merely derive from, original works. When viewed in this manner, the interactivity of textual models can change from one of collaboration to one of opposition; as Jenkins notes, fans transform from passive consumers to active creators, while the text becomes a resistant reading of its source material. The terminology of “resistant reading” likewise assumes a hierarchical mode of ownership, with the fan-creator resisting, ignoring, or otherwise not in alignment with the supposed intentions of the text-creator. This is the historic view of fan studies, keeping the fan text parallel to the original rather in conjunction with it. In the democratic model, it is assumed that authors and texts are, if not exactly equalized then at least less beholden to owners of textual property. What does this then mean, to liberate a text? First of all, it means that the fan author is intentionally setting out to defy the original textcreator’s own intentions to offer a critical or resistant reading, and even to pointedly subvert the text. Secondly, by rewriting the text, the fan-creator has opened the original text to clearly show readings that were present in the original text, but have been extensively clarified through the new text. A well-known (and well-downloaded) example is “Buffy vs. Edward, Twilight Remixed” by Rebellious Pixels (2009). This popular fanvid, disseminated through YouTube and other video websites, intercuts footage from the popular television show Buffy the Vampire Slayer with that of the

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2008 Twilight film adaptation. Though hardly a seamless rendering, particularly with regards to lighting and costume, the chosen clips interpolate pieces of dialogue from both works to form a story in which Edward Cullen becomes obsessed with Buffy Summers. He follows her around school, to the bewilderment of herself and her friends. Buffy confronts him multiple times, until Edward finally admits to a romantic attraction to her. Buffy is disgusted, warns him off, and when his unwanted attentions turn into threats, she stakes him. Rebellious Pixels, a self-described aca-fan, describes the fanvid thus: In this remixed narrative Edward Cullen from the Twilight Series meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer at Sunnydale High. It’s an example of transformative storytelling serving as a pro-feminist visual critique of Edward’s character and generally creepy behavior. Seen through Buffy’s eyes, some of the more sexist gender roles and patriarchal Hollywood themes embedded in the Twilight saga are exposed in hilarious ways. Ultimately this remix is about more than a decisive showdown between the slayer and the sparkly vampire. It also doubles as a metaphor for the ongoing battle between two opposing visions of gender roles in the 21ist century (2009).

Here the aca-fan has purposefully stated that his creation is a critique of popular media and a liberation—or even re-interpretation—of “sexy” hero to stalker. Though it is perhaps better articulated than other such works, it is by no means an isolated creation. Many fans, when interacting with texts, will consciously do so as a critique, either of the text, the author, or sometimes both. In the cases of some works, the identity of the textual creator is so inextricably linked with the text itself (e.g. Joss Whedon (Buffy the Vampire Slayer), Stephenie Meyer (The Twilight Saga), George Lucas (Star Wars), and Gene Roddenberry (Star Trek) that to critique one is to critique the other. For these reasons, it is all the more important that a text be separated from its author. This theory thus departs from Jenkins’s model because it removes the hierarchical status of “privileged” canonical texts: rather than placing source texts “above” derivative works, it acknowledges that texts are created as part of a continuum, with each text and author going on to inspire the next iteration. In this model, the only authority granted a text is that which is granted it by the reader. For example, Jacqueline Lichtenberg’s fanfictional Kraith universe posited a number of ideas about Vulcan culture that influenced many Star Trek fans—including one Ron Moore, who would later go on to write for the Star Trek franchise and later even credited Lichtenberg directly as one of the inspirational figures who kept Star Trek “alive” for him and others while it was off the air. As a

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reader, Moore viewed both Roddenberry’s original text as well as Lichtenberg’s fanfictional text as inspirational, stating that “the best stories” told when the show was off the air were those written by the fans (2005). Though we all know that Roddenberry created the characters and world of the television series, the possibilities opened up by fan writers provide fascinating avenues for character and universe exploration that some may prefer to the canonical text. This in turn transforms a text into a communal property between source creators and fan creators, a shared, meta-textual property that can be a collaborative, mutable thing constantly evolving rather than remaining a static, closed object. Rather than being poached, the text has thus been liberated from the constraining hierarchical model.

Liberating the Text as a Political Act Liberating or extricating a text allows the individual elements of it (characters, plot tropes, mise-en-scene and design, etc.) to be examined more closely. As with any examination, a holistic view creates new and different ways of seeing the bigger picture. For instance, the genre of “mashup” music and videos, in which two or more songs or film clips are combined, demonstrate both the areas of overlap within the texts as well as showing more broadly exactly where and how they differ. Likewise, in Yeskov’s The Last Ringbearer, the introduction of new elements of religion and politics into the world of Tolkien’s Middle Earth transforms the work from a midcentury epic rooted in World War II era dualism to a muddier tale of twenty-first century ethical equivocation. This rewriting of the text allows unexamined aspects of the characters to come to light while at the same time leaving much of the core story intact. When fans repurpose or rewrite texts, they open up new bodies of meaning for discussion and critique of the original work. Depending on the source texts, the introduction of new elements may or may not mesh with the original author’s canon. In some cases, popular elements of fan works become known as “fanon”—canon to the fans and, on occasion, to the original authors as well. For example, Jean Lorrah’s early Star Trek fanfiction introduced and explicated elements of Vulcan culture that were later used in franchise-published professional novels (of which Lorrah herself contributed several volumes). In her excellent study of fan works, The Democratic Genre, Sheenagh Pugh discusses at length the concepts of working within the canon of source texts.

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The canon is for bending and shaping according to the fanfic writer’s preference, but the “love”—i.e. basic respect for it—is important. That doesn’t mean supposing the canon to be perfect. […] Fanfic writers do not speak or think of “my characters” as Anne Rice does in her anti-fanfic statement. But they do speak and think of “our characters”, a shared resource that the whole community of that fandom feels it knows and cares about. You can set the story in a different timeline, cross it with other fictions, write before it began or after it ended or even make it go in a different direction. But in the end you must work with a particular set of people and whatever situation you put them in, they must behave and speak like themselves. (2005, 66-67) (Emphasis mine.)

Pugh later goes on to describe the differences between an “open canon”—in which a source text is still growing and is thus incomplete, as in a television series that is still being actively aired—and “closed canon” in which the source text is assumed to be complete, as with singular films, non-serial novels, or television series which have ended. By working outside of the canon, fan creators are able to expose those elements that are problematic or desirable for critique. For instance, through the above example of the “Twilight Remix,” the troubling aspects of Edward Cullen’s behaviors more effectively come to light through the intercutting of film footage from both Twilight and Buffy. Edward’s actions— breaking into a teenage girl’s home to watch her sleep, his confession of a desire to kill her—stand in stark contrast when presented from the point of view of a character (Buffy) who views him as both loathsome and a threat, rather than from the view of one who views him as sexually attractive (Bella, in both film and books). Other genres of fan texts likewise seek to address some aspect of the source material that the fan finds lacking. For instance, many fan writers will introduce original female characters or expand upon the history and background of canonical female characters in stories whose source texts lack noteworthy women, such as in The Lord of the Rings or in Star Trek. In both of these texts, women are present but play smaller roles than the overwhelmingly male cast. At the time, fans viewed this as par for the course, as mainstream media assumed that women were silent consumers. In more recent years this has changed, and while female characters are still less omnipresent than men in popular culture, there are many more than there were previously—to the point that newer texts that overlook this aspect are even more sharply critiqued. An example of this is the Livejournal community Where No Woman. Subtitled Un-Erasing the Women of Star Trek, they are a self-described “community for fanwork dedicated to the women of Star Trek, particularly those of the 2009 film. [Their] ongoing mission: to seek out personalities not defined by […]

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husbands and sons, to explore the lives lived only off-screen, to boldly go where all of these women should have gone before.” Community members will often post “picspams” or long lists of screen-captured images of the women characters seen in the background of the 2009 film and of the other television series—and there are a lot of women in the background of the these texts, including many human women of color as well as aliens and alien women of color. “Rescuing” female characters from their source texts is a common trope of fan works, not least because so many fan creators are themselves women. The implications of this behavior have been discussed at length in multiple studies, including Camille Bacon-Smith’s Enterprising Women. Beyond that, this aspect of liberating characters and subtexts from their canon is one that is widespread. As a method of redress, fan works thus can be viewed as a sort of manifesto on the part of their authors to correct ideological “wrongs” done to the texts. Each of the case studies below will examine how fan responses were meant to explicate perceived problems with the source text. Of particular note is the character Gaila, the green-skinned Orion woman shown briefly romantically entangled with Kirk. It is never explicated in the film, but Trekkers will note that canonically, Orion women in the original series were the submissive dancing girls and otherwise quite literally sexual slaves to men. The appearance of one in a Starfleet uniform—and two Orion women in Starfleet generally, per the deleted scenes—denotes a notable shift in canonical attitudes on the part of screenwriters Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman. Likewise, Gaila’s popularity in fandom is absolutely rampant, as she is often depicted as almost every character’s best friend, love partner, and general Girl Next Door Who Is Even More Sexually Liberated Than Kirk. Her popularity is particularly noteworthy considering that a close look at the film intimates that the odds of her being among the survivors of Star fleet are on the miniscule side. But since it’s never addressed canonically, viewers will perceive that Gaila is alive, well, and thriving in fandom: her image appears on many a fan’s personal icon, and stories are written about both her past as a slave escaping to freedom and her future as a successful engineer. These examples show anecdotally what happens when fan-texts are unpacked to explicate the political underpinnings of their authors’ engagement with the source texts. Each of these case studies imparts a critical dissection of the original text through a fan’s own work: fiction, film, and meta-commentary. Each narrative genre used provides an alternative for the fan to weave her own work into the source text by

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effectively rewriting the text to its perceived truest form—i.e. what the fan sees it to be. The new text is a remediation of the original source that acts variously as a supplement, a correction, and a criticism. Looking at them altogether provides a partial glimpse into the range of possibilities fan texts offer for discussion both of how texts can be interacted with and how both fans and the original authors themselves interact with them.

Case Study 1: Marion Zimmer Bradley and Contraband While most creator-authors (a term I use to denote the creator of an original work and not fan-text) at best enjoy their admirers’ activities in fandom, and at worst actively seek to end them, very few are actually interested in engaging with fan texts meaningfully. One of those few was the science fiction author Marion Zimmer Bradley, who said of her own most famous fictional world, that “I didn’t invent Darkover, I discovered it.” Bradley herself had long been active in science fiction fandom from the 1940s on, writing, publishing, and editing numerous fanzines before finally making the jump to “pro” writing in the 1950s. Herself an active participant in Tolkien fandom as well as Star Trek fandom, the immense popularity of Bradley’s own Darkover series transformed her from a fanauthor to a creator-author of some renown.² From the 1970s through the early 1990s, Bradley actively engaged with her fans and their fan works by editing and publishing in Darkoverthemed fanzines, holding contests for fan works created from her universe, and finally professionally publishing with DAW Books a set of twelve anthologies of fan-written stories. In most of these works, the fan-authors did not seek to subvert Bradley’s writings. Far from it, many of them wanted their works to be read favorably by Bradley—which she largely did. In a few cases, she would even say of a story, “yes, this is canon now.”³ The truly remarkable thing about Bradley and her fans, called the Friends of Darkover, is that this sizeable community of fans, who altogether published some seventy group newsletters, several dozen zines and other small press publications, as well as other ephemeral matter, did so harmoniously for over two decades.Ϻ Darkover was a very real shared universe with dozens of writers adding to its history and traditions: a true collaboration between the author and her fans, combining canon and fanon liberally. This activity ended abruptly in 1992 when a fan named Jean Lamb wrote a novel starring one of Bradley’s minor characters. Nina Boal, then editor of the fanzine Moon Phases in which the book was printed, described Lamb’s feeling as of being “convinced Marion wasn’t paying

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enough attention to Danvan. And it was like he was a real character, a person” whom she had to rescue from the author in order to “do right by him.”ϻ The novel, like many other fanworks, took a minor character and explicated his back history, bringing him into contact with various other historical characters from the series and enlarging his role. Called Masks, the work was published as a lengthy issue of the fanzine and disseminated amongst the subscribers, who numbered around two to three hundred readers. The custom among fans at the time was to send Bradley herself any zines inspired by her work. Bradley read the novel and then wrote a response to Lamb, commenting on what she thought worked and what didn’t, and closed saying she had enjoyed the book. Reportedly, Lamb felt spurned, and when Bradley announced the forthcoming publication of her next Darkover novel, entitled Contraband, threatened to sue, saying that Bradley had stolen material from Masks. Nervous, her publisher dropped Bradley’s contract for the book, and the novel was not published. Heartbroken, Bradley moved to dissolve the Friends of Darkover, and they ceased all publication efforts. Currently, even the DAW anthologies are out of print. This case has been among the most-discussed incidents in fan publication history, as it is one of the few cases where a fan work has directly cost the creator-author income. At the time, a great deal of blame was placed on Lamb’s shoulders, with Bradley being viewed as an innocent. Increasingly, the view has been taken that Bradley, who at that point had been in the field for quite a long time, was equally culpable. Though seemingly nothing was published about the episode in any of the trade journals, letters and debates about it appeared for quite some time in several fanzines, as well as being referenced in later message boards and online discussion groups. Almost twenty years later, the case is still cited as a cautionary tale to both authors and fans. That said, more recent conversations about what happened frame the “Contraband Incident” as something in which both the fan and the author are at fault. Contemporary authors of source texts tend to now take one of two positions: either acknowledging that fan texts exist but keeping their distance from them for their own intellectual safety, or emphatically condemning them for the same reason.

Case Study 2: The Phantom Edit Particularly in the last decade, the widespread influence of media through the Internet has increasingly been treated as less dangerous and more as an aspect of additional promotion. For instance, the fanworks in

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mega-fandoms such as Star Trek or Star Wars couldn’t do significant monetary damage to their creator-authors if they tried, and most companies know this. Early efforts to discourage fan-works and websites on the Internet have all but disappeared in the age of Google; instead it has become more common for fans to display links to vendors such as Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble facilitate the purchase of materials in their fandom of choice. Mike J. Nichols’s notorious reworking of Star Wars I, known popularly as The Phantom Edit and disseminated through the Internet in 2000 and 2001, has hardly hurt the DVD sales of George Lucas. In fact, reportedly Lucas himself praised Nichols’s film, at least until numerous media outlets such as Salon.com and NPR, etc. began reporting that the fan version was superior to Lucas’s own. Before Nichols’s identity was known, some speculated that the editor was indie darling Kevin Smith, whose well-known films starring slackers and fanboys often include profanity-laden fan critiques of Lucas’s films amongst others. Daniel Kraus, writing for Salon.com (2001), said that the mystery “added to the mystique and appeal, for materialized from out of nowhere was a good film that had been hidden inside the disappointing original one -- perhaps the film that every adult "Star Wars" fan had been hoping "Episode 1" would be.” The film itself is a shortened version of Star Wars I: The Phantom Menace and removes many of the sequences and characterizations that frustrated fans found particularly annoying or egregious, such as the pod-racing scene with young Anakin Skywalker and the thickly accented, foolish character Jar Jar Binks. However, when the popular and fan praise for The Phantom Edit became a little too loud, or perhaps too close for comfort, Lucas and Lucasfilms Ltd. reversed their initial position. Nichols’s film was quickly removed from the various hosting sites, and even today finding a copy or link to the work can be a difficult experience. Though The Phantom Edit is not a political work itself, but the responses it provoked, in many ways, are. At the most basic level, the dialogue between creator-authors and fanauthors is primarily a discussion of control—a control of characters, a control of worlds, a control of money. And in the perceptions of others, who is really the one in control? Legally speaking, it will always be the one who holds the copyright (and the lawyers and their bank accounts) but in the eyes of the viewer, for instance, who is the “real” Jar Jar Binks? The annoying, racist comic-relief Jar Jar, or the subtitled koan-quoting Jar Jar? Some fans might prefer, to borrow from The Mythbusters, to reject your reality and substitute their own.

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Case Study 3: NuTrek Fandom The final case study will focus on the 2009 Star Trek film fandom, often referred to as NuTrek. Star Trek fandom is among the longest-lived, the most studied, and the most active. Historically, Star Trek fandom is perhaps best-known as being among the progenitors of slash fiction. Prior to the reboot film’s release, there was sizeable speculation as to how director J.J. Abrams would handle the issue. After all, in 1979 Gene Roddenberry, himself the creator-author of Star Trek, slipped a reference into his official novelization of Star Trek: The Motion Picture. Explicating the Vulcan term t’hy’la, he noted that the word was used by Spock to describe Captain Kirk, and that it meant “brother,” “soulmate,” and finally, “lover” (Roddenberry, p 6-7). Writing as Captain Kirk, he notes the “rumors” that he and Spock were lovers, before concluding that he, Kirk, has “always found his best gratification in that creature woman.” This being the sentence that launched a thousand fics, active readers noted that, linguistically speaking at least, Kirk would have to have had some experience with males (or other sexual life forms) in order to even make the informed conclusion of “best” gratification. Considering that the writers of the screenplay, Kurtzman and Ocri, were self-described fanboys, fans were eager to see their take on this classic relationship. To the surprise of many audience members in 2009, Abrams chose to portray Spock in a relationship after all—with Cadet Uhura instead of notyet-Captain Kirk. Interestingly, a number of fans and others were shocked and outraged to find that Spock was portrayed in a romantic relationship with a woman—and sadly, not because they were angry that he wasn’t paired with his t’hy’la Kirk, but because more prosaically, he was with a black woman. Characterized by the term “Uhura Racefail,” the issue became another item in the lengthy Racefail 2009 debacle.ϼ Racefail 2009, also known as the Great Cultural Appropriation Debate of Doom, was a lengthy discussion that took place online throughout 2009 regarding the implicit, explicit, and/or complicit racism of science fiction books, culture, fandom, and criticism. It originated with a post on Elizabeth Bear’s online journal discussing the issues of writing “the Other” and cultural appropriation. The Uhura Racefail, as it later emerged, was defined by the numerous online articles and blog posts that decried the black female character Uhura’s and actress Zoe Saldana’s “aggression” towards white male character Spock and actor Zachary Quinto. Her behavior is described variously as “attacking” or “raping” him in the turbolift scene. An illustrative example reads:

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I will admit, it was a sexy scene. But imagine we switched the genders. A young woman is in an emotionally compromised state, having witnessed the murder of a parent and the genocide of her people. She is on the verge of some kind of breakdown. So she goes into a turbolift to head to her quarters, and who should appear but Male Crewmate? Male Crewmate starts caressing her all hotly, kissing her face, saying, “Hey, baby. What can I do for you? You look sad. You look like you need some comfort. Luckily I have some comfort…in my pants.” All right, that’s not exactly what Uhura said, but it’s clearly what she meant. And when the genders are reversed, the scene gets kind of creepy. Actually, hell with that. It’s creepy when Uhura does it! What kind of person tries to take advantage of another person like that? I wouldn’t be all that surprised if Kirk tried something like that, but Uhura? Just give Spock a hug and be done with it! You don’t have to sexually assault him to make him feel better, Uhura! (Mlawski, 2009)

The actual scene in the film referenced is as follows: Spock, having witnessed the death of his mother and the obliteration of his planet, walks into a turbolift. Uhura follows him. The doors close, and she presses a button; the turbolift stops. She embraces Spock, says “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” and kisses him. He hugs her back and buries his face in her shoulder. “What do you need? Tell me. Tell me,” she says, tearing up. He looks away, restarts the turbolift, and says “I need everyone to continue performing admirably.” She nods, says “Okay,” and kisses him again before leaving. To many, the Uhura/Spock relationship would seem to canonize his heterosexuality at the expense of the long Kirk/Spock fan history. To some viewers, this was a slap in the face, as other canonical films such as The Search for Spock had shown an awareness of both fan tropes and expectations. The Reboot—did not. However, unlike many other character pairings discussed in fandom, the Spock/Uhura romance was placed there by the director and the writers, per numerous interviews in the media as well as DVD commentary. Early promotional interviews for the forthcoming sequel in 2012 also state that the characters’ romance will be one of the central plots in the film. In this case, authors wishing to liberate Spock and Uhura from the intentions of Abrams’s text would be committing numerous political “isms”—racism, sexism, etc.—that fans and fanworks are seldom known for. As an aca-fan myself, I thus find these readings to be both interesting and discomfiting since science fiction fandom in general and Star Trek fandom in particular have traditionally been safehavens free of intolerance. In the midst of the RaceFail 2009 debacle, the abrupt and stark eruption of racist vitriol into what had been assumed by many to be the colorblind space of fandom was truly shocking

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to many, including myself. When the next film is released, it will be interesting to see what and how elements may have changed in response to the fans. All of these liberated texts extend discussion of how a fan’s text engages with the original material. Jean Lamb sought to expand and explicate Bradley’s text; Nichols to elide and rewrite Lucas’s; Mlawski to critique the sexualization of canonical characters that are almost, in effect, a fannish reworking of an original text themselves. Each effort seeks to collaborate with the source text by remaining within the confines of the original material while still introducing new elements. At the same time, the fan author exposes and remedies the flaws found in the source text, creating a new supplementary text for other fans to adopt if they wish to do so. Such meta-texts allow for a variety of readings, commentaries, and explications, all of which may be deemed “correct” by the partisans of the debate.

Conclusions The impulses to ascribe meaning, to discuss, critique, and debate, are not just scholarly activities but fannish ones as well. Liberated texts can become a new source unto themselves, which can be subsequently adopted not only by other fans but even by the creator-authors themselves. Such textual collaborations, sometimes known as “fan service,” are becoming increasingly visible in new media. The popular television show Supernatural, for instance, has made fans’ meta-commentary part of the show itself through the introduction of characters that are fans of a ‘fictional’ version of the main protagonists: the climax of this storyline even takes place at a fictional fan convention. As media interplay and dialogue are increasingly becoming intertwined thanks to the omnipresent information exchange of the Internet, textual collaboration is visibly overtaking the previous model of a single creator-author who has hundreds of fan-author offshoots. Instead, we have mega-texts that may be viewed as belonging to various sets of authors, with readers picking and choosing those elements they feel are the “most” true to the text. At the same time, legal debates on multiple fronts argue for the equable and available sharing of information, from Google Books to Wiki Leaks. Does the traditional hierarchical model of texts even have a place in this new environment? As a reader and a critic, I increasingly find this textual deluge helpful because it exposes so very many new avenues to explore. There is no longer one true text or one real author, but rather, thousands.

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Notes 1. Jenkins, Henry. 1992. Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture. p. 284. 2. Bradley edited Anduril, what would become a single-issue fanzine revolving around The Lord of the Rings. One of the stories in that zine, written by her, was entitled “A Meeting in the Hyades” and was a crossover story with her own world of Darkover. It describes her own character, Regis Hastur, who would later become a protagonist in several of her novels, meeting Speranzu—a man whom readers will recognize as none other than Aragorn. She also wrote at least two Star Trek stories, both published in fanzines. The first, a lengthy Kirk/Spock pre-slash story “The Immovable Object,” appeared in the zine The Other Side of Paradise, no. 2. The second, a short femmeslash piece entitled “Cross Currents” and pairing Christine Chapel and Janice Rand, appeared in the zine Obsc’zine no. 4. 3. e.g. Patricia Floss’ “The Other Side of the Mirror.” This story appeared in The Other Side of the Mirror, Ed. Bradley, M. 1987. DAW Books. 4. See also: Coker, C. 2009. “The Friends of Darkover: An Annotated History and Bibliography”, Foundation: The International Review of Science Fiction, vol 104, pp. 42-66. 5. Private interview with Boal. November 26, 2009. 6. An excellent resource describing the episode in detail can be found at the following article: “RaceFail 09.” (online) Available at:

References Jenkins, Henry. 1992. Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture. New York: Routledge. —. 1995. “Out of the Closet and Into the Universe: Queers and Star Trek” in Science Fiction Audiences: Watching Doctor Who and Star Trek. New York: Routledge. Kraus, Daniel. November 5, 2001. “The Phantom Edit.” Salon Magazine. http://archive.salon.com/ent/movies/feature/2001/11/05/phantom_edit/i ndex.html Lichtenberg, Jacqueline. Last modified May 2005. “Comments on Intimate Adventure Genre.” http://www.simegen.com/jl/intimateadventurecomments.html#Reply% 20to%20my%20request Miller, Laura. February 15, 2011. “Middle Earth According to Mordor.” Salon Magazine. http://www.salon.com/books/laura_miller/2011/02/15/last_ringbearer Mlawski. May 18, 2009. “Nyota Uhura, Date Rapist?” http://www.overthinkingit.com/2009/05/18/nyota-uhura-date-rapist/

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Pugh, Sheenagh. 2005. The Democratic Genre: Fan Fiction in a Literary Context. Glasgow: Bell and Bain, Ltd. Rebellious Pixels. 2009. ‘Buffy vs. Edward: Twilight Remixed’. http://www.rebelliouspixels.com/2009/buffy-vs-edward-twilightremixed Roddenberry, Gene. 1979. Star Trek The Motion Picture: A Novel. New York: Simon & Schuster. Where No Woman Livejournal Community. 2009. ‘About page.’ http://community.livejournal.com/where_no_woman/profile

“DISTRESSING DAMSELS:” NARRATIVE CRITIQUE AND REINTERPRETATION IN STAR WARS FANFICTION CHRISTINE HANDLEY

What a woman! If only George Lucas had let her be that woman. —Jeanne Calvos. Star Wars on Trial. Want a different ethic? Tell a different story. —Thomas King, The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative.

“A Mosaic of Quotations”: Rewriting Fan Culture Metaphors In Dialectic of Enlightenment, Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer discuss what they perceive as the threat that mass-produced popular culture poses both to the high arts and to the people who consume this popular culture. According to their argument, this “culture industry” and its associated texts are distinct from canonical texts of “serious merit” (Jenkins 1992, 17) in that they are “no more than the achievement of standardization and mass production” (Horkheimer and Adorno 2002, 1). The culture industry, they argue, turns all participants into listeners and authoritatively subjects them to broadcast programs which are all exactly the same. No machinery of rejoinder has been devised […] and [its listeners] have to accept organization from above. (1-2) From this statement, it is clear that Adorno and Horkheimer see popular culture texts not only as homogenized pabulum, but also as unidirectional—without room for “rejoinder,” the “culture industry” permits only passive acceptance from its audience. Writing against this position, Henry Jenkins argues that “[f]an culture muddies th[e] boundaries” between producer activity and consumer passivity as expressed in this conception of the culture industry, and recognizes that works of popular

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culture merit “the same attention and appreciation as canonical texts” (1992, 17). Adorno and Horkheimer’s problematic associations of popularity with uniformity (and therefore disposability) and of consumers with passivity are critiqued in Jenkins’s works. Nevertheless, Jenkins’s own conceptualization of fans as “poachers,” though a refutation of this passive model of consumer response, is not wholly unproblematic. Although fan authors appropriate textual material without express permission, do such appropriations truly equate to “poaching”? In examining this question, I highlight the misconception of fan practices that lies at the root of the language framing current fan cultural studies, and propose a shift in terminology for my own and future examinations of fan culture that will facilitate a vision of fan productions not as “poaching,” but instead as rejoinders. Applying this proposed shift in my analysis of fanfiction, I argue that these texts function specifically as a critique of the gender ideologies expressed in the source texts of media fandoms that are, “for the most part, characterized by an underrepresentation” of women (Derecho 2006, 71). I analyze the unauthorized Star Wars novel Another Hope by fan author Lori Jareo, against a reading of George Lucas’s A New Hope and, to a lesser extent, the licensed novel based on his screenplay, to highlight points of both congruity and difference between the works in their treatment of the source text’s central, heroic male characters and their female character counterparts. In so doing, I demonstrate that fans’ textual rejoinders to such source texts challenge problematic gender ideologies, in critique of and dialogue with, the original works and their creators.

Problematic Metaphors in Fan Culture Studies Like the popular culture texts on which it is frequently based, fanfiction is often maligned (or, arguably worse, dismissed) as the product of a “subculture that exists on the borderlands” of contemporary culture (Jenkins 1992, 3). It is, however, a genre of writing that counters Adorno and Horkheimer’s perception of the culture industry as generative only of passivity and, thus, forbidding of critique or other rejoinder from its audience. Rather than exhibiting passivity, Jenkins (1992, 18) states that fanfiction authors “assert their own right to form interpretations, to offer evaluations, and to construct cultural canons. [They] raid mass culture, claiming its materials for their own use, reworking them as the basis for their own cultural creations.” Not only does Jenkins conceptualize fans as active figures, but, through his use of the word “canon” and the implicit connection to “high culture” it entails, he depicts fan-produced texts as “artistic productions validated by the official culture” (Fiske 1992, 39).

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To further characterize fans as active agents rather than passive, “mindless consumers,” Jenkins also likens them to “cultural scavengers” and “‘poachers’ of textual meanings” (2006, 172, 174), explicitly referencing Michel de Certeau’s “poaching” analogy in The Practice of Everyday Life (1984). Employing de Certeau’s terms, Jenkins contends that “[l]ike the poachers of old, fans operate from a position of cultural marginality and social weakness. Like other popular readers, fans lack direct access to the means of commercial cultural production” (1992, 26). What is left unaddressed in this metaphor, however, is the question of legality that terms such as “poaching” raise. Reflecting on the central metaphor in Textual Poachers in his subsequent article “The Poachers and the Stormtroopers: Cultural Convergence in the Digital Age,” Jenkins states that “the cultural efforts” of fans-as-poachers can be seen as “collaborations with rather than acts of resistance against the culture industry”—a position which he articulates in contrast to the disruption of the “culture jammers” model, which is purely resistant in seeking to “‘jam’ the dominant channels of communication” (1998). While I agree that a model for fandom studies predicated on the notion of fan activity as “dialogic rather than disruptive” is most applicable, especially in terms of fanfiction, the language Jenkins uses to express this model attributes to fans the very “disrupt[ion]” and “resistance” that he seeks to contradict through his “poachers position”: by definition, the act of poaching is both disruptive and resistant. The characterization of such active reading practices on the part of fan authors as “poaching” or, worse, “despoiling” does not so much suggest “the validity of competing and contradictory interpretations” as Jenkins contends, but rather implies that, in the “ongoing struggle for possession of the text,” the text itself will be raided, fragmented and, by consequence, diminished (1992, 33, 24). My proposed shift from this “poaching” metaphor to one of a dialogue attempts to reconcile this disparity. In his characterization of academic writing, Joseph Harris (2006, 2) argues that “[o]ur creativity thus has its roots in the work of others—in response, reuse, and rewriting.” Harris’s argument could be equally attributed to the production of fanfiction, which must interact with the source text upon which it expands, but whose authors articulate a sense of a concrete distinction between selective appropriation of story elements and intellectual theft. Echoing this distinction in his dissent against the infringement of fair use upheld by White v. Samsung Electronics America, Inc., Judge Alex Kozinski remarked that “[n]othing today, likely nothing since we tamed fire, is genuinely new: Culture, like science and technology, grows by accretion, each new creator building on the works of

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those who came before. Overprotection stifles the very creative forces it's supposed to nurture” (White, 989 F.2d at 1513). Furthermore, similar to this image of creative cultural accretion is Julia Kristeva’s emphasis on the importance of intertextual writing: she states that “the only way a writer can participate in history is […] through a process of reading-writing” (1980, 65). The definition of the creative process as one of “readingwriting” places equal importance on both halves of the singular process: as Kristeva argues, “the one who writes is the same as the one who reads” (87; emphasis mine). Kristeva’s depiction of intertextuality clearly can also encapsulate the processes of fan creativity and textual production; she states that “any text is constructed as a mosaic of quotations; any text is the absorption and transformation of another” (65-66). Applying this contention to considerations of fanfiction, it is clear that the appropriative basis of creativity is not unique to such fan-authored texts. In fact, Kristeva’s “notion of intertextuality” can be expressed more broadly (66; original emphasis): if any text is a mosaic compiled from pieces of antecedent texts, then, implicitly, all texts are constructed in this manner. Given Kozinkski’s definition of the ways in which culture progresses and Kristeva’s argument for the inherent intertextuality of all writing, a shift in the terminology used to characterize fan cultures and their productions is clearly necessary. Like de Certeau’s image of “dances between readers and texts in a place where, on a depressing stage, an orthodox doctrine had erected the statue of ‘the work’ surrounded by consumers who were either conformers or ignorant people” (1984, 175), the complicated “intermediate positions” of active fan cultures in relation to media texts are predicated on a system of give and take, consumption and production. To frame this system in Elizabeth Flynn’s terms, “[s]elf and other, reader and text, interact in such a way that the reader learns from the experience without losing critical distance; reader and text interact with a degree of mutuality. […] Self and other remain distinct and so create a kind of dialogue” (1983, 237). It is the concept of the dialogue which I propose is more useful than the enduring and “influential notion of fans as ‘textual poachers’” adopted by Jenkins and recapitulated in subsequent studies of fan culture (Parrish 2007, iv). To replace Jenkins’s terms for discussing fanfiction with terminology derived from Bakhtin, the notion of the dialogue that the latter proposes permits “constant interaction between meanings, all of which have the potential of conditioning others” (Bakhtin 1981, 426). Speaking of Bakhtin’s dialogism, Kristeva argues that the model proposed by the term is one in which a “literary structure does not simply exist”—a static model

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reminiscent of Adorno and Horkheimer’s unquestioned and passively received culture industry—but instead “is generated in relation to another structure […] a dialogue among several writings: that of the writer [and that of] the addressee” (1980, 65; original emphasis). By ascribing writing to the addressee as well as to the original writer, Bakhtin’s “dialogic imperative […] ensures that there can be no actual monologue” and, as a result, “threatens other more closed systems” in which those who are addressed (in this case, the audience of fans) are unable to respond (Bakhtin 1981, 426-27). Although the poaching model that Jenkins adopts does allow for writing on the part of the audience, the language he employs casts fan writing in purely oppositional terms, rather than linking audience and author through writing. By contrast, when applied as a model for fanfiction studies, the conflation of author and fan-addressee suggested in Bakhtin’s definition of dialogue allows the possibility for an (admittedly idealized) space, “in which the author” of the original text “would merely be one voice among many and where his ideas would wield no more weight than any other” (Wexelblat 2002, 217). The threatening of closed systems of interpretation and the notion of a single author is especially important, given the gendered division suggested by Alan Wexelblat’s masculine pronouns when referring to the author, and the fan author segment of fandom which is, according to previous fandom studies, predominately female. As Kristeva notes, “Bakhtinian dialogism identifies “writing as […] communication” (1980, 68); like de Certeau’s poaching model, which “allows for the validity of competing and contradictory interpretations” (Jenkins 1992, 33), the concept of a dialogue between fan and producer (or between fan and fan) through the production and reception of fan texts rebuts the notion of a single, legitimate interpretation of a text determined by the producer and passively accepted by the consumer. Instead, Kristeva argues, “Bakhtin considers writing as a reading […] and the text as an absorption of and a reply to another text” (1980, 69), an argument which, applied to an examination of fanfiction, can be used to emphasize the importance and critical intent of these fanauthored rejoinders. Importantly, however, and unlike the poaching model, this concept not only deconstructs the hierarchy between producer and consumer maintained by de Certeau (in which active readers, still marginalized, may only produce their interpretations illicitly), but also provides a space in which the conversation continues, the “texts meet, contradict, and revitalize each other” (78), and the producers in turn respond to their fans through further textual production. Writing ten years before Adorno and Horkheimer, Bakhtin argues, “imagine the work as a rejoinder in a given dialogue, whose style is determined by its

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interrelationship with other rejoinders in the same dialogue (in the totality of the conversation)” (1981, 274; emphasis mine). By engaging in this conversation through the creation of their own works, fanfiction authors counter Adorno and Horkheimer’s assertion: writing the rejoinder to the culture industry is possible.

Masculine Text, Feminine Response: “Women’s Pleasures” and Star Wars Fandom Taken together, the epigraphs to this chapter speak both to the problematic portrayals of female characters in media texts, and to the solution that fanfiction offers to the audience of those texts: the ability of the fans to tell a different story, offer a different perspective, and rewrite equality into texts rife with marginalization of subordinated groups. These fan-authored texts create their responses by coming out of the margins (literal and figurative) to “open up possibilities” for alternative voices silenced within the media source material and, in so doing, to force a “reevaluation, on the reader’s part, of all that is taken for granted” in the original texts (Derecho 2006, 76, 70). In their introduction to Fan Fiction and Fan Communities in the Age of the Internet, Kristina Busse and Karen Hellekson argue that “fan fiction and the discourses surrounding it” cannot be viewed as a “uniform force of resistance,” as “fandom itself is not cohesive” (2006, 22, 6). Therefore, to ascribe a single position or rationale for writing fanfiction to fans as a collective group would be overly homogenizing; not only do fan culture practices differ between fandoms (6), but also within fandoms as well. Acknowledging the diversity of fandom expressed in these observations, as well as the heterogeneity of each fandom’s practices and participants, there are nevertheless some broad claims that can be made about the gendered composition of fandom as a whole. Fan culture studies over the past two decades indicate that while “men actively participate in a wide range of fan-related activities” (Jenkins 2006, 43), the portion of fandom which actively engages with the original texts in order to rewrite and critique them in fanfiction is, overwhelmingly, female. The relative anonymity of authors’ identities created by screen names and icon avatars in some ways creates a gender-neutral space; however, it is also a space where the default assumption is that the authors are women. Traditional gender inequalities are thereby inverted: male authors are the minority group within fandom culture. From the discrepancy between a commercial media “dominated by male producers” (Busse 2009, 105) and the “almost exclusively feminine response” of fanfiction (Jenkins 2006, 43), it is

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unsurprising that a “feminist impetus” can be determined in the ways in which these female fan writers make use of source material to create their own competing narratives within male-dominated media texts (Busse 2009, 105). Hélène Cixous conflates the reclamation of space for marginalized voices within dominant discourse through such written responses, with feminist response; she argues that “[w]riting is working; being worked; questioning (in) the between” (1986, 86), and locates “femininity in writing” through “interchanging, mak[ing] the text gaps or form[ing] it out of suspenses and silences” (92). It is this form of “writing, from and toward women” in order to “affirm women somewhere other than silence” that is also evidenced in the textual productions of female fans (93). Through (re)writing female characters out of canonical roles marked by “inaction and irrelevance” (Cavelos 2006, 306), fan authors counter the dominant media representations which, in terms of Star Wars, tend to give primacy to the exploits of their male heroes. Lori Jareo’s unauthorized Star Wars novel, Another Hope, can be viewed as an example of this proposed reclamation of “feminine interests” from a predominantly masculine-oriented text through such interchanging of characters and traditional gender roles (Jenkins 2006, 44) However, while Jareo overwrites the “traditionally masculine action-oriented” aspect of science fiction in her text by de-emphasizing the role of the male hero, she does not “re-conceptualize [the] genre” of Star Wars to wrench the story to fit what Jenkins characterizes as the “type[s] of women’s fiction” that are “more familiar and comfortable formulas” for expression: “the soap, the romance, and the feminist coming-of-age novel” (50). Though it may have been unintentional, Jenkins’s list of comfortable, female formulas participates in the gendered stereotyping that denigrates female interests; stereotypes that Jareo challenges through her novel. Instead of these “comfortable formulas” (50)—and important both to her resistance to the cultural ideology expressed in the original text and to her reclamation of a feminine space within it—Jareo “enter[s] into the archives of maleauthored texts” (Derecho 2006, 67) by adhering to and expanding upon the recognizable generic signifiers of science fiction. In her work, Jareo refutes the differentiation between male and female pleasures by both shifting the focus of A New Hope from male to female heroism, and by introducing an even tighter focus on the ostensibly male pleasure of technology than evidenced in the original films. Specifically, she elaborates upon the technical specifications and weapons capabilities of the various starships in Lucas’s Star Wars universe.

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The original film script describes the opening visual of a space battle: “A tiny silver spacecraft, a Rebel Blockade Runner firing lasers from the back of the ship, races through space. It is pursed by a giant Imperial Stardestroyer. Hundreds of deadly laserbolts streak from the Imperial Stardestroyer, causing the main solar fin of the Rebel craft to disintegrate” (Lucas 1976). By contrast, Jareo writes of the same ship in Another Hope: [The] much larger Corellian-made vessel measured five-hundred-forty meters at its widest point [….]. Like other capital ships in the fleet, the Devastator had two stubby nodes atop its conning tower. Those nodes wrapped the ship’s titanium hull in a protective electron screen, deflecting both matter and energy. The half-dozen ten-millimeter laser guns on the fleeing Tantive IV, the so-called “Blockade Runner,” would never so much as sting its pursuer. (2005, 13)

The discrepancy in detail between original script and fan novel could be seen as arising from a difference in media—a film may visually complete the textual gaps of a script, while a novel relies solely upon its text. However, the licensed novelization of A New Hope shows a similar lack of focus on the technological specifics of the star destroyer in the same scene: “The source of those multiple energy beams suddenly hove into view—a lumbering Imperial cruiser, its massive outline bristling cactus-like with dozens of heavy weapons emplacements. Light ceased arching from those spines now as the cruiser moved in close” (Lucas and Foster 1995, 4). The juxtaposition of Jareo’s phrases (which specify the names, sizes, origin of manufacture, and types of vessels and their armaments) against Foster’s (which only vaguely describe the same) counters the division of “women’s pleasures” in science fiction texts from male ones: Jareo’s detailed descriptions not only align with but further emphasize the tropes of what Will Brooker (2002, 199) calls the “traditionally male genre” of science fiction, beyond that which Lucas and Foster themselves wrote. Her work thereby underscores the limitations of such artificially imposed textual gender divisions.4 It is the juxtaposition of fan text against original canon that allows fan authors the “opportunity to highlight the inequality of women’s and men’s situations” in these texts “by creating new versions of earlier stories and producing a contrast between the old and new tales” (Derecho 2006, 68). By engaging with the ostensibly masculine “needs” of the text in order to frame her “feminine countertext” to it (Jenkins 2006, 58), Jareo highlights this suggested gender inequality in the Star Wars franchise—the contrast her novel creates between original text and fan text is not one of genre, but one of gender ideology.

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“George Lucas’s fairy tale”: Problematic Princesses in Star Wars Another Hope begins with the recognizable line, “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away,” which immediately sets the novel within the “fictive universe” of Star Wars (Jareo 2005, 9; MacDonald 1998, 135). The opening also invokes the similar introductory refrain of fairy tales. Jeanne Cavelos makes this fairy tale reference in Star Wars explicit, referring to the Star Wars saga as “George Lucas’s Fairy Tale” (2006, 305), and invoking in particular the major female characters’ roles of princess and queen. While Carrie Fisher contends that she views the character not as “a damsel in distress,” but as “a distressing damsel” (quoted in Spangler 2006, 331), Cavelos notes that any power Leia possesses at the outset of the film is lost along with Leia’s home planet, the destruction of which concurrently “make[s] her title of princess meaningless” (Cavelos 2006, 308). Cavelos identifies Leia as secondary to the film’s plot, and locates this decline from “action hero [to] passive victim” at the moment Leia ceases to be a princess—with the destruction of Alderaan (308). Presenting Lucas’s films as participating in the fairy tale tradition, however, implies that the lack of power and passivity is inherent to Leia’s function as a princess in the narrative. In Morphology of the Folktale, Vladmir Propp argues of fairy tale character types that “the names of the dramatis personae change” between stories, “but neither their actions nor their functions change” in forming the action of the narrative (1968, 21). Speaking of specific character functions, Propp notes that “the sphere of action for a princess” consists of being a “sought-for person,” while “the sphere of action of the hero” is to depart “on [the] search” (79, 80; original emphasis). This gendered division of action is likewise apparent in Lucas’s fairy tale—the “quest motif” of A New Hope is reserved for the male “seeker-hero[es]” Luke and Han and their rescue of the princess-indistress (Wright 2008; Propp 1968, 80). In contrast, “[w]ithin minutes of the movie’s opening, Leia is captured […]. She spends the next hour [of the film] waiting to be rescued” (Cavelos 2006, 310). Although the argument could be made that Leia initially participates in a quest narrative of her own—to deliver stolen Imperial plans to the Rebel Alliance—she does so “at her father’s bidding” (313); her agency is subordinated from the outset of the film to a (male) authority figure. Moreover, her quest fails, while that undertaken by the male characters succeeds. Though not in the sense she originally meant, Fisher is correct to describe Leia’s characterization as “distressing.”

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Beyond the general fairy tale structure she derives from the Star Wars saga as a whole, Jareo directly alludes to the first film, A New Hope, both through the title of her novel and by repeating verbatim the text seen at the beginning of that film. In so doing, Jareo sets up the concurrent reading of multiple texts that is a primary facet of fanfiction’s ability to explore and critique the canon of original works. Alluding to the moments of similarity and difference between source and fan texts, Derecho argues that “when one reads a work of archontic writing […] one is really reading two texts at once. The prior text is available and remains in the mind even as one reads the new version” (2006, 73). Derecho’s proposed concurrent-reading strategy for works of fanfiction recalls the notion of works functioning as “rejoinder[s] in a given dialogue” (Bakhtin 1981, 274). Rather than each work being considered separately as a “closed authorial monologue,” works must be read in relation to each other for the “totality of the conversation” to be understood (274). Contradictions or divergences in the new text can be read as “resistance” to the source (280); however, it is important to note that the resistant texts can only be fully understood in relation to the original texts from which they diverge—resistance is in itself dialogic. Fanfiction rejoinders such as Jareo’s novel admittedly constitute only half of the dialogue; media franchises also respond to fan productions, “seek[ing] to absorb or mimic the appropriative aesthetic of participatory culture” with the end goal or “reach[ing] hip, media-savvy consumers” (Jenkins 2003, 292). Though fandom’s cultural productions are not appropriated and reworked into the Star Wars franchise (as is seen in television series such as Supernatural6), LucasFilm Inc. supports fan film competitions, and Lucas himself “has paid tribute to several […] fan filmmakers” (299). While this is at odds with the otherwise aggressive stance of LucasFilm Inc. in “trying to halt fan cultural production” (290), the acknowledgement and encouragement of these alternative Star Wars films suggests a willingness to continue the dialogue started by fan responses, even if it will be a dialogue closely monitored by the franchise. When considering Jareo’s Another Hope in reference to Bakhtin’s discussion of dialogue, the prior text held in the reader’s mind is A New Hope, which George Lucas is quoted as calling a “boy’s film” (Brooker 2002, 200), and which is dominated by male characters and their actions. The film also emphasizes a binary of male action and female passivity. Virginia Hoke notes that “[t]he main roles for women in the Star Wars saga are, of course, Princess and Queen […] they prefer planning to acting, require protection and rescue, and serve primarily to continue the Jedi bloodline” (quoted in Brooker 2002, 200-203). Apart from the escape from the Death Star where she suggests the route through the garbage

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chute (an action which nevertheless depends upon the initiating action of her rescue by Han and Luke), Leia both literally and figuratively takes a back seat to the male characters, observing the piloting of the Millennium Falcon, and passively—if anxiously—waiting and watching during the ultimate attack on the (male-dominated) Death Star by (exclusively male) rebel pilots. The epigraph to Lucas and Foster’s (1995) novelization of the film—an epigraph presented as a quotation from Leia—exemplifies this emphasis on male activity and heroism: “They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Naturally, they became heroes” (2). In Lucas and Foster’s use of the exclusionary “they” versus an inclusionary “we” in this passage, Leia is both set outside the group of male heroes and their exploits, and is reduced, through her own words, to the role of observer. Given these details, “[o]n the face of it,” as Brooker argues, “Star Wars would seem to have little to offer a female fan” (2002, 200). It is this “boy’s film” and its representation of a patriarchal culture that provides the background, “first text” against which Jareo’s revisionist Star Wars history is to be read (Derecho 2006, 73). The first edition of the novelization of A New Hope was entitled Star Wars: From the Adventures of Luke Skywalker (Lucas and Foster 1995, v), a title that explicitly positions Luke as the central, heroic figure of the Star Wars saga. This positioning is echoed in the title of the original Star Wars film A New Hope, which is explained in The Empire Strikes Back when Obi-Wan, speaking of Luke, remarks “that boy is our last hope”—the hope for the rebellion, and the titular “new hope” for the Jedi Order. Though Yoda replies “No, there is another” in reference to Leia, the female “other” that she represents is nevertheless figured as alternate—and secondary—to the male hero. As Lucas explains the evolving concept of the film, “it was always about these twins, and their father…. At some point I took the female lead and made her the hero and then, eventually, I shifted it around to the male character” (quoted in Spangler 2006, 331). Jareo’s novel implies a reversal of Lucas’s shift to a male hero in its title, explicitly invoking the feminine countertext to Lucas’s film by announcing its discussion of Another Hope—of the “other,” female hero who is referenced, but never called upon, in Lucas’s saga. That Leia is never portrayed as this “other” hero, and never “receives any real Jedi training” in the films (Spangler 2006, 332) is considered by some critics to be “one of the biggest of the Big Five broken promises of the entire series” (Brin and Stover 2006, 339) As David Brin argues, speaking of the conversation between Obi-Wan and Yoda about this “other” hero who could bring balance back to the Force,

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Narrative Critique and Reinterpretation in Star Wars Fanfiction That statement—so filled with dramatic portent—promised a big payoff. When we learned that the “other” was Leia, that was just fine! Our appetites were whetted for her to do something marvelous! [....] Do you feel that there was a payoff worthy of this clue? (339)

The lack of payoff in terms of a female hero that Brin regrets here is reintroduced into Jareo’s novel, although interestingly, she chooses not to embody this “other hope” in Leia (as the quotation from The Empire Strikes Back in conjunction with her novel’s title would suggest). In Another Hope, Jareo maintains the same sequence of events as A New Hope, but replaces the main cast of male heroes—Luke, Obi-Wan, Han, Chewbacca, and the droids, as Brooker identifies them (2002, 200n473)—with a sole female hero of her own creation: Ryoo Naberrie, a “mess management specialist” aboard the Death Star (Jareo 2005, 27). The insertion of this original female character demonstrates both Jareo’s knowledge of Star Wars canon, and a “compositional intertextuality” that broadens the scope of the primary original text (Busse and Hellekson 2006, 28); in Jareo’s case, the previous story lines referenced are the “prequel trilogy” of Star Wars films, produced after A New Hope, but which bear directly on its events—Ryoo’s last name is a direct reference to Padmé Naberrie, Luke and Leia’s mother, who figured prominently in the prequel films and who was equally problematic in her characterization. In Another Hope, Ryoo’s similarity to “her beautiful, regal aunt” is frequently remarked upon (Jareo 2005, 29, 69, 202). Given this explicit connection between Ryoo and Padmé, and that Jareo’s novel was published in 2005, the same year that The Revenge of the Sith (the final film in the Star Wars prequel trilogy) was released, not only does Ryoo’s heroism in Another Hope question the emphasis on male characters in the original film, but it also permits Jareo to “rehabilitate [an] existing female character” who fell short of her potential (Brooker 2002, 204), by effacing and overwriting Padmé’s limited cinematic role. This discussion of the female characters both present and implicit in Jareo’s work is not to say that the male cast of characters from the original film are omitted altogether; the first hundred pages of Jareo’s novel parallel the sequence of events in A New Hope almost exactly (save for a few, spliced-in scenes to introduce Ryoo), often repeating long passages of dialogue from Lucas’s film and novel. However, the central male characters who are present throughout the original film are eventually removed from the action of the novel, thus presenting an alternative history for the Star Wars universe: Obi-Wan, Luke, and the two droids— along with the intercepted Imperial transmissions containing the Death Star’s schematics (Jareo 2005, 20)—are on the planet Alderaan when the

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Death Star’s attack causes the planet to “explod[e] into superheated clouds of gases and dust,” and so die along with the rest of the planet’s inhabitants (117). Han and Chewbacca are similarly removed from the events of the novel. Having delivered their passengers to Alderaan shortly before it is destroyed, they receive their payment and depart (104); neither character appears again. Important to the formation of critical fan texts are, as Busse and Hellekson argue, “understandings of canon, the events presented in the media source that provide the universe, setting, and characters” (2006, 9; original emphasis). Writing in the same universe and maintaining roughly the same canon storyline as A New Hope, Jareo fills the roles vacated by the characters discussed above with the character of Ryoo, and so contests the necessity of a male hero in the boy’s—and boys only—movie that A New Hope was created to be. Like Luke, Ryoo has “Anakin’s lightsaber” (Jareo 2005, 76), though instead of receiving it from the patriarchal Jedi mentor, Obi-Wan, she “brought [it] with her” from home, after finding the discarded belongings that “Anakin left behind when he vanished” (75); Ryoo is also the pilot who ultimately destroys the Death Star (282). Like Luke and Han, Ryoo orchestrates Leia’s rescue, though instead of relying on R2 D2 to discover the princess’s location, she discovers it for herself: she “search[ed] for the location of a recent arrival to the detention area. After a few minutes, the [data]pad returned the query: cell block AA-223” (76); moreover, Ryoo’s rescue is more “discreet” and effective in that the two women escape from the Death Star unnoticed (157): “she kept them on course, and the lightsaber in Leia’s hand lit their path. The women were away from the detention block in no time at all” (131). Finally, like ObiWan Kenobi, Ryoo is aware that Leia and Luke are Darth Vader/Anakin’s children, and she gives Leia Anakin’s lightsaber the way Obi-Wan does Luke in the film (210, 131). This alteration of canon is especially important for Jareo’s construction of a feminist countertext to Star Wars, as Leia, even after she eventually becomes a Jedi in the Expanded Universe (EU) novels, “never [receives] a lightsaber” of her own—a weapon that Cavelos (2006, 324) characterizes as even more of a “symbol of male power” than the guns Leia does occasionally fire throughout the films. The substitution of Ryoo for Obi-Wan is further underscored in Vader’s assumption that Ryoo is, in fact, Obi-Wan. In a repetition of dialogue from A New Hope, Vader states “[h]e is here […] I told you, he is here,” when he is, unknowingly, referring to Ryoo herself (Jareo 2005, 169). By having her characters default to using masculine pronouns, as Vader does, Jareo exposes the problematic ideology underlying the Star

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Wars franchise, one that devalues female characters in relation to their male counterparts. While Vader’s assumption that the disturbance in the Force must come from a male character can be attributed to the fact that Obi-Wan is the only other Jedi of whom he is aware, similar instances pervade Jareo’s text: speaking of the “detention personnel” after Leia’s escape, Vader orders Tarkin to “have those men visually verify she is in that cell” (169-70); the officer who reports on Ryoo’s piloting of a stolen shuttle states, “[m]y men and I are positive [….] Here he is, just before he goes out of range” (181-82); and Imperial soldiers are uniformly depicted as men (17), or are referred to collectively as “crewmen” or “wingmen” (273, 271). Nor is Jareo’s critique of this prejudice wholly limited to depictions of the Empire, as male characters in the Alliance murmur that Ryoo is “not a trained pilot” (199; original emphasis) in contrast to the “thirty pilots in orange flight suits” assembled to attack the Death Star, all of whom are men (244). It is, however, the Empire that Jareo indicts most specifically. On the Death Star, [a] half dozen Imperial admirals, one army general, and a colonel sat around a black conference table, which was polished to a sheen. […] These men, not one over fifty-five years old, controlled vast sections of the Navy or the Army. Scores of other men, mostly commanders of the Navy’s capital ships, were in other conference rooms nearby […]. (63)

The image of the collected commanding forces being, to a one, male— a fact which the full paragraph makes even more explicit—is juxtaposed against that of Ryoo, a “messworker” on the Death Star (66). Although the noun is gender neutral, the implication—when it is set in contrast to the other, gendered nouns noted above—is that neutrality equates to femininity (64). By contrast, other groups (soldiers, pilots, and other Imperial officers), as exemplified in the above quotation, are also collectively referred to as men. Jareo makes the problematic gender ideology underlying Lucas’s films explicit through the contrast of male figures controlling the Death Star and the rest of the Imperial fleet with female figures at the bottom of the hierarchy in the role of “cook,” “waitress,” or “servant” (199, 134, 175), all terms which are used to define Ryoo’s position. Moreover, by equating this ideology with the Galactic Empire, the villains of Lucas’s created universe, Jareo firmly aligns gender inequality with evil, a “threat” which is “eliminated” with Ryoo’s destruction of the Death Star (272), and which is rewritten with Jareo’s revision of A New Hope. Jareo’s novel thus functions to rework what Cixous refers to as the “[s]ubordination of the feminine to the masculine order”—a subordination

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perceivable in A New Hope—by inverting the “opposition between activity and passivity” (1986, 65; original emphasis) that Cixous discusses, in which “the question of sexual difference is treated” by associating masculinity with activity and femininity with passivity (64). Given the insertion of a new female character to replace the overwhelming majority of male heroes in the film, Jareo’s text does not, to use Cixous’s terms, merely portray a woman “function[ing] ‘within’ man’s discourse, a signifier referring always to the opposing signifier that […] puts down or stifles its very different sounds”; instead, through Ryoo, it works to “displace this ‘within,’ explode it, overturn it, grab it, [and] make it hers” (95-96). In its emphasis on the typically marginalized and oppositional voices of female characters within a “media product that, for the most part, [is] characterized by an underrepresentation of women,” Jareo’s novel embodies fanfiction’s ability to operate “as a technique of social, political, or cultural critique” when read in rejoinder against the original texts from which it is derived (Derecho 2006, 71, 66).

Crossing Critical Lines Speaking of the ubiquity of derivative texts, Cory Doctorow argues that “it’s no failing that we internalize the stories we love, that we rework them to suit our minds better.” And indeed, Jareo’s novel does rewrite A New Hope to suit different minds—and different and marginalized perspectives—better. Through it, she exposes the overwhelming emphasis on male characters both explicitly in her heavily-gendered descriptions and implicitly through the similarities and differences in characterization and plot that the reader notices between the original and new text. But despite its feminist revisioning of Lucas’s male-centric films, there are “other constraints, ethical constraints and self-imposed rules, enacted by the fans, either individually or as part of the larger community” that speak to the almost unilaterally negative reception of Jareo’s work (Jenkins 2006, 40). As an in-depth discussion of the legal factors regarding the work being first offered for sale on, and then removed from, Amazon.com is beyond the scope and focus of this project, I will instead—if briefly— touch on the antagonism generated against the work within the Star Wars fandom. Speaking of fanfiction generally, author Robin Hobb (2005) states on her website that “[f]an fiction is like any other form of identity theft. It injures the name of the party whose identity is stolen. When it’s financial identity theft, the thief can ruin your credit rating. When it’s creative identity theft, fan fiction can sully your credit with your readers.” This

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unilateral characterization of appropriation as intellectual theft is naturally not made by fanfiction authors; there is, however, a definite if frequently unarticulated distinction between transformative use and copying, or what Kristeva (1980, 73) defines as repetition: “claiming and appropriating […] without revitalizing” the source text. Expressing this position in a comment to an online discussion of Jareo’s novel, fan author Ivylore remarks, “[t]hat the book could […] have most of its introduction ‘cut and pasted’ from the ANH [A New Hope] novelization amazes me” (quoted in Lazypadawan 2006; original emphasis). Likewise, speaking of the balance between the “gift economy” and the commercial “market economy” to which he believes all art—and artistic tributes—belong, Jonathan Letham (2007) entreats readers and writers: “[d]on’t pirate my editions; do plunder my visions. [….] You, reader, are welcome to my stories. They were never mine in the first place, but I gave them to you. If you have the inclination to pick them up, take them with my blessing.” Letham’s term “plunder” invokes similar negative associations as Jenkins’s “poaching”; the distinction he makes between editions and visions, however, is of more significance to this distinction between appropriation and repetition. While Jareo does engage with Lucas’s visions in order to open them up to heretofore omitted voices of female characters, the long spans of verbatim dialogue and entire scenes taken from A New Hope (which, combined, comprise more than a quarter of Jareo’s novel) could be interpreted, as in Ivylore’s response, as constituting a level of “pirating” of Lucas’s original work. In contrast to the perspective on Jareo’s work held by other fans like Ivylore, the repetition of Lucas’s words could itself be read as transformative use of the text: like Pierre Menard’s (re)construction of “the Quixote itself” in Jorge Luis Borges’ (1939) “Pierre Menard: Author of the Quixote,” the verbatim passages in Another Hope can be read as less a “mechanical transcription of the original” than “a few pages which […] coincide—word for word and line for line” with the text from which they are derived. The fact that the passages are transplanted from a maleauthored film to a female-authored text requires a new interpretation that accurately reflects a new textual context. Certainly, the depictions of Luke’s life on Tatooine—a segment of Jareo’s novel that most closely echoes the film—must be read differently when his quest ends in the destruction of Alderaan instead of in triumph over the Death Star and the Galactic Empire. In this way, repetition itself becomes a form of dialogue: Jareo selects specific moments from Lucas’s work and casts them in a new light, simply by altering the overarching narrative of which they are a part. Even in this interpretation of Jareo’s text, however, there remains a tension

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between her subverting Lucas’s masculine text through an appropriation and repurposing of his dialogue, and both subsuming her own voice and reaffirming the very textual authority she seeks to challenge in her novel by repeating his text so exactly. Although the novel blurs critical boundaries of commerciality and the limits of appropriation set, respectively, by producers and fan consumers of media texts, Jareo’s work nevertheless functions as a rejoinder to Lucas’s films and Lucas and Foster’s novel by challenging Star Wars’ position as, in Bakhtinean terms, a “self-sufficient” text that “presum[es] only passive listeners beyond its own boundaries” (Bakhtin 1981, 274). Jareo draws heavily upon aspects of the Star Wars universe and frequently makes use of Lucas’s own phrases and images; however, as Kristen Brennan (2006) notes, so too does Star Wars itself draw upon Frank Herbert’s Dune. Although the amount of material appropriated and transformed may not be to the same extent, the comparison is worth noting: “there are no new ideas under the sun,” and all works are, to some extent, intertextual (Doctorow 2007). As Bakhtin characterizes them, textual rejoinders lead “a double life” (1981, 284). Such rejoinders, he argues, are “structured and conceptualized in the context of the dialogue as a whole […]. One cannot excise the rejoinder from this combined context made up of one’s own words and the words of another without losing its sense and tone” (284). Applying Bakhtin’s depiction of such texts to fanfiction studies, both Jareo’s novel (and even Lucas’s films) can be considered examples of textual rejoinders, each responding to a difference source text. As a result, by casting Lucas and his works as unknowing partners in this dialogue, not only does Jareo’s novel contribute a new perspective to the source text under consideration—Lucas’s A New Hope—but Jareo herself also counters what Benjamin (1988, 234) calls the “distinction between author and public” by occupying a position that is an amalgamation of the two— as critical reader/public of Lucas’s work and author of her own rejoinder. In so doing, she counters Adorno and Horkheimer’s contention that the culture industry engenders only a passive response on the part of the audience. It would be reductive to suggest that only fanfiction that is entirely female-centric in contrast to male-dominated media texts can be said to demonstrate critical thought on the part of fan authors. Regardless of the content of their rejoinders, many fans “find empowerment in their consumption of popular culture,” and they in turn write fanfiction because they enjoy the source material and wish to continue it (Harris and Alexander 1998, 43). Overemphasizing fans’ affinity with an original

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work, however, runs the risk of ignoring the frustration that counterbalances this fascination: the perceived narrative flaws that require intervention, expansion, and revision through fanfiction. As Jenkins (1998) writes, “[f]ans reject the idea of a definitive version produced, authorized, and regulated by some media conglomerate. Instead, fans envision a world where all of us can participate in the creation and circulation of central cultural myths.” Removing the binary of resistant/co-opted practice—a binary upheld by referring to fans as “poachers”—from discussions of fandom activity in favour of the dialogue model not only demonstrates that works of fanfiction offer more insight into original texts in their points of congruence and difference, but also permits a space in which producers may recognize and implement the critiques and new narrative possibilities offered in fanfiction responses in their own works. As a result, the removal of this binary allows for the extension of “all of us” referenced in Jenkins’s above quotation to include both producers and fans in creative participation to make new cultural meanings. Through such productive interaction between reader/fantext and producer/original text, the different perspectives and marginalized groups recognized in fanfiction works may ultimately be brought out of the margins of officially produced culture. As Jenkins notes, “creative reworkings” of texts “have become increasingly central to how contemporary popular culture [both fan and commercial] operates” (2003, 282). In a world where “companies seek to tightly regulate the flow” of their intellectual property (285), fanfiction works such as Jareo’s novel cannot hope to compete with corporations like Lucasfilm Inc. in terms of economic power or influence; there is a very real power differential between a self-published fan author and a franchise with its own legal team. However, opening up a text to “new, creative input” ultimately only “increases its cultural value (if not its economic worth),” and therein lies the importance of fanfiction despite that power differential (289). Although still subject to discrepancies in economic arenas, Jareo’s work and others like it assert the position of fanfiction not as the product of a subcultural movement, but as the utterance of an equal partner in the creative dialogue.

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References Arpe, Marlene. 2004. “Television’s Afterlife.” Toronto Star. 22 May. Bacon-Smith, Camille. 1991. Enterprising Women: Television Fandom and the Creation of Popular Myth. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 1981. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, Austin: University of Texas Press. Borges, Jorge Luis. 1939. “Pierre Menard Author of the Quixote.” Accessed March 15, 2011. http://www.coldbacon.com/writing/borgesquixote.html. Benjamin, Walter. 1988. Illuminations. Edited by Hannah Arendt. New York: Schocken Books. Brennan, Kristen. 2006. “Frank Herbert's Dune.” Star Wars Origins. Accessed June 19, 2010. http://www.moongadget.com/origins/dune.html. Brin, David, and Matthew Woodring Stover, eds. 2006. Star Warson Trial: Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Debate the Most Popular Science Fiction Films of All Time. Dallas, TX: BenBella Books. Brooker, Will. 2002. Using the Force: Creativity, Community, and Star Wars Fans. New York: Continuum. Busse, Kristina. 2009. “Fandom and Feminism: Gender and the Politics of Fan Production.” Cinema Journal 48(4):104-106. Cavelos, Jeanne. 2006. “Stop Her, She’s Got a Gun!” How the Rebel Princess and the Virgin Queen Became Marginalized in George Lucas’s Fairy Tale.” In Star Wars on Trial: Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Debate the Most Popular Science Fiction Films of All Time, edited by David Brin and Matthew Woodring Stover, 305-322. Dallas, TX: BenBella Books. Cixous, Hélène. 1986. The Newly Born Woman. Translated by Betsy Wing. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press de Certeau, Michel. 1984. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: University of California Press. Derecho, Abigail. 2006. “Archontic Literature: A Definition, a History, and Several Theories of Fanfiction.” In Fan Fiction and Fan Communities in the Age of the Internet: New Essays, edited by Karen Hellekson and Kristina Busse, 61-78. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co. Doctorow, Cory. 2007. “In Praise of Fanfic.” Locus Magazine, 58(556). Accessed June 15, 2010. http://www.locusmag.com/Features/2007/05/cory-doctorow-in-praiseof-fanfic.html.

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Imadra_Blue. 2006. “[meta] But What Are Your Thoughts on Dilution and Creativity?” Livejournal.com. Accessed May 10, 2010. http://imadrablue.livejournal.com/226367.html. Jareo, Lori. 2005. Another Hope. Cincinnati, OH: WordTech Communications. Jenkins, Henry. 1992. Textual PoachersTelevision Fans & Participatory Culture. New York: Routledge. Jenkins, Henry. 1998. “The Poachers and the Stormtroopers: Cultural Convergence in the Digital Age.” Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Accessed December 14, 2010. http://web.mit.edu/cms/People/henry3/pub/stormtroopers.htm. Jenkins, Henry, Tara McPherson, and Jane Shattuc, eds. 2002. Hop on Pop: The Politics and Pleasures of Popular Culture. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Jenkins, Henry. 2003. “Quentin Tarantino’s Star Wars? Digital Cinema, Media Convergence, and Participatory Culture.” In Rethinking Media Change: The Aesthetics of Transition, edited by David Thorburn and Henry Jenkins, 281-314. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. —. 2006. Fans, Bloggers, and Gamers: Exploring Participatory Culture. New York: New York University Press. King, Thomas. 2005. The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Kristeva, Julia. 1980. Desire in Language: A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art. New York: Columbia University Press. Lackey, Mercedes. 2006. In “Fanfic: Force of Nature.” Making Light. Accessed May 1, 2010. http://nielsenhayden.com/makinglight/archives/007464.html#122196 Lazypadawan, 2006. “More thoughts on Another Hope-Gate.” Livejournal.com. Accessed May 10, 2010. http://lazypadawan.livejournal.com/224931.html. Letham, Jonathan. 2007. “The Ecstasy of Influence: A Plagiarism.” Harper’s Magazine, February 2007. http://harpers.org/archive/2007/02/0081387. Lewis, Lisa A. 1992. The Adoring Audience: Fan Culture and Popular Media. London: Routledge. Lucas, George, and Alan Dean Foster. 1995. Star Wars: From the Adventures of Luke Skywalker. New York: Ballantine Books. MacDonald, Andrea. 1998. “Uncertain Utopia: Science Fiction Media Fandom and Computer Mediated Communication.” In Theorizing Fandom: Fans, Subculture, and Identity, edited by Cheryl Harris and

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Alison Alexander, 131-152. Hampton Press Communication Series. Cresskill, NJ: Hampton Press. Parrish, Juli J. 2007. “Inventing a Universe: Reading and Writing Internet Fan Fiction.” PhD diss., University of Pittsburgh. Accessed February 10, 2010. http://etd.library.pitt.edu/ETD/available/etd-08072007170133/unrestricted/Parrish2007.pdf. Propp, Vladmir. 1968. Morphology of the Folktale, 2nd ed. Austin: University of Texas Press. Pugh, Sheenagh. 2006. The Democratic Genre: Fan Fiction in a Literary Context. Bridgend, Wales: Seren Books. Radway, Janice A. 1986. Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature, 2nd ed. Charlotte, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Scalzi, John. 2006. “The 2006 Stupidest FanFic Writer Award Gets Retired Early.” Whatever. Accessed May 13, 2010. http://www.scalzi.com/whatever/004162.html. Spangler, Bill. 2006. “Fighting Princesses and Other Distressing Damsels.” In Star Wars on Trial: Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Debate the Most Popular Science Fiction Films of All Time, edited by David Brin and Matthew Woodring Stover, 329-338. Dallas, TX: BenBella Books. Waters, Darren. 2004. “Rowling Backs Potter Fan Fiction.” BBC News Online. Accessed May 1, 2010. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/3753001.stm. Wexelblat, Alan. 2002. “An Auteur in the Age of the Internet: JMS, Babylon 5, and the Net.” In Hop on Pop: The Politics and Pleasures of Popular Culture, edited by Henry Jenkins, Tara McPherson, and Jane Shattuc, 209-226. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. White v. Samsung Electronics America, Inc. 989 F.2d 1512, (9th Cir. 1993). 1993. Accessed March 27, 2010. http://scholar.google.ca/scholar_case?case=6700507284792208030&h l=en&as_sdt=2,5&as_vis=1. Wright, Julia M. 2008. “Latchkey Hero: Masculinity, Class and the Gothic in Eric Kripke’s Supernatural.” Genders Online Journal 47. Accessed February 18, 2010. http://www.genders.org/g47/g47_wright.html. Zimmer Bradley, Marion. 1985. “Fandom: Its Value to the Professional.” In Inside Outer Space: Science Fiction Professionals Look at Their Craft, edited by Sharon Jarvis, 69-86. New York: Frederick Ungar, 1985.

STORIES BY/FOR BOYS: GENDER, CANON AND CREATIVITY WITHIN WARHAMMER 40,000 FANFICTION JOHN WALLISS

Introduction In recent years there has been a growing interest in the gendered nature of fandom, with a number of commentators highlighting how, all things being equal, males and females are both attracted to different types of fandom and engage in different sorts of fan production (if they engage at all). Most, if not all discussions of fanfiction and vidding, for example, have highlighted how both are predominantly practiced by females. Fanfilm production and machinima, in contrast, are typically the preserve of male fans (see, for example, Jenkins 1992; Bacon-Smith 1992; Brooker 2002; Jenkins 2006, 43; Sandvoss 2005, 16; Coppa 2008, 2009; Pugh 2005; Long 2009). Indeed, according to Henry Jenkins (2007) there may also be a gender divide within fan scholarship, with female scholars typically locating themselves and their work as members of fan communities within the discipline of fan studies, while male scholars typically locate themselves within other, broader intellectual fields that had overlapping concerns with fan studies1 (for a more in-depth discussion see in particular the recent Gender and Fan Studies debate at http:// community.livejournal.com/fandebate/). One area in particular where there would appear to be marked gender differences is in terms of the nature of fan creativity. The consensus again within the fan studies literature is that male fan creativity tends to be more orthodox in focus, whereas female fan creativity tends towards being more transformative. Male fans, in other words, are content to “colour within the lines” of the particular canon, whereas female fans typically seek to transform, or do “more with”, the source material. Writing over two decades ago, Henry Jenkins (2006 [1988], 44), for example, argued that “the compulsion to expand speculations about characters and story events beyond textual boundaries” is more of a “feminine” than a “masculine"

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interpretive strategy (see also Russo 2009, 128). Male fans, he suggested, consequently feel more comfortable talking and writing about “future technologies or military lifestyle” rather than “pondering Vulcan sexuality, McCoy’s childhood, or Kirk’s love life” (ibid., 43). More recently Bob Rehak (2008, no pagination) has highlighted the “apparent gender split between traditionally female fans who produce work considered to be transformative, and male fans... who gravitate towards activities that uphold and extend the essence and ideology of the parent text, rather than diverting from it and working ‘against the grain’”. In particular, echoing Jenkins’ point above, he suggests that male fans are drawn more to what he terms “blueprint culture”: an interest in the technical aspects of the canon, such as schematics of the Millennium Falcon, or producing wikis that seek to catalogue characters, events and locations found within the canon (cf Penley 1997, 117-8: see, for example, Toton 2008 on the Battlestar Galactica wiki). Many studies of fanfiction have focused on the ways in which female fans seek to re-read the canon of various films, TV shows or novels, refocusing it to better serve or represent their own interests and concerns (Busse and Hellekson 2006, 17). This may take a variety of forms. In some instances, fan-authors have sought to shift the focus of attention away from the main (typically male) characters towards other, lessdeveloped (typically female) characters, such as Nurse Chapel or Lieutenant Uhura in the original Star Trek series. In other cases, they have sought to “slow the action down” and focus more on the often-neglected, emotional relationships between lead characters (Jenkins 1992 1995; 2006; Pugh, 2005). This has, in many cases, found expression in forms of “slash” literature in which these notionally heterosexual male characters are depicted together in romantic/homosexual relationships. Perhaps not surprisingly, this latter form of fanfiction has generated the most controversy and received the lion’s share of academic discussion (see, for example, Russ 1985; Lamb & Veith 1986; Jenkins 1992, chapter 6; Penley 1997; Cicioni 1998; Gwenllian Jones 2002; Busse & Hellekson eds. 2006; Kustritz 2003; Scordari 2003). My aim in this chapter is to contribute to this growing debate around gender and fan creativity by examining the largely unexplored area of male fanfiction. Drawing on interviews with male authors of fanfiction based on the Warhammer 40,000 miniature wargame (Games Workshop, 1987-; hereafter W40K), I will explore the different ways in which their work interacts with the W40K canon. In doing so, I will show how for the majority of them the originality of their work lies not so much in the ways that it transforms the canon, but rather through the ways in which it

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enriches it, by, for example, adding either depth to the W40K universe or by shading in areas of the universe that have not been explored within the canonical literature. I will also explore some reasons for why this is the case, suggesting a confluence of different factors ranging from desire for publication to the wish to avoid social disapproval and gain readers, through to the heavily gendered nature of the W40K universe. To this end, my analysis will be structured in three main sections. In the first, I will briefly introduce readers to W40K fandom, highlighting the nature of the W40K canon and the role that it plays within fan creativity. Following on from this, in the next two sections, I will draw on my interviews with W40K fan-authors to explore a variety of issues around the areas of canonicity, gender and originality.²

Warhammer 40,000 W40K is a tabletop miniature war-game produced by the UK company Games Workshop (www.gamesworkshop.com) and set in a dystopian Gothic future 38,000 years hence where humanity, represented by the Imperium of Man, stands on the brink of extinction, threatened on all sides by a multitude of enemies. Within the W40K universe, to use one of the game’s slogans, “there is no peace, only war”, with each species fighting often just to survive. On earth (Terra), superstition and dogma dominate, the knowledge of science and technology having been lost millennia before, and a God-like Emperor, who has ruled the Imperium for ten thousand years, holds power. To play W40K, players collect then paint plastic and metal 28mmscale miniatures sold by Games Workshop of a particular army/species within the W40K universe (such as, for example, the elite “Space Marines” of the Imperium, heretical “Chaos Space Marines”, malevolent “Chaos Daemons”, or “Space Orks”)³. Once a player has collected and painted their army, they may then engage in tabletop wargames with friends, ranging in size and complexity from minor skirmishes with a few miniatures to mass “Apocalypse” battles involving many hundreds of miniatures and futuristic vehicles using a relatively straightforward rules system developed by the company over the last two decades (Cavatore et al., 2008). Such battles are not necessarily re-enactments of battles that occurred within the W40K narrative universe - in the way that, for example a historical war-gamer might recreate the Battle of Waterloo or Gettysburg - but are, rather, generic battles/missions of the type that might take place in that universe between the different armies/races, such as battles to take and hold objectives, seize ground, or simply to annihilate

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the enemy. The W40K canon nevertheless provides the background context in which these missions occur, describing both the history of the W40K universe and its inhabitants, as well as offering fictionalised visions of warfare in the 41st Millennia to inspire gameplay. It is, however, not essential to be thoroughly immersed within the W40K canon to play a game of W40K, and, indeed, players will differ on how loyal they are to the “fluff”, as it is called, when collecting and gaming with their armies. On the one hand, some players will strive to adhere to the “fluff” for their particular army, making sure that it only contains those characters, units, vehicles and so on that are canonically accurate. Many will also, like historical wargamers, go to great lengths to paint their armies in the “correct” liveries and with appropriate insignia. On the other, many “powergaming” players will, while still staying within the rules of the game, eschew what is canonically accurate in favour of constructing armies filled with high-powered units or weaponry (or “cheese”) in order to increase their chances of winning games. As one moves within W40K fandom away from gaming into fanfiction and other areas of fan creativity, the canon begins, however, to exert a stronger influence (see Walliss 2010). Several online repositories for W40K fanfiction, for example, insist that authors only post stories that are true to the canon (cf Pugh 2005 on the Jane Austen fanfiction site, The Republic of Pemberley). To quote the first two rules, for example, of the fanfiction section of the Astronomican forum: 1. When creating a story never create a story that go[es] against the fluff, or is a corrupted version of the fluff if you do not intent [sic.] to show why the story goes against the fluff. If you are doing it to show people are lied to, that is fine. 2. When introducing a new story make sure that its first; a sound idea and secondly that it is 40k.Ϻ

This emphasis on remaining true to the canon was also shared by the majority of the fan-authors that I interviewed, with many stating that it invariably made a story worse if an author intentionally went against it. “Honsou”, the author of the previously cited rules on the astronomicon forum who defined himself as “a strong proponent of the fluff”, argued that “a story is without a doubt worse if it goes against the fluff. Indeed I would argue that it has failed in the task it set out to complete”. As he put it later in the interview, ...the role of fanfiction is not to attempt to change the nature and parameters of an existing universe within which it is set....While exploring

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subject matters that have not been touched upon previously is good, indeed to be encouraged, the author must ensure that they remain true to the existing background and the essence of the background, while doing so.

Indeed, a number of fan-authors expressed the view that, aside from any explicit rules such as those outlined above, there was also an implicit pressure within W40K fandom to remain true to the canon. “Chris”, for example, recalled how, in his early fanfiction, he had been “extremely concerned with staying inside the boundaries of Warhammer 40K fluff”, adding that “the existing fluff is kind of a Bible of sorts... the established fluff is law, and breaking that is to commit some unwritten crime”. For the majority of W40K fan-authors, then, canon provides a clear, often unarticulated, set of parameters for their work, an unambiguous set of lines that delineate both what is W40K from what is not, and the nature of the 40K universe itself. Nevertheless, as is often the case within many different fandoms, within W40K fandom there is some degree of debate about both what should be considered as canonical and the relative degree of canonical authority that should be accorded to different sources. Will Brooker (2002), for example, has drawn our attention to the debates that take place within Star Wars fandom over issues such as whether or not the original or the remastered versions of the original Trilogy should be considered as canonical as well as the status within the canon of a variety of spin-off media such as TV shows, novelisations, radio adaptations or computer games. More recently, Lance Parkin (2007) has outlined similar debates within Doctor Who fandom, highlighting, in particular, the difficulties in articulating a central canon within a fictional universe that has been created over several decades by dozens of different authors and producers. Within W40K fandom, material produced by Games Workshop or one of its subsidiaries is seen to possess canonical authority, with material sanctioned, but not produced directly by Games Workshop seen as having significantly less, if any, authority. At the absolute apex of canonicity, then, are the Official W40K rulebook, the individual rulebook supplements produced for each army (or “Codexes” as they are known) and any articles published within the company’s official monthly magazine, White Dwarf. All this material is produced in-house by staff members within its design studio. Elements of this material have changed over time, with each subsequent revision superseding its predecessor. Carrying slightly less canonical authority are books and other material produced by Games Workshop’s subsidiaries, Forge World and the Black Library. The latter, Games Workshop’s publishing division produces novels set within the W40K universe that “flesh out” the canonical

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material found within codexes and the official rule book, such as the series of (at the time of writing) nineteen novels and four audio dramas that narrate the story of the great schism within the Imperium of Man 10,000 years prior to the events of the 41st Millennia that provides one of the central leitmotifs of the universe. As these, however, are typically written by freelance authors, including, on occasion, fan-authors who have won competitions, rather than being produced in-house by Games Workshop, they are often seen as possessing less canonical authority, particularly if their content is believed to contradict “higher level” source material. At the opposite end of the scale, one finds material produced by other companies under licence from Games Workshop, such as roleplaying games, comics and graphic novels, and computer games. While much of the content of this material clearly stems from the “higher level” material, it is typically seen as non-canonical because it is not produced by Games Workshop itself and often contains elements that contradict this material. Nevertheless, the W40K universe is still a largely underdeveloped one, containing numerous areas that have not been explored in any of the canonical sources. Indeed, this indeterminacy is itself one of the W40K universe’s central tropes; that much of its history is, as one fan-author put it, “simply unknown or forgotten or deliberately covered up” (“Richard”). As will be explored in the next section, W40K fanfiction authors typically eschew elaborating on existing characters and those parts of the canon that have been explored within official sources. Instead, they set their stories within the multiplicity of gaps, often exploring the “little stories” typically left unexplored within the canon, whether that be the dying moments of a soldier on the battlefield, letters sent home from the frontline, or even, indeed, life within one of the multitude of hiveworlds within the Imperium. In doing so they believe it is possible to both adhere to the canon and yet still tell original stories that enrich their understanding of the W40K universe.

A Universe “Practically Designed for Fanfiction” The second dominant theme that came out my interviews with W40K fan-authors was their emphasis on originality. When asked what, for them, were the defining characteristics of good W40K fanfiction the recurring response was that it used the canon in an innovative way. Equally, when asked what they believed were the defining characteristics of bad W40K fanfiction, the majority of them pointed to issues such as lack of originality and derivative plots, alongside more practical concerns such as bad spelling and grammar. Too many W40K fan-authors, they claimed,

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merely mimicked the style and tone of published stories or produced what was termed “bolter-porn”; endless descriptions of bloody battles between common foes with little or no plot, suspense or character development.ϻ The key task for W40K fan-authors, then, is to try and innovate within the definite parameters of the W40K universe; to balance, in other words, the demands of remaining true to the W40K canon with the desire to move beyond derivative story-lines and “bolter-porn” into producing more innovative and original material. They achieve this through two main, overlapping strategies; what I shall refer to as Filling the Gaps and Refocusing the Camera respectively.

Filling the Gaps Primarily, W40K fan-authors use their fiction to fill the various gaps within the W40K canon. As noted above, the W40K universe is, to quote “Mark”, “so frickin’ huge”; encompassing huge vistas of time and light years of space, both of which remain largely unexplored within official sources. To give an example, the 9,000 year period between 15,000 and 24,000 CE, known as the “Dark Age of Technology,” is only briefly sketched out within official source material Indeed, according to canon, the exact details of what transpired during this period have been either forgotten or censored from official Imperial accounts. Consequently, fans wanting to write a story within this timeframe not only have large vistas of time in which to situate it, but also very little in the way of canonical constraints.ϼ There are also few canonical constraints for fan-authors exploring the far - and, again, often officially unexplored - reaches of the W40K universe. Indeed, it is completely possible for a W40K fan-author to invent their own planetary system and fit it into the overarching canon. As “Richard” explained: ...what I will say about the Warhammer 40K background is that it is practically designed for fanfiction because it’s so enormous and broad in scope you can put in anything from a medieval background to a highlysophisticated science-fiction culture, you’ve got the soaring gothic architecture, you’ve got the rat-infested sewers. You’ve got everything that you could possibly want; every science-fiction and fantasy trope you could imagine you can find in the 40Kverse.Ͻ

W40K fan-authors also use their work to both develop the stories of various armies that have been mentioned but are largely ignored within the official sources, and to explore the exploits of their own, invented armies. Indeed, one of the defining characteristics of W40K fanfiction in

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comparison with fanfiction in other genres is its almost complete eschewing of canonically established characters and storylines. Rather than continuing the narrative found within their favourite Black Library novel or writing another story featuring an established character, W40K fan-authors are much more likely to invent a whole new set of characters or to create a whole history about an army/race that was only mentioned in passing in an official source published several decades previously (cf Jenkins 1992, 165-8 on “refocalization”). Indeed, even where fan-authors explore the build-up and/or aftermath of incidents outlined within canonical sources, they invariably do so by placing their own characters within the narrative. Cauldron of Fire by “exitus_10”, for example, tells a story that builds up to the canonical “Twelfth Black Crusade”, but sets the story on the non-canonical planet of Sordin II with a whole cast of invented dramatis personae.Ͼ Similarly, The Garras War by “Mr_Kibbles” takes place in the aftermath of the canonical Medusa V campaign (an event run by Games Workshop in 2006) its narrative featuring, again, a range of invented characters.Ͽ

Refocusing the Camera In addition to seeking to fill gaps within the canon, a great deal of W40K fanfiction also seeks to “refocus the camera” within the W40K universe by telling the “little stories” that are, while implicit within the canon, again, never fully explored in official sources. As “Rene” explained: Action is secondary. I mean, sure, you can write about the great victory of the Cadian 7th against Hive Fleet Carcassone, but what really is that battle? It can be, for example, the nightmares of Trooper Enkoli each night after the battle, or Colonel Farragut facing his own conscience and memory - did he or did he not give the order to fire when his own men were still in the targeted area?

In some cases, then, W40K fan-authors will use their work to explore the human consequences of the endless war of the 41st Millennium. Both “Brannick” and “Consadine”, for example, have written a series of firstperson stories exploring the emotions and experiences of an Imperial Guardsman on the frontline. Writing respectively in a character’s journal or in letters home, they shift the attention away from the heroic to the more mundane reality of warfare, such as frequent lack of supplies, falling morale, and the concern felt for those on the frontline by their families. ¹϶

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Moving away from the frontline, a number of W40K fan-authors set their stories in one of the millions of hive-cities in which humans/Terrans live throughout the universe, using their stories to explore the often violent existence of life crammed together with up to one billion other souls. In The Note, for example, Kentigern narrates the story of a member of the Adeptus Arbites (the Imperial policeforce), who is slowly driven insane after discovering a note at a murder scene from the victim addressed to him. The note tells him of an “evil conspiracy” hiding within the hive and provides him with its location: 1118 Vernügenstrasse. At the conclusion of the story, he goes to the named location with a strike squad and massacres the cultists and daemons that he finds there only to then regain his sanity and discover that he has in fact killed his own men. The afterword to the story is told from the perspective of the official who investigated both the incident and the arbiter’s subsequent suicide.¹¹ Despite this emphasis on innovation, however, there are nevertheless limits to both the topics that the majority of W40K fan-authors explore within their stories, as well as to what extent the fan-authors are prepared to write “against the grain” of the canon. As “Richard” explained: If you take the 40K universe somewhere completely new, then its not the 40K universe anymore. It is the world of flying cathedrals, it is the world of planet-destroying weapons, it is the world of demons who want to feed on your soul, it is the world where your only hope of survival is the worship of a half-dead corpse a million lightyears away. That is the nature of the 40K universe and if you try to write something that means that it is not that - that it is a place where there is forgiveness, respite and something other than war - then its not 40K anymore, its something else...Now that’s not to say that you cant write stories that go places where the background has never gone before, but they need to be firmly embedded within that whole concept of the background otherwise it would become something else. It wouldn’t be fanfiction anymore.

Consequently, while some stories explore the emotional impact of warfare in the 41st Millennia, these do not, intentionally at least, re-read the canon. Space Marines, for example, would not experience emotions, as their genetic enhancements and training result in them no longer feeling any emotions, least of all fear. Rather, those stories that depict emotional scenes by and large feature characters drawn from the Imperial Guard who, according to the canon, are not similarly enhanced and as “normal” humans can experience the full emotional upheavals of soldiering. Similarly, there is also, in contrast to much female-authored fanfiction, a distinct lack of sexual themes, particularly slash, within the mainstream of W40K fanfiction. Indeed, my findings in this regard were remarkably

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similar to Will Brooker’s (2002, 129) experiences of interviewing Star Wars fan-authors; most “seem never to have heard of [slash fiction], and those that have tend to keep their distance”. This is particularly notable as there are a number of sexual and other adult themes explicit within several areas of the canon: The 41st millennium is rife with sex, drugs, and violence as the teeming masses of humanity stretch the boundaries of acceptable entertainment. The masses cannot gain all of their sustenance from Imperial religion, so they satisfy their wild urges by smoking obscura or gladstones, grinweed or other such narcotics. They go to the pits to watch mutant clowns disembowel each other with chainswords. They call upon smile-girls (prostitutes) to satisfy their urges. From top to bottom the 41st millennium has just as much depravity as one could imagine exists in the 21st millennium (“Dean”).

Likewise, one of the Chaos gods, Slaanesh, for example, is described within the canon as a god of all forms of excess and pleasure, his followers venerating him through indulging “every excess and depravity they can imagine” and “honing their bodies to the limits of blissful endurance” (Thorpe & Cavatore 2007, 39). Indeed, the vile excesses and forms of depravity practiced by the forces of Chaos in general offer themselves easily for the fan-exploration of adult content while staying within the parameters of the canon. Nevertheless, little, if any, of this type of content finds its way into the mainstream of W40K fanfiction.

Discussion and Conclusions To sum up, male-authored W40K fanfiction is characterised by, on the one hand, the desire to remain true to the canon, and, on the other, the desire to produce stories that are not simply derivative of the canon, but are in some sense innovative. The fan-authors’ aim is to tell original stories within the parameters of the existing universe, either by filling temporal and spatial gaps within the canon, or by “refocusing the camera” to explore the multitude of “little stories” that, while implicit within the canonical material, are never explicitly developed within official sources. Despite this emphasis on innovation, there are nevertheless limits to the topics explored within the mainstream of W40K fanfiction, and, in contrast to much female-authored fanfiction, a distinct lack of slash content. Several reasons may be given for why this is the case. The first has already been covered above and revolves around the desire to avoid

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potential social disapproval by writing fanfiction that somehow “breaks the rules”. As “Mike” noted, “like anything with a cult following, there are always a thousand fans in the woodwork waiting to jump on people who don’t “respect” the fiction...people always get fanatical about their passions. They want to see things in a certain way, the way they grew up with it”. The potential fear of negative feedback from beta-readers and the broader W40K fanfiction community was also highlighted as a particularly salient factor by “Paul”: ...if someone has a way out idea that conflicts with the canon, they will get negative feedback over it (should they ask for opinions). I think this constrains some people more than the canon itself, as there’s no shortage of opinions on the net...Many writers may not feel comfortable doing something outside the norm.

On one level, then, even where there are not explicit rules regarding the types of stories that can be published, the W40K fanfiction community nevertheless operates for many fan-authors as, to use Mead’s term (1934), a form of “generalised other”, determining for them both what types of stories can be written and the respect that should be accorded to the canon (cf Stein & Busse 2009, 196-8 on fan author/reader communities as “interpretive communities”). Another implicit pressure felt by some fan-authors was the desire to produce content that could potentially be published by the Black Library. Several, for example, speculated on whether the emphasis on producing innovative work that did not challenge parameters of the canon or push it in a different direction was, to some extent, motivated by authors’ desire to have their work eventually published and become, itself, part of the canon. The Black Library has over the last few years organised four competitions where the winner’s work was published in an anthology with established authors and they received a modest sum of money for their efforts. Indeed, 2009 saw the publication of Emperor’s Mercy, the first book by Henry Zou, who had come to the Black Library’s attention when he had a story published in one of its fan-anthologies. As “Richard”, who had himself had a story published in the same anthology as Zou, observed ...there’s loads of Star Wars fanfic but that doesn’t really go anywhere because you’ve got really established writers like Timothy Zahn and Karen Traviss who are already writing the books...Whereas you get someone like the Black Library, they’re coming to us, they’re coming to the fans and saying “you write fanfic, here’s a competition, here’s an open submissions window. Send us your best stuff, maybe we’ll publish it. If we publish it, maybe you’ll get to become a proper author - more than just a fanfic

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From this perspective, fan-fiction operated on an instrumental level as a form of “calling card”, demonstrating (potentially) to the Black Library that one not only had a clear grasp of the canon, but could tell original stories within its parameters. Finally, and I would argue most importantly, there is the influence of the heavily gendered nature of the canon itself. The W40K universe is, to quote one interviewee, “100% mansauce”; a universe of testosteronefuelled conflict with little or no room for the emotional complexities or morally grey areas that characterise everyday life . As “Dean” put it: Generally the readers of Warhammer 40k fiction are male, and looking for scenes of gory action or fast-paced espionage and intricately-detailed combat. They want hard, scarred veteran sergeants instead of mushy-feely characters who want “relationships”...The universe that Games Workshop and the Black Library brings us is a dark one, and the fans of it want to keep it that way.

In contrast, then, to female fans engaging with “masculine” popular cultural texts, male W40K fans do not have to “transform” the canon in order to make it address their concerns and fit their interests. As Henry Jenkins (1992), Camille Bacon-Smith (1992) and Sheenagh Pugh (2005) among others have argued, when female fans approach media texts, such as science fiction TV shows, they are invariably faced with “masculine” texts; texts that are largely written by and intended for males. In order to fully enjoy them, to quote Jenkins (2006, 44), women (as well as other minority groups) thus have to either “perform a kind of intellectual transvestism - identifying with male characters in opposition to their own cultural experiences” - or re-read the texts to speak to their own concerns and interests. Female-authored fanfiction, as well as other forms of creativity, is thus from this perspective an attempt to refocus “masculine” media texts “around traditional ‘feminine’ and contemporary feminist concerns, around sexuality and gender politics, around religion, family, marriage, and romance” (ibid., 51) Male fans approaching the W40K canon find themselves in a markedly different position; finding by and large a text that, to paraphrase Jenkins, yields them “easy pleasures” and that does not need them to re-read or refocus it to address their desires and concerns. They can instead, as detailed above, expend their creative efforts in celebrating and further exploring the source material, producing both “more of” it and by exploring its various gaps.

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Notes 1. For a more in-depth discussion see in particular the recent Gender and Fan Studies debate at http://community.livejournal.com/fandebate/. 2. Twenty fan-authors were interviewed via a combination of telephone and email interviews. During the course of the research, I maintained contact with several authors via email to discuss my findings and gain feedback. I also fed preliminary findings back to the W40K fanfiction community via a dedicated blog, with any comments again feeding into the development of the article. All those interviewed were emailed a draft of the article with an invitation to comment on my findings. Unless they requested otherwise, interviewees will be referred to via pseudonyms. 3. For illustration, see http://www.games-workshop.com/gws/catalog/ landing.jsp?catId=cat1300033&rootCatGameStyle=wh40k 4. http://astronomican.com/forums/showthread.php?s=8f4a2b0f7f3d862610b19a5 914e0ab5b&t=3322 (accessed January 2010). These rules have subsequently been revised to remove this emphasis on canonicity. 5. The “boltgun” or “bolter” is the weapon used by Space Marines. See, for example, http://wh40k.lexicanum.com/mediawiki/images/9/93/MkII_bolter.jpg 6. See, for example, the work of “Nopoet” set during the 20th Millennium: http://imperial-literature.net/?tag=20k-series. 7. This idea was also explored by Black Library author, Dan Abnett in a recent interview: ...there are deliberate lacunae in the background mythology of the story. There are gaps there for the players and the fans to exploit. There is a deliberate breathing space within 40k-lore for people to fill in to their own satisfaction (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nGrjY4DQbM&feature=player_embedded) 8. “exitus_10”, Cauldron of Fire, http://z6.invisionfree.com/bljunkies/index.php?showtopic=418 9. “Mr_Kibbles”, The Garras War, http://z6.invisionfree.com/bljunkies/index.php?showtopic=83 10. “Brannick”, The Imperial Guardsmen’s Journal, http://www.astronomican.com/forums/showthread.php?t=6902; “Consadine”, Letters, http://www.astronomican.com/forums/showthread.php?t=7000 11.”Kentigern”, The Note, http://z6.invisionfree.com/bljunkies/index.php?showtopic=386 12. See http://www.blacklibrary.com/Getting-Started/FAQ-Working-For-BlackLibrary.html#guidelines

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References Busse, Kristina & Karen Hellekson. 2006. “Introduction: Work in Progress.” In Karen Hellekson & Kristina Busse (eds.) Fan Fiction and Fan Communities in the Age of the Internet, 5-32. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Company Inc. Brooker, Will. 2002. Using the Force: Creativity, Community and Star WarsFans. London: Continuum. Cavatore, Alessio, Matt Ward, Andy Hoare, Graham Davey, Phil Kelly, Gav Thorpe, Adam Troke, Robin Cruddace, Jervis Johnson, Jeremy Vetock. 2008. Warhammer 40,000 Rulebook (Fifth Edition). Nottingham: Games Workshop. Cicioni, M. (1998) “Male Pair-Bonds and Female Desire in Fan Slash Writing.” In Theorizing Fandom, edited by Cheryl Harris and Alison Alexander, 153-77. Cresskill, N.J.: Hampton Press Inc. Coppa, Francesca. 2008. “Women, Star Trekand the Early Development of Fannish Vidding.” Transformative Works and Cultures Vol. 1, http://journal.transformativeworks.org/index.php/twc/article/view/44 (accessed 12th August 2009) —. 2009. “A Fannish Taxonomy of Hotness.” Cinema Journal 48 (4): 107-13. Gwenllian Jones, Sara. 2002. “The Sex Lives of Cult Television Characters.” Screen 43 (1): 79-90. Jenkins, Henry. 1992. Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture. London: Routledge. —. 1995. “’At Other Times, Like Females’: Gender and Star Trek Fan Fiction”, in Henry Jenkins & John Tulloch, Science Fiction Audiences: Watching Doctor Who and Star Trek, 196-212. London: Routledge. —. 2006. Fans, Bloggers and Gamers: Exploring Participatory Culture. New York: NYU Press. —. 2007. “Gender and Fan Culture (Wrapping Up, Part One)”, http://henryjenkins.org/2007/11/_bob_rehak_i_enjoyed.html Kustritz, Anne. 2003. “Slashing the Romance Narrative.” The Journal of American Culture 26 (3): 371-84. Lamb, Patricia Frazer & Diana Veith (1986) “Romantic Myth, Transcendence, and Star Trek Zines.” In Erotic Universe: Sexuality and Fantastic Literature, ed. Donald Palumbo, 235-55 New York: Greenwood. Long, Geoffrey. 2009. “Interview with Paul Marino.” Transformative Works and Cultures Vol 2.

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http://journal.transformativeworks.org/index.php/twc/article/view/111/ 70 (accessed 5th November 2009). Mead, George Herbert. 1934. Mind, Self & Society from the Standpoint of a Social Behaviourist. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Penley, Constance. 1992. NASA/Trek: Popular Science and Sex in America. London: Verso. Pugh, Sheenagh. 2005. The Democratic Genre: Fan Fiction in a Literary Context. Brigend, Wales: Seren. Rehak, Bob. 2008. “Boys, Blueprints and Boundaries”. http://community.livejournal.com/fandebate/9600.html#cutid4 (accessed 20th October 2009) Russ, Joanna. 1985. Magic Mammas, Trembling Sisters, Puritans and Perverts. New York: Crossing Press. Russo, Julie Levin. 2009. “User-Penetrated Content: Fan Video in the Age of Convergence.” Cinema Journal 48 (4): 125-30. Sandvoss, Cornell. 2005. Fans: The Mirror of Consumption. Cambridge: Polity Press. Scodari, Christine. 2003. “Resistance Re-Examined: Gender, Fan Practices, and Science Fiction Television.” Popular Communication 1 (2): 111-30. Stein, Louisa and Kristina Busse. 2009. “Limit Play: Fan Authorship between Source Text, Intertext and Context”, Popular Communication 7 (4), pp. 192-207. Toton, Sarah. 2008. “Cataloging Knowledge: Gender, Generative Fandom, and the Battlestar Wiki.” Flow 7.14, http://flowtv.org/?p=1060 (accessed 28th October 2009) Thorpe, Gavin and Alessio Cavatore. 2007. Codex Chaos Space Marines. Nottingham: Games Workshop. Walliss, John. 2010. “Fanfilmaking and Copyright in a Global World: Warhammer 40,000 Fanfilms and the case of Damnatus.” Transformative Works and Cultures, 5, http://journal.transformativeworks.org/index.php/twc/article/view/178

ROMANCE, FRUSTRATION AND DESIRE: OPPOSITIONAL READINGS AND NARRATIVES IN TWILIGHT FAN FICTION SIMONE BECQUE

When Breaking Dawn, the fourth and final book in Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight Series, was released on August 2, 2008, estimates put the first day sales at 1.3 million copies (Memmott 2008). There have been over 40 million copies of the books sold worldwide, and all four books in the series were the biggest selling novels of 2008. There’s no denying the Twilight series is a bona-fide cultural phenomenon. The series centers on the relationship between a pair of teenagers, Bella and Edward – with one interesting complication: Edward is a vampire. The themes of abstinence and sexual control are prevalent throughout the books, sometimes implicit or explicit. As their relationship deepens, Bella continually pressures Edward to have sex with her. Edward’s resistance is two-fold: he is scared of hurting her, losing control and crushing her in the heat of passion; and he objects on moral grounds, he wants to be married to Bella first. The later part of Edward’s objection serves as the strong abstinence narrative present throughout all of the books. Eventually, in the third book, they reach a compromise; they will attempt to have sex after their wedding on the honeymoon. This was perhaps the most important plot point set to culminate in Breaking Dawn. Related plot points pertinent to this investigation are Bella and Edward getting married, attempting to have sex for the first time, and Edward fulfilling his promise to finally turn Bella into a vampire. This chapter investigates the variety of narratives that have been written by fans as a response to the abstinence/control narratives of the first three books and the general disappointment with the culminating sex scenes in Breaking Dawn. For this examination I will bracket Twilight fan fiction and focus only on sexually explicit stories (Smut, MA or NC-17) about Edward/Bella that fit into the canon narrative – written as “missing scenes.” The purpose of this chapter is to consider the narratives that were created by fans in direct opposition to the narratives available in the

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Twilight texts, specifically Breaking Dawn. This analysis will center on the actual stories by comparing the common themes and narratives in these stories. Further, common themes among the comments received in response to these stories will be discussed. Finally, I will examine the ways the writing of these stories reflects dissatisfaction with the original text, and a desire to read and write these stories.

Literature Review To understand the reasons fans are so invested in creating and reading this type of fan fiction, there are several key concepts and bodies of literature that offers an understanding: the construction of oppositional readings, a broader understanding of fan fiction research and its politicization by fans and scholars, the methods employed to study and understand romance novels, and the depiction of sex in the Twilight series. These are not traditional bodies of literature, for example, in reviewing fan fiction studies there is a focus on feminist understandings of women’s use of fan fiction. Oppositional Readings. Stuart Hall (1993) first introduced the concept that different positions to the dominant ideology might influence the reading, or interpretation of a cultural text. He initially posited three possible readings based on the position of the reader to the dominant ideology: dominant, negotiated or oppositional. In brief, the dominant reading occurs when a viewer and the view’s social position agree with the dominant ideology. The negotiated position occurs when a viewer’s social position fits with the dominant ideology but inflects it based on an individual position. Finally, a viewer with a social situation that is in opposition to the dominant ideology can produce an oppositional reading to the text. While considering television muscle dramas, John Fiske (1992) describes how readings become oppositional, “…they go ‘against’ the text to deconstruct the dominant ideology”. Twilight fan fiction stories, especially those of “missing scenes” can be thought of oppositional readings because they go against the text. Jenkins (1992) further argues that fans actively engage with media texts when writing fan fiction, and such writing creates meaning by “poaching” the meaning from the existing media text. The poached meanings are then pieced together in new ways by the fans. Jenkins (1992) elaborates: “Fans possess not simply borrowed remnants snatched from mass culture, but their own culture built from the semiotic raw materials the media provides.” Slash Fiction. Understanding how oppositional readings of original texts are manifested in the practice of writing fan fiction is essential to

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understanding the pleasure behind writing and reading them. While the “missing scene” stories this paper investigates are one form of an oppositional reading strategy, slash fiction represents another. Specifically slash fiction is writing about a homosexual relationship between two characters originally presented as heterosexual. Slash is a reference to the symbol placed between the portrayed characters’ names, such as Kirk/Spock. Slash fiction goes against the text and addresses noncanonical desires. In the beginning, the writers and producers of the majority of slash fiction stories were primarily identified as older heterosexual women (Bacon-Smith 1992; Jenkins 1992; Cicioni 1998; Green, Jenkins & Jenkins 1998). Academic discussions of female sexual desire as represented in fandoms have centered on the writing and reading of slash (Boyd 2001). Moreover, many feminist scholars see the popularity of slash fiction as a point of resistance by women to traditional media forms, and therefore sexuality – many talk about the practices and spaces of these slash writers as “queering” (Penley 1992; Jung 2004) or “queer space” (Youssef 2004; Katyal 2005; Wood 2006). Penley (1992, p. 479) articulates this interest in slash as, “how women, and people, resist, negotiate, and adapt to their own desires” in a saturated media environment. In discussing the popularity of slash fiction, Kustritz (2003, 372) raises several important and interesting questions about this point - “…slash fan fiction seems to fulfill a desire that is either extremely extensive or cannot be fulfilled elsewhere. What parts of our society leave us empty? Which individuals are particularly satisfied by slash fan fiction? Why are fan narratives written at all?” Slash fiction is a visible demonstration of fans resisting the narratives provided to them by the source material. Moreover, both slash fiction and the Twilight “missing scene” fan fiction creates a space for women to exercise their desires that are not being completely satisfied by the original text. An understanding of the possibilities offered by the oppositional readings present in the enjoyment of slash fiction, informs our understanding of the pleasures of “missing scene” fiction. Romance Novels. The Twilight books are romance novels with a supernatural element. As a genre, romance novels are extremely popular, but are critically and culturally derided at the same time. Radway (1984) interviewed a community of female romance novel readers to understand the appeal these novels have for women. Radway (1984) found that women used the romance novels to structure their escape fantasies, using them especially for their emotional escape by identifying with the heroine. To be a successful escape the novels needed to have certain characteristics. Readers identified preferences especially for those books featuring a

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heroine with a strong hold over the hero. “A good romance focuses on an intelligent and able heroine who finds a man who recognizes her special qualities and is capable of loving and caring for her as she wants to be loved,” (Radway 1984, 54) and includes “the existence of an equally powerful wish to see a man dependent upon a woman” (Radway 1984, 66). I will use Radway’s argument about the allure of romance novels to illustrate the popularity of the Twilight series, but also why fans reacted so strongly to Breaking Dawn; and demonstrate how fans use “missing scene” fan fiction to repair ruptures in the original text. The Twilight books revolve around Edward’s all-consuming love for Bella. Edward constantly reassures Bella that she is beautiful, extolling her other virtues and telling her that he is completely dependent on her love. In one passage Edward describes his existence prior to meeting Bella: Before you, Bella, my life was like a moonless night. Very dark…and then you shot across my sky like a meteor. Suddenly everything was on fire; there was brilliancy, there was beauty. When you were gone, when the meteor had fallen over the horizon, everything went black. Nothing has changed, but my eyes were blinded by the light…and there was no more reason for anything (Meyer 2006, p. 514).

Descriptions like this offer the readers a chance to be constantly reassured of Edward’s love for Bella. According to Radway (1984) this reassurance is one of the key aspects of enjoying the romance novel. “To qualify as a romance, the story must chronicle not merely the events of a courtship but what it feels like to be the object of one” (Radway 1984, 64). The Twilight books are especially adept at making the reader feel like the object of a courtship because the stories are told in a first-person narrative from Bella’s point-of-view. In addition to descriptions of Bella’s hold on Edward and his love for her, the readers are constantly treated to descriptions of how Edward makes Bella feel: “Staring into his eyes always made me feel extraordinary – sort of like my bones were turning spongy. I was also a little lightheaded, but that could be because I’d forgotten to keep breathing. Again” (Meyer 2007, 17). Romance novels, and Twilight are ultimately successful and popular because of reader identification with the protagonist. The popularity of “Team Edward” versus “Team Jacob” merchandise, invites the reader to make the choice Bella must make. However, this identification is what leads to the dissatisfaction with Breaking Dawn that this paper explores. In the first three books, the abstinence narrative teased the readers, especially when coupled with the time between publications. The readers through their identification with Bella watch as she spends much of the third book,

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Eclipse, attempting to seduce Edward. As Bella’s frustration with Edward escalated, so did that of the readers. Sex Scenes in the Series. On July 1st, 2008, a post in a Livejournal community – Lion_Lamb – dedicated to the relationship between Bella and Edward, asked members of the community to comment on what they were most looking forward to reading about in Breaking Dawn. One comment epitomizes the collective responses to the question, “the losing of the virtue; the wedding night; the honeymoon; basically, anything to do with sex.” Several other members responded that since these books were “Young Adult” literature the sex scenes, if described at all, would probably be limited. One fan writes: “I think it [sex] will be there but maybe subtle. I could see her doing something like Eclipse when he grabs her leg and then hooks it around him...I could see her doing a little more of that and then cutting away to the next morning or something.” Overall, the general feeling of the community was that desire for a description of the consummation of Bella and Edward’s relationship would need to be satisfied through imagination or fan fiction. “I’ll get more from my imagination than from the goody goody books” and “There’s many fanfics that will give you that [sex]”, respectively. The fans were mostly accurate in predicting the content of the sex scenes of Breaking Dawn. There are three important scenes focusing on Bella and Edward’s sexual encounters. The first is during Bella and Edward’s honeymoon. It begins with Bella and Edward on a private island, swimming in the warm water, kissing – and the next sentence jumps to the next morning in bed. It is revealed that Edward had bruised Bella and broken the bed the night before. Additionally Edward is so upset with the bruises that he refuses to have sex with Bella again until she is a vampire, when she will be more “durable”. The second scene occurs later on their honeymoon, after Bella wakes up from a dream crying and pleading with Edward to have sex again. Finally, the third scene occurs after Bella has become a vampire. All of these scenes are described in a similar manner, with some initial detail then a quick fade to a scene after the sex.

Themes in the Stories The following themes emerged from reading the stories: Edward’s guilt contrasted with Bella’s rampant desire; Edward being dependent on Bella; and the idea of true happiness. These three themes display the needs and desires of the writers of the “missing scene” fan fiction stories. Meanwhile, the following themes were prevalent in the comments of the

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stories: erotic vs. graphic; that wasn’t in Breaking Dawn; and “that’s exactly how I pictured it.” These later themes highlight the readers’ response to those needs and desires. This contrast between the writers and the readers desires to write and consume these missing moments stories will be further explored. Edward’s Guilt and Bella’s Desire. Throughout the books Edward’s desire for Bella is always tempered by his control. His desire for Bella is both romantic and physical - as a vampire he desires to drink her blood. As such, Edward must constantly master his desires. As Edward describes it, sex involves too many unknowns; his biggest fear is losing physical control. A loss of control might mean physically crushing Bella, or biting her and drinking her blood. However, because the books are written from Bella’s point of view, the readers are dependent on Bella’s descriptions of Edward’s actions. It’s not surprising that many readers and writers want to experience Edward’s inner monologue. In this group of stories six out of the fifteen are written from Edward’s point of view. These stories emphasize the struggle to control desire and the guilt of giving in to desire. In this passage, Edward reflects on the first “missing moment”, sex with Bella on the island: As careful as I’d been, I wasn’t careful enough. My beautiful Bella’s arms and chest were riddled with purple and blue bruises, proof that I was a monster. If I left those types of marks on my love when I was sure that I was in control of myself, what would happen if I accidentally let myself go? It was too risky. The monster inside of me was too strong. I loathed myself (Story 10).

The contrast between Edward’s guilt and desire is referenced in the book, although Bella mitigates it – the books lack the identification with those feelings. The Edward POV stories allow readers to explore those feelings and identification. The stories share a common conceptualization that by bruising Bella, Edward has “tainted [her] pale skin” and has “broken an angel” (Story 2). In Edward’s internal monologue this excessive guilt is placed in dialog with his total desire and devotion to Bella: “I wished I could pleasure her the way I wanted to, instead of fearing that the smallest movement would harm her” (Story 13). Further, the stories describe Edward’s frustration of resisting Bella while she’s still human: “It made me gnash my teeth together in frustration when Bella wasn’t looking” (Story 2); “I wanted nothing more than to kiss her deeply…but I knew it was too dangerous” (Story 10); “Did she know how achingly hard this was for me too?” (Story 1); “It was hard to be this close without really being close at all. I wanted to growl in frustration” (Story

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2); and “I’m sure Bella thought I was resisting her quite easily though. I somehow managed to maintain an outward composure…despite my inner turmoil” (Story 2). Edward’s running guilt and frustration is starkly contrasted by Bella’s rampant desire for Edward. In the books - and even more in the stories she pleads with him to have sex with her: “Please, Edward” (Story 1), “Please, Edward, I need you” (Story 2), “Please, she breathed” (Story 14), and “I need you. I love you so much. Touch me” (Story 10). This illustrates the role reversal being presented in the Bella/Edward relationship: Bella takes the typical culturally male role of instigating sex, begging and pleading with Edward. Some of the stories have passages reading like a scene from a teen movie in which the jock pressures his cheerleader girlfriend to sleep with him. Only here Bella, a female, is the jock: “I pretended to struggle with the words. ‘I’m not going to force you to do something you’re not comfortable with Edward. If you don’t want me…” (Story 12), “I was nervous, I’d admit it, but I wanted him more than anything…Fear would not stop me. And I wouldn’t let it stop him either” (Story 2); and “I’m sorry, Edward. I don’t mean to get carried away. I just want you so badly” (Story 13). In Breaking Dawn, Bella and Edward have sex for the second time on their honeymoon because Bella wakes up crying and pleads with Edward until he gives in. Several of the stories expound on this scene from Edward’s POV: “Tears streamed down her face thickly, and it broke my dead heart to see it” (Story 2); “I couldn’t stand to think of one moment of her in pain…I couldn’t deny her. I couldn’t help but try to be what she needed” (Story 1); and “I have to give her what she asks for. I cannot say no” (Story 8). In the stories while Bella is human, two forces - Edward’s guilt/frustration and Bella’s desire – are at war with each other. Importantly, each of these stories ends with Bella getting what she wants and Edward giving that to her. Edward giving in to Bella isn’t an oppositional reading of the original scene, because they are factually the same. However the fan fiction response – careful descriptions of Edward’s guilt and Bella’s desire - illuminates Radway’s (1984) conceptualization of the enjoyment and consumption of romance narratives. Edward’s Dependence on Bella. Right from the beginning of the Twilight books, Edward is completely dependent on Bella. Readers know this because Edward is constantly explaining it to Bella – “before you my life was a moonless night” (Meyer 2006, 514). This parallels Radway’s (1984) findings indicating that readers want to read stories with a hero dependent on a woman. Fans use the missing moments stories from Edward’s POV to further elaborate on that desire: “She was in that

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moment perhaps the most magnificent I had ever seen her, the most magnificent thing I had ever seen. I felt aching love and desire seeping from every pore, every ounce of myself toward her” (Story 1); “Looking down at my lovely wife, I was overcome with emotion. How lucky was I that such a beautiful creature would want me? My love for her was endless, and I wanted nothing more than to prove it to her” (Story 10); and “Like a beautiful Goddess, her body was definitely the altar at which I wanted to worship” (Story 8). Moreover, Edward, both in the books and in the fan fiction, often compares his long existence before meeting Bella (some one-hundred odd vampire years) to the time after meeting Bella. “The decades of anguish, of being alone for so long, seemed like a distant memory…she was the one shinning beacon in my long, long life and the only thing that truly mattered to me anymore” (Story 13). As one older Twilight fan expressed in a recent CNN piece: “The appeal is that it’s very simple and pure and it outlines this love story of someone who’s average and normal with this stellar, amazing person who has eyes for no one but her and could save her from anything” (Hare 2009). This coincides with Radway’s reading of the romance novel – the readers she studied enjoy reading romance novels because it gives them “…the opportunity to project themselves into the story, to become the heroine, and thus share her surprise and slowly awakening pleasure at being so closely watched by someone who finds her valuable and worthy of love” (Radway 1984, 67). Importantly, many of the women surveyed were stay at home mothers – responsible for the emotional and physical care of their home and children. The reading of romance novels allows a cultivation of a rich inner world and the women a physical and emotional retreat from their daily lives. Reading and writing fan fiction scenes that elaborate on such themes allows for the continued engagement in the world of Twilight. True Happiness. The third theme, the characterization of sex as a moment of true happiness, is featured prominently in ten of the stories. This “true happiness” ties closely to other metaphors – “finally belonging” and “coming home.” The stories that take place during sex while Bella is human focus extensively on the moment they climax together. This climax is the moment of true love, such as “it was in this moment that I knew true happiness” (Story 2). In another story there is this description of the moment of climaxing: “I knew that if I did die tonight, I would die happy, having known I had completely fulfilled my life’s dreams. I had everything I had ever wanted, and then some…” (Story 12). In Breaking Dawn once Bella becomes a vampire, neither she nor Edward needs to

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breathe. This collective lack of oxygen brings them closer: “Neither of us needed to breathe. He was my air now” (Story 3). These descriptions are excessive, but are part of the narrative construction: Bella and Edward fell in love, they got married, and because of the genuine nature of their love for each other, having sex is the ultimate consummation and completion of their love. This is a romantic trope that is established in the books, and none of the stories analyzed disrupt the trope, they only seek to further enhance it by describing it. Radway (1984, 66) asserts that the women she studied are “more interested in the affective responses of hero and heroine to each other than in a detailed account of their physical contact.” The euphemisms used in the stories “finally belonging” and “coming home”, rather than more technical terms “penetrating” or “orgasming” are certainly less graphic – a tension that will be further explored in the next section – but they also reinforce the ultimate goal of the heroine in a romance novel, to find a complete and consuming love. Erotic vs. Graphic. The writers and the readers in this fan fiction community are interested in stories that are erotic and romantic but not overly graphic. Many comments praise authors that successfully achieve this balance: “I love how it wasn’t too graphic, yet just enough that you could feel the heat and lust radiating off of our favorite lovers” (Story 2); “Eloquently written. It was explicit without being graphic…and I appreciate the difference” (Story 15); and “this may be the only smut I’ve read that stays in character, which seems very hard to accomplish” (Story 11). These comments consistently praise stories that stay “in character,” offer explanations for plot points not explained in the books or illuminate the internal monologue of either character. The expressed preference for “romantic” but not graphic sex scenes, speaks to the romantic nature of the books and the characters. In some respects this echoes Radway’s (1984) thoughts on the preferred desire of romance readers for romantic euphemism filled love scenes. However, Radway’s (1984, 66) readers said they didn’t “like explicit description because they prefer to imagine the scene in detail themselves.” This desire to imagine detail of the scenes is in direct conflict with the nature of the “missing scenes” stories. If Breaking Dawn readers preferred to imagine the sex scenes on their own than Meyer’s version should have satisfied them completely. Breaking Dawn provides almost a blank slate on which the readers could individually imagine the details. That these same readers are seeking alternative and elaborative descriptions of the scenes, which implies that imagining the scenes, isn’t enough for them. The readers would not have so strongly expressed their desire to see those

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scenes in the original text – as the next theme from the comments illustrates. Why Wasn’t That in Breaking Dawn? Many of the comments on the stories express frustration about these missing scenes and express the need to seek alternate versions of the stories: “Right when I finished Breaking Dawn, I needed to find a fic of this scene” (Story 2); “This is…exactly the type of stuff we needed to read in BD” (Story 5); and “I must admit I was rather disappointed with Breaking Dawn when I saw that this important moment of Bella and Edward’s lives was not described” (Story 13). A few of the comments are more than frustrated, expressing anger toward Stephanie Meyer and the scenes written in Breaking Dawn: “Somehow I never read this [story]. I think it was because I was so mad about Breaking Dawn that I didn’t read any of the Missing Moments…It’s much more satisfying to pretend this is what happened than that obnoxious fade to black” (Story 8); “I have to admit I was pissed he was pulling her “deeper into water” one second, and then she had feathers on her head the next!” (Story 7); “Now if Stephenie Meyer had just given us that I think we’d all be more satisfied with Breaking Dawn” (Story 3); and “Whoa. Why the FUCK wasn’t THAT in Breaking Dawn????” (Story 3). Additionally, Meyer also chooses not to engage with the traditional cultural narratives of eroticism in vampire biting in Breaking Dawn. When Edward finally bites Bella to turn her into a vampire, perhaps the ultimate metaphoric climax, he does so when she is unconscious and her life is threatened. Meanwhile, the narration in the novel switches to a third party before the biting scene. This denies the readers Bella’s perspective on another possible moment of release. In other vampire stories, like the television shows, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and True Blood, when the male vampires feed on female human love interests, the biting scenes are orgasmic for the women. Two of the stories in this sample included biting narratives, and the comments reflected a desire to see the erotic nature of biting worked in to the Twilight stories. To rectify the anger about Breaking Dawn some comments detail a plan of action: “I want to print them [the story chapters] out and staple them into my copy of Breaking Dawn” (Story 2); “I think I will print this out and add the pages to my Breaking Dawn book so they are missing no longer” (Story 2); “This should be added into Breaking Dawn if it has a special edition” (Story 3); “*prints out story and pastes it inside Breaking Dawn*” (Story 5). Both writers and readers are eager to see extensive descriptions of the missing scenes. Exactly How I Pictured It. Finally, the highest form of praise readers offered stories was the idea that a particular story perfectly captures the

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missing scene. For example, this comment emphasizes the inclusion of an element: “[This] is the first wedding night story I’ve read that has mentioned the blood Edward would have had to resist when he broke her virginity. I think about that whenever I read a fanfic about their first time” (Story 4). Other comments praise the sexual hesitancy of Bella and Edward in Story 12: “You have Bella and Edward acting as the young first timers they are, instead of the soft-core porn stars of some fic’s,” and “a lot of ‘First Night’ one shots have them being like sex machines, but this was exactly how I would want it to be.” That a certain story encapsulates exactly how a reader pictures it is a frequent form of praise for author; “This is my favorite” (Story 12), “Just how I imagined…” (Story 12), “[this story] is very similar to what I always imagine when I’m reading Breaking Dawn” (Story 14), and “It’s pretty much dead on with the way I pictured it, except brilliantly worded and beautiful” (Story 15). While the readers enjoy imagining some of the details of the scenes on their own, they also crave a collective understanding of the scenes with other readers. Fans are motivated to write “missing scene” fiction to confirm their version of the narrative. In these comments and stories, Hall’s (1993) oppositional readings aren’t valued. Readers, as expressed in the quoted comments, are reading these stories with a certain degree of wish fulfillment. Reading expanded versions of the missing scenes helps satisfy their desire to be the subject of Edward’s love. The best written stories allow the most room for that resolution.

Discussion and Conclusion Ultimately, passionate fans of the novel identify with Bella and desire one of the two male protagonists (i.e. Team Edward or Team Jacob). Many readers enjoy the books because of their identification with Bella as the object of Edward’s love. Readers most want to see Edward react to Bella, especially in scenes of a sexual nature. As the first three books only contained hints of such scenes, readers were hoping their frustration would be satisfied in Breaking Dawn. By eliminating any narrative description of the sex scenes in the book, the readers were denied this satisfaction. In the introduction to one of the stories, the fan fiction author describes her anticipation, reaction to Breaking Dawn, and ultimate decision to write an account of the honeymoon scene: Stephenie Meyer did a hair-yanking, pulse-pounding wonderful job (for me) fanning the slow burning build-up of sexual tension between Edward and Bella during the first three books. Bella damn near faints after kissing Edward in Twilight. He gives her the first really dangerous kiss in New

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Moon. And then there’s a body temperature raising scene involving hips in Eclipse. So like any hot-blooded girl with more imagination than sense, I was counting on the pay-off in Breaking Dawn. Hungering for it, okay? When that scene came, when Edward and Bella are finally naked and standing together in tropical water just a wee bumpy boat ride from the coast of Rio...Edward pulls her deeper into the water and the honeymoon scene goes white before anything goes down. !!! I’ve been fighting an irresistible compulsion to write their honeymoon scene ever since (Story 14).

This comment in conjunction with previously discussed comments begins to explain the fan fiction response to Breaking Dawn. The anger present in many of the comments reflects the dissatisfaction with the narratives of Breaking Dawn. As the author outlined in the quote above, Meyer extensively teases the readers over the first three books, and then chooses not to write the sex scenes. This reflects back to the “exactly how I pictured it,” theme - the highest form of praise for fan fiction because it could fit right into Breaking Dawn. These are stories written in a similar style to Meyer’s, and explain the plot holes without deviating from the characters. Some comments illustrate this even further: “[this is] the most REALISTIC adaptation of B&E’s first time!...This is how it MUST have been. How did Edward cause all those bruises? Sure, I’ve read this done in other fan fictions…but yours is not ONLY fantastic, but PROBABLE” (Story 13). This again links back to Hall’s (1993) oppositional reading theory, that readers dissatisfied with narratives in the text will create readings that go against the text. However, these “missing scene” stories only seem oppositional. Instead the writers take great care to craft stories that fit into the existing narrative completely, and readers praise them for it. Moreover, Edward’s feminized role in the books and fan fiction is worth noting. It seems that part of the popularity of the books extends from the desire to see a man dependent on a woman (Radway 1984). Edward wears his dependency on his sleeve. After he leaves and then returns for Bella in the second book, New Moon, he describes what it was like being away from her, “It was like my heart was gone – like I was hollow. Like I’d left everything that was inside me here with you” (Meyer 2006, 515). Edward repeatedly tells Bella he can’t live without her, and his life meant nothing before she came into it. Based on the books and the fan fiction it seems that much of Edward’s appeal is based on his traditionally feminine behaviors, for example; being dependent on Bella’s love, pining for her, constantly caring for her, and generally expressing his all-encompassing love for her. Meanwhile, Bella

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simultaneously takes on some of the traditionally masculine behaviors such as, being horny and pressuring Edward to have sex with her, and she feminizes those behaviors. This allows the books to become a site of projection for readers, women of all ages, of imagining the world’s most beautiful vampire completely and totally in love with the reader. Suzanne Juhasz (1994, 249) explores the appeal of stories about “real love,” and concludes that: “…our need for true love and the fantasies we create about getting it…our needs persist. For intimacy. Connection. Recognition… One way, if not the only way, to address the need is to imagine how it might be filled.” For Juhasz (1994) reading and writing romance narratives allows for a participation in our dreams about love and identity. The anger and dissatisfaction voiced in the comments illustrates the disconnect that happens because the sex scenes are not explicitly described in the books. While fan fiction generally allows fans to create their own meanings around the text, this particular type of fan fiction intensifies this process and allows an outlet and projection for the culmination of Bella and Edward’s relationship. The reader’s satisfaction is denied in Breaking Dawn and remedied in Breaking Dawn fan fiction.

References Bacon-Smith, Camille. 1992. Enterprising Women: Television Fandom and the Creation of Popular Myth. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Boyd, Kelly Simca. 2001. “One Index Finger on the Mouse Scroll Bar and the Other on my Clit’: Slash Writers’ Views on Pornography, Censorship, Feminism and Risk.” M.A. Thesis, Simon Fraser University. http://summit.sfu.ca/item/7501 Cicioni, Mirna. 1998. “Male Pair-Bonds and Female Desire in Fan Slash Writing.” In Theorizing Fandom : Fans, Subculture, and Identity, edited by Cheryl Harris, Alison Alexander, 153-177. Cresskill, N.J.: Hampton Press. Fiske, John. 1992. “British Cultural Studies and Television.” In Channels of Discourse, Reassembled : Television and Contemporary Criticism, 2nd ed, edited by Robert Clyde Allen, 284-326. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Green, Shoshanna, Cynthia Jenkins, and Henry Jenkins. 1998. “Normal Female Interest in Men Bonking’: Selections From the Terra Nostra Underground and Strange Bedfellows.” In Theorizing Fandom: Fans, Subculture, and Identity, edited by Cheryl Harris, Alison Alexander, 938. Cresskill, N.J.: Hampton Press.

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Hall, Stuart. 1993. “Encoding/Decoding.” In The Cultural Studies Reader, edited by Simon During, 90-103. New York: Routledge. Hare, Breeanna. 2009. “Older Women Crave ‘New Moon’ Vampires.” CNN, November 16. Jenkins, Henry. 1992. Textual Poachers: Television Fans & Participatory Culture. New York: Routledge. Juhasz, Suzanne. 1994. Reading From the Heart: Women, Literature, and the Search for True Love. New York: Viking. Jung, Susanne. 2004. “Queering Popular Culture: Female Spectators and the Appeal of Writing Slash Fan Fiction.” Gender Queeries 8, http://www.genderforum.uni-koeln.de/queer/jung.html. Katyal, Sonia. 2005. “Performance, Property, and the Slashing of Gender in Fan Fiction.” Journal of Gender, Social Policy and Law 14: 461518. Kustritz, Anne. 2003. “Slashing the Romance Narrative.” Journal of American Culture 26 (3): 371-84. Memmott, Carol. 2008. “Record-Breaking Sales for Breaking Dawn.” USA Today, August 4. Meyer, Stephenie. 2008. Breaking Dawn. New York: Little, Brown. —. 2007. Eclipse. New York: Little, Brown. —. 2006. New Moon. New York: Little, Brown and Co. —. 2005. Twilight. New York: Little, Brown and Co. Penley, Constance. 1992. “Feminism, Psychoanalysis, and the Study of Popular Culture.” In Cultural Studies, edited by Lawrence Grossberg, Cary Nelson and Paula A. Treichler, 479-500. New York: Routledge. Radway, Janice A. 1984. Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Tosenberger, Catherine. 2008. “Homosexuality at the Online Hogwarts: Harry Potter Slash Fanfiction.” Children's Literature 36: 185-207. Wood, Andrea. 2006. “Straight’ Women, Queer Texts: Boy-Love Manga and the Rise of a Global Counterpublic.” Women's Studies Quarterly 34 (1/2): 394. Youssef, Sandra. “Girls Who Like Boys who Like Boys: Ethnography of Online Slash/Yaoi Fans.” B.A. Thesis, Mount Holyoke College, 2004. www.yuuyami.com/luce/thesis.pdf

STAR TREK (2009) AND THE RUSSIAN ST FANDOM: TOO MANY BATTERIES INCLUDED LARISA MIKHAYLOVA

Star Trek fans all over the world had strong reactions to the release of J.J. Abrams’ Star Trek XI film in 2009. As a longstanding and global fandom, Star Trek provides a fitting lens through which to examine both similarities and differences in how fans from disparate cultural backgrounds participate in their chosen fandom, and how they interpret fan texts and changes to fan texts over time. A survey made by the science fiction magazine Supernova at the sixth Star Trek fan convention in Russia (Ruscon) held in 2006, which showed strong proactive attitudes and acceptance of the fundamental humanistic ideas of the Trek saga, serves as the basis for comparison in analyzing the reaction of the Russian Star Trek (“ST”) fans to the release of Star Trek XI. Its release brought about a new wave of fans, but caused controversy among the older fans due to the considerable changes introduced. A discussion at the XXXV International conference of the Russian Society of American Culture Studies in Moscow 11-15 December 2009 revealed significant similarities among the representatives of American and Russian fans in attendance. Both recognized a subversion by Abrams of ST creator Gene Roddenberry’s dream of the possibility to create a humane society. There were, however, also differences. The specific points of attraction and rejection revealed during the survey of Russian Trekkers’ reactions to the film are discussed in this chapter. Nine years of interaction with the people involved in Star Trek fandom in Russia, who accepted me into their circle, helped me to understand them better, while simultaneously turning me into a part of their cultural movement (Mikhaylova, 2006, 188-199). In that aspect, I felt like an envoy as often described by Ursula Le Guin – while studying a certain culture, you can understand it only if you let yourself be influenced by it to an extent, thus becoming a bridge between your own original culture and the one which you came to understand. Among all possible critical

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approaches to Star Trek lore (Harrison et al. 1996), I chose the most personal way. It started with a student, Tanya G., who registered for my lecture course in Modern Science Fiction in 2001. She presented herself as a captain of the newly formed Star Trek Moscow club, which held that very year its first convention, called Ruscon. Unlike American and European events, usually held in hotels or similar venues, the Russian one is held for a week in a forest clearing near Moscow. Trekkers live in tents, sleep in sleeping bags, prepare food on a fire, and sing songs and answer quizzes sitting around it. Tanya introduced me to her friends, and two of my children, then 10 and 13 years old, started to visit weekly meetings of the club, which were held in Moscow. Sometimes they went to one of the club members’ homes to watch ST and discuss related topics. From time to time, they visited the cinema together, watching new science fiction releases, or went to museums or art exhibitions as a group. In summer we all attended the second Ruscon, where my son, as the youngest member, was given the right to raise the newly created blue flag of the club – with Federation globe and olive branches – of Starbase Moscow. We saw firsthand how people who knew each other mostly by nicknames online on ST forums met in person and formed human contacts. While organized by the Moscow club, Ruscon brings together participants from all the corners of Russia – from the westernmost Kaliningrad, to the easternmost Sakhalin – a unifying force as fandom often is across the globe. Few ST books have been translated into Russian, which has created a great interest in translation. My expertise in this art was welcomed by the club members, and I organized a seminar for translators during the convention. Since then seven more conventions have been held. The numbers and interests of these people may have changed, but still they feel the desire to meet and experience the joy of being together. Some of the pairs have married and soon after, the first Russian Trekkers’ children were born. One of the ways in which Russian ST fans found each other was through the science fiction magazine Supernova. The publication helped some of the Russian Trekkers discover the existence of the Moscow club, find its website, and thus a group of people who have similar interests and life goals. What are these goals? A survey I developed and conducted through Supernova at the sixth Ruscon held in 2006 helped me to understand the participants’ interests, goals and values in more detail. By then I had watched most of The Next Generation (TNG), all of Voyager (VOY), half of Deep Space Nine (DSN), The Original Series (TOS), two seasons of Enterprise (ENT), and most of 10 films. I had taken part in

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panel discussions on Star Trek at various conferences, including Wiscon in Madison (USA, 2004), the Popular Culture Association conference in San Diego (USA, 2005) and Toronto Trek in Canada (2005), and was well versed in the lore of the ST Universe. These experiences helped me to choose questions for the survey which were answered by the Trekkers at the convention freely and with great openness. The total number of Ruscon-2006 participants was 110. Eighty took the survey, and 65 surveys were returned. Thus we may consider the results quite representative of the group as a whole. Survey questions were divided into three categories. The first asked for information characterizing demographic and social aspects – age, gender, education level, and place where the participants came from. The second dealt with Trekkers’ involvement with the ST Universe, and the third was introduced in order to single out those people who were interested in taking a more active part in creating a special ST department in the science fiction magazine Supernova, thus elaborating also on their stage of creative involvement. Almost two thirds of those who answered the survey were female, but according to registration at the convention, the actual percentage of attendees was a little more even – closer to sixty percent women and forty percent men. The reason for the discrepancy may be a higher response rate of female participants in answering the questions and returning the filled questionnaires. As for age, here the range was wide – from 16 to 51, with the majority between 17 and 25 years old. As to the occupations, most were students of various universities and colleges, but approximately one third of the participants had graduated and were working. Professions (or future professions) varied considerably, although there were a significant number of people in similar occupations – programmers, IT engineers and system administrators, physicists, web-designers, lawyers, and journalists. Representatives of 18 cities were present (16 in Russian Federation and 2 in Ukraine – Odessa and Sevastopol). In eight of these cities, there were Trekker clubs. Some of the clubs have their own special programs, such as an online trek-library of the St. Petersburg club, Trekkers’ New Year and Ruscon convention of the Moscow club, or the engineering and science orientation of the Rostov-on-Don club. The Moscow club is the largest, with over fifty members, followed by St. Petersburg with approximately forty members. Others (Tula, Yaroslavl, Kaliningrad, Kazan, Samara, Rostov-on-Don) are smaller, with from four to fourteen members. Most came to the convention for the first, second or third time, but for 15 people it was their fourth to sixth one. These “elders” were most active in organizing the convention and were regarded by the rest as possessing a great deal of authority. They organized an all-day thematic team quest

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serving as a culmination of the third or the fourth day of convention – a Big Game, excursions to Space research facilities and museums, preparation of the grounds before the convention and cleaning up after it (Trekkers in Russia are genuinely concerned about ecology, and the clearing of the convention site ensures that it remains livable to forest creatures). There were also ST viewings under a tarpaulin roof with the help of a collectively bought diesel generator and seminars about different aspects of ST. In the second group of survey questions, concerning the participants’ involvement in the ST Universe, some questions dealt with their predilections in the series or films, while others asked respondents to name their favorite characters. Logically, we began with a question about the fan’s introduction to Star Trek. For most Russian viewers, their first acquaintance with ST started in January 2001 with broadcasting of The Next Generation episodes from various seasons on the Russian TV channel STS. The majority of Russian Trekkers date their affection as starting from that show. But according to the survey answers, some knew about ST for a number of years before that, namely from the mid-1990s when several ST books were translated into Russian by Rusich Publishers from Smolensk. The second wave, which brought more followers, originated with the Enterprise television series broadcasts in Russia. The question “When did you understand that your life is not exactly full without Trek?” evoked some humorous answers, but even these were warmly inclusive of the group gathered at the convention – jokes were of a philosophical nature, indicating predominantly satisfaction at finding kindred souls at long last. There was a substantial group (25%) enamored from the very start of watching. Ten percent experienced a hiatus in their life after TNG was dropped by the channel STS, but most continued to feel a longing for people they met at conventions and on internet ST forums. Some of the other answers included: “Knew always, but understood only recently”, “When started to live like in Borg collective”, “When Tasha Yar was killed in an episode “Skin of Evil”; “Came naturally; wouldn’t say that without Trek life is not full, but it definitely adds its 10% above” (Disailor); “After watching all TNG episodes at least five times each I was pretty sure I really liked it” (Sigma).If we do the math– 178 episodes of TNG multiplied by five -, it appears this fan really does like it! The next question was aimed at defining which side of the ST world attracted respondents the most and how it was connected with their real life. Here the answers differed the most in details, though in general there was a definite vigorous acceptance of the series’ core values, which made

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Russian Trekkers “feel alive” and, as one of the girls put it, “look for meaning in life, [and] finding it”. Scale of feelings reported ranged from completely reserved (“it is too intimate for me”) to completely open (“I became more tolerant to people and it is very important for me to spread knowledge about Trek in Russia”). For more than half of the respondents, ST helped them to choose a direction in studies and future career: natural sciences, cosmonautics, computer programming (with one of the fans proclaiming the aim of his studies in physics to create a Warp Drive himself!). For nearly all participants, the most influential feature which helped their lives in general was identified as the spirit and resolve to act with tolerance to other cultures, spread through the ST lore. That of course is the most universally recognized feature throughout ST fandom worldwide (Frazetti 2011). For an elder fan, ST provided an excellent tool for teaching children and showing them that science fiction can produce an image of a livable future. Watching ST also motivated the majority of Trekkers to learn English – first to understand the series better, then to translate it for others. Several more answers: “Trek became an inspiration in life. When I watch it and communicate with trekkers I get energy helping me to work for my dream” (Firevain); “Vulcan logic helps in life, lends me strength to remain calm and search for solutions” (T’Ana); “Trek gave me true friends” (several answers). Trekkers were also asked to confess their predilections to parts of the ST lore, marking the cycles, characters and races they liked more. Preferences divided almost evenly: TOS 21, TNG 23, DSN 13, VOY 15, ENT 12, with 10 people marking everything, and many respondents marking more than one preference. Among films, relatively more attention was given to Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home (1986) and Star Trek VIII: First Contact (1996). Among the characters, there were no obvious leaders of sympathy, though Spock, captains Picard and Kirk, Kira Neris, and T’Pol drew slightly more “followers” , with Doctors McCoy of TOS, Crusher of TNG, and EMH (Emergency Medical Hologram) of VOY, Data, Captain Janeway, Deanna Troy, B’Elanna Torres and Odo slightly behind. However, practically all the principal characters got some fans’ votes as “the most interesting for them”, with several respondents noting “each in their own manner was the best” and reflecting the psychological complementarity of the crews. Gene Roddenberry’s secular humanist ideology underlying the image of the ST Universe allowed him to create a world nourished by friendship and nourishing it. Harmony on the bridge, the interdependence of the Enterprise crew, the valor and mutual support of the Voyager crew, and

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the complex decisions within a context of conflicting values of Deep Space Nine all work towards providing the viewers and fans with a vision that excruciating difficulties can be overcome by the combined efforts of people who are willing to work towards the goal together. Nothing could be more attractive to a country in turbulent disarray, as Russia still remains. Moreover, such a positive image of team work is accepted as a legacy of those ideals from the Soviet past which had nothing to do with totalitarianism, but everything to do with the human urge to explore new realities and construct a more livable society – the values which did not focus on winning, but which enhanced the meaning of success as a collective effort. While looking at the meaning of Trek for them personally and its influence on their own lives, several Russian Trekkers noted that the sincerity of community oriented effort observed there filled the void which formerly was occupied by activities of young communist organizations directed toward solving local tasks – helping the neighbors, improving the environment, developing a net of art, crafts and science extracurricular interest groups. The value of team work to solve the next mystery of the universe or complex intercultural conflict without thinking of personal or material gain carries strong attraction to Russian fans in connection with the best in socialist ideology. The selflessness of Spock along with his composure thus becomes additionally attractive. I agree with Scott Duchesne, that ST mega-text cannot be correctly “read” without its interaction with fans (Duchesne 2006, 4), and would add that the meanings created or stressed in such interaction are culturespecific to the recipients and participators. Such context should be necessarily included in understanding the meaning of Russian Star Trek fandom activities. That is why in the images of Klingon warriors, for example, Russian Trekkers tend to see mainly not some vile “Oriental menace” as some American critics write (cf. “Klingons [in TOS], while certainly signifying Soviets, are assigned racial signifiers that include cosmetically darkened skin and sinister goatees cut in the fashion of stereotypes of the Chinese” [Duchesne 2006, 5]), but instead recognize people moving from prejudiced hatred of all non-Klingons in the direction of finding ways to communicate with others. Which brings us to the question in the survey about predilection for races in the ST universe by Trekkers. Again, all found their fans, but for the purpose of stating the order of preference, Vulcans and Federation people attract the most votes, with Romulans in third place. There are many followers of Bajorans and Klingons as well. In my opinion, Russian

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Trekkers here express that dominant feature of tolerance which they see as the core value of Star Trek. Among activities which Russian Trekkers prefer, the main activity is writing fanfiction related to ST and creating fan-art, followed by writing and performing songs – approximately 50% of respondents are involved in one or several of these activities. Internet addresses of the three biggest selected archives of fanfiction in Russian are cited in the references list of the present article (see also the review by Morrigan 2008, 230-231). Creative range includes, in addition, making video clips, animated films, writing poetry, making ship models and sculptures of the main characters (action-figures), sewing uniforms, making games, playing games, creating or moderating internet sites, translating films, and making subtitles for episodes. Saint-Petersburg ST club publishes a fanzine “Journal of Russian Trekkers”. Seventeen issues are available online at Trekker.ru. While important for personal growth, similar to processes described by the first explorers of fandom creativity in the U.S. (Bacon-Smith 1992), the selfless urge to spread knowledge about Trek everywhere, common to a majority of Russian trekkers, fuels these activities. Translating materials from ST sites in other countries also occupies an important place. Rarely does translation alone satisfy the impulse to contribute for those who spend energy on this activity – they also write reviews and articles on various aspects of ST. Two of the respondents included as ST-related activities “to think and compare” and “to study the Universe”, suggesting that interaction with the world and imagery of Star Trek transcends play and moves into the realm of changing the everyday environment of their lives. Besides listing activities already being performed by them, convention members were asked to suggest some new activities for future conventions and for the department Trekker.ru in the magazine Supernova. Quite a few people – a quarter of the respondents – gave their suggestions, which ranged from offering help in designing souvenirs, planning Big Game and various other competitions, and organizing excursions, to shooting fanfilms and preparing seminars on Betazoids, exobiology, art and dance workshops. There are several persons acting as SMOFs (Secret Masters of Fandom – Bacon-Smith 2000): they help to focus the attention of Russian Trekkers and also devote a great deal of energy to the organization of social activities at conventions and in between conventions. I refer to them here by the nicknames which they devised for themselves within the community. Dyonis Rakhl, Star Base Moscow commander for a number of years; stalwarts of organization Sarda and Menelmyaulin; Ambassador

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and Nikki, who thought out and directed all game activities in the woods… But as soon as I started to point out individual members I realized that though they represent the most influential part of fandom, it would be unfair to single out just them, because the group of people who are responsive and are ready to initiate activities is much larger. Thus at Ruscon-2008, there were seminars on translation and on dance which had been suggested during Ruscon-2006 in the survey by Trekkers from Odessa and Moscow. During the regular meetings which occur, for example, in Moscow club once or twice each month, future plans for common experiences are discussed, such as visiting the theme park of ice sculpture around the Monument to Space Explorers or ways to commemorate April 12, Yury Gagarin’s Day. The ideas for the annual convention are gathered and developed throughout the year both online and at the meetings. Due to the wide range of ongoing activities of Trekkers, the department Trekker.ru of Supernova magazine will undoubtedly feature more news from the Universe of Star Trek fandom in Russia. *** As one can see from the above description, Russian Trekkers are a proactive group of positively thinking individuals, who cherish the basic values upheld by Gene Roddenberry and expressed in the IDIC (Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combination) concept of social development. There are clearly many similarities between Russian Trekkers and their counterparts in other countries, but also some motivations specific to the historical and cultural context of Russia. How would these similarities and differences impact fans’ response to the appearance of a new film bearing the words “Star Trek” in its title – Star Trek: The Movie produced by J.J. Abrams (2009, further referred to as STXI)? An Enterprise-shaped pie-chart graphically shows the reasons American viewers gave for liking the film, varying from indiscriminate (50%) “it was actually good”, to such specific reasons as “Obama loved it” (15%), “made it into the Onion” (12%) and “celebs posing as Trekkies” (5%), among others (Why is Star Trek Finally Cool Again, 2009). “The vast majority of American Trek-watchers I spoke with were quite pleased with the film, which they deemed “harmless fluff.” It was “fun,” they surmised, to see the “outdated kitsch” of the TV-shows translated into the most high-tech effects and style”. These are the words of Alexander Steinberg, a young Fulbright scholar, who graduated from Vassar College in 2009 and took part in the XXXV annual International conference in

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American Culture Studies in Moscow the same year (Steinberg 2009). At the session there was also present a Russian Trekker, the same person who “converted” me into studying the ST phenomenon in 2001. Her reaction to the film was mixed. In fact, we watched it together at a press show in Moscow in April before the world premiere, and at that time the only aspect of the film she thought was worthy of the ST traditions was the character of Captain Pike. Later, upon discussion on the trekker.ru forum, she became more reserved about speaking on this subject. Still, during the discussion of what was “lost in translation” of trek lore in STXI, she generally supported the conclusion of capital subversion of the initial ideas of Roddenberry by Abrams and script writers Alex Kurzman and Roberto Orci.

Figure 1. Star Trek Pie Chart: Why It’s Finally Cool Again. Larisa Mikhaylova. Used with permission.

A closer look at the discussion of the film’s strong points and causes for dissatisfaction at the forum of Russia trekkers during the period AprilSeptember 2009 singled out a distinct split in opinion, which divided the audience along the question of representation in STXI of “Star Trek spirit”. Some of the most militant supporters of the majority (63%) who voted that they liked the film felt there was a valid representation, and challenged defenders of the opposite view that they could not pinpoint

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which scenes exactly were the most “anti-ST-spirit” ones. The exception was the scene in the turbolift between Uhura and Spock, which was considered completely out of character and unnecessary by a majority of both “factions”. There was also an option to vote “Liked, but it is not Trek” which attracted a substantial 30% (Survey on STXI, 2010). In order to get more detailed results, I offered a questionnaire in which participants were asked to mark the extent to which the STXI film deviated from the ST lore (from very much to insignificantly) and what exactly the changes added or removed, then to estimate how the respondents liked the film in the range from 0 to 10. Follow up questions asked participants to specify what caused them to like or dislike it, which characters were the most and the least well presented, and where human life is valued more – in classic or new ST. The final question asked respondents to suggest something which might have improved the film and their attitude to it. In addition, there was a set of demographic questions permitting us to differentiate the answers by age, gender, profession and involvement with ST fandom measured by years. After two weeks I received 20 completed questionnaires, which cannot reflect the attitude of the group as a whole statistically because of their relative paucity (there are over 1000 registered users at trekker.ru forum). However, if we take into consideration such factors as activity level and authority of the respondents in the group, the results can be qualified as significant. This helped me to better interpret the results of the vote conducted on trekker.ru forum which encompassed the answers on the STXI film of 70 respondents. The general reception was an almost even +/- split. More interesting are the specified reasons for likes and dislikes, as well as the choice of main aspects “asking for change”. The answers confirmed my preliminary assumption that reactions would be connected with the span of involvement with ST fandom – the longer and more thorough the knowledge of the ST Universe created by Roddenberry, the more acute was the rejection of the changes introduced by Abrams: this alternative universe was considered “devoid of friendship”, “lacking the spirit of discovery”, “not showing the beauty of Space”, and “dropping the idea of possibility of peaceful exploration of Universe”. One notable exception was the major Moscow fan who for a number of years headed the Ruscon organization and whose main concern was with spreading the knowledge of Trek, which he prioritized over the other issues. This fan reasoned his acceptance of the new movie by “the possibility to develop the franchise further”, stressing the marketing aspect.

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The only universally approved character is the new McCoy - “he is the most canonical and plays very exactly as the future Bones could”. New Spock is in second place, the third being shared by Captain Pike and Scotty. Nero collected the largest number of negative marks, both from those who liked and who didn’t like the film, with new Uhura as the next least popular character. This means that the main antagonist is seen as a one-dimensional character, which is absolutely contrary to the Trek ideology. Nero was called an undeveloped, flat, hysterical, standard bad guy, and even those who gave the highest mark to the movie still would have changed the Nero character. Chekhov as a Russian character might have caused a controversy, but instead he was accepted as a character who was both talented and entirely enthusiastic in what he is doing, and thus positively reflecting the tradition despite his “cuteness.” As to Kirk, even those who liked him remarked that the character was an embodiment of the mythical hero with all his standard attributes (lacking a father, gaining a mentor as well as knowledge from the world of the dead), not the young man who would become Kirk of TOS. A concept from the information technology sphere, rebooting, started to be actively used by politicians and economists during the 2000s as a symbol of new beginnings. Companies such as Paramount use this approach to spur profits, not paying much attention in this case to the subject matter of Star Trek, its ideology or, as it is more often called – mythology. But in my opinion it would have been more appropriate to use another term here, much closer to the sphere of marketing for which it is being used – rebranding. With rebranding, changes are typically aimed at the repositioning of the brand/company, sometimes in an attempt to distance itself from certain negative connotations of the previous branding, or to move the brand upmarket. However, the main reason for a re-brand is to communicate a new message for a company – something that has evolved, or something that the new board of directors wishes to communicate. It is interesting to remember that in its original use, the word “rebrand” means marking by your own brand the cattle you bought – or stole. So we observe a process of appropriation of a well-known brand by a group of newcomers, done energetically and decisively. Why is this possible? Because the times have changed. That is the opinion of the majority of the Trekkers in Russia. They are not particularly afraid of such change, but those who belong to the generation born before 1980 express more caution and believe the message of the new film distorts the core values of Trek. The eleventh Star Trek film’s marketing campaign specifically targeted non-fans, even using the phrase "this is not your father’s Star Trek" in the film’s advertisements.

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Abrams uses the approaches and plot moves from the Star Wars franchise, which stress action and focus the attention of viewers on yet another planet-destroyer maniac. Entertaining qualities are considered a plus by most, but in deciphering what they involve – keeping the attention on the screen with the help of special effects and glaring lights, the fast pace of changing scenes rather than story development, and cliff-hanging moments – their value cannot be taken as unequivocally positive if we consider the qualities of TOS. “Who are these people?” – The entertained young audience was apparently provoked to have another look at TOS to get acquainted with the “real story” of Kirk, Spock and TOS team. A new wave of Trekkers who came to the Russian forum in 2009 is a testimony to the fact that such attraction worked. However, a survey on the forum asking whether fans would have liked a new series set in the Universe shown by Abrams & Co showed strong negative results. Russian Trekkers don’t envision the development of such a universe as very desirable, perhaps not sensing much story potential in its inconsistency with the original universe. Let us see what Russian trekkers consider removed from the new film: x enthusiasm, discovery and team spirit, optimism x main theme of ST – “to seek new life, new civilizations” x willingness to live in the future where people will learn to solve problems together x galactic brotherhood x investigation of what makes a person human and humane, i.e., where is the border between self and others x the very concept of good and evil x warmth between the main characters. Even as they praise: x x x x

tempo, dynamics realistic representation of conflicts scale and visual “openness” allusions to the old Trek understandable for those who know it…

Can it be considered enough? Those who admired the new film and its added features praised the film as “the best space opera”, and the acquisition of “new information about Romulan culture – for example, the habit to shave off hair and tattoo the head as the sign of mourning”. But would they incorporate the new film into ST lore? Here we meet an almost

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universal denial. The very changes fans suggest to be introduced demonstrate the futility of attempting to maintain the film within the bounds of ST Universe: Not to blow up Vulcan and not to change the timeline, To save Amanda, To remove the cartoon-monster from Delta-Vega, To make the engineering deck less absurd, To remove the scene between Uhura and Spock in the turbolift, To make Kirk apologize in the end to Spock for the words about his mother, x The whole plot.

x x x x x x

Too many batteries were used to energize what Paramount certainly considered to be a walking dead project. But the reinvigorated entity can hardly become the embodiment of a future which can be taken as a model to live by. J.J. Abrams himself evaded my direct question “Would you have liked to live in such a future?” at the after premiere press-conference and began speaking about Roddenberry, who created a future which attracted millions. One of the Russian Trekkers wrote: “Now we are entering a very uneasy period, when a question – whether humanity will survive – becomes central, and Trek has always been a metaphorical reflection of times”. That is why a new film, where the very name of Star Trek is being rebranded, still touches the tormented souls of contemporary people. But to build the future on the basis of hatred and revenge is impossible, as so often was shown in all genuine Star Trek. Controversy in the community of Russian Trekkers indicates both the measure of distress caused by the contemporary state of minds in the society and the acute desire to overcome it.

References Bacon-Smith, Camille. 1992. Enterprising Women. Television Fandom and Creation of Popular Myth. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. —. 2000. Science Fiction Culture. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Duchesne, Scott K. “Play vs. Presence in Star Trek.” Journal of Humanities and Social Science 1, no. 2(2007): 1-12.

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Frazetti, Daryl. 2011. “The Culture of Trek Fandom: Wouldn’t You Like to Be a Trekkie Too?” accessed April 10, 2011, http://independent.academia.edu/DarylFrazetti/Papers/448772/Results_ Star_Trek_Fandom_Survey. Harrison, Taylor, Sarah Projansky, Kent A. Ono and Elyce Rae Helford, eds. 1996. Enterprise Zones: Critical Positions on Star Trek. Boulder: Westview Press. Mikhaylova, Larisa. “Make It So! Forty years of Star Trek TV show and its fandom,” in Proceedings of the XXXI and XXXII International RSACS conferences “Word and/as Power: Author and Authority in American Cultural Tradition” December 16-21, 2005 and “America Real, Imaginary, Virtual” December 14-19, 2006. (Moscow: MSU Journalism Department, 2006, 188-199). Morrigan, 2008. “Ɍɪɟɤ ɩɪɨɞɨɥɠɚɟɬɫɹ. Ɏɚɧɮɢɤɢ ɜ ɂɧɬɟɪɧɟɬɟ.” Supernova no.41-42: 297-301. (ɋɜɟɪɯɧɨɜɚɹ. F&SF, in Russian). Russian Trekkers’ fanfiction and fanart: accessed January 2, 2012, http://silverwindarhiv.narod.ru/fanfictionStarTrekTheBest.html. acces sed March 29, 2010, http://startrek.spb.ru/index.php?option=com_content&task=category& sectionid=6&id=32&Itemid=107 (page temporarily discontinued); accessed March 29, 2010, http://www.startrek.org.ua/stranici/golopaluba.html (site discontinued). Songs of Russian Trekkers, 2008. Trekker.ru. Supernova (41-42), pp.291295. (ɋɜɟɪɯɧɨɜɚɹ. F&SF, in Russian). Steinberg, Alexander. “To Boldly Go Where?: Mythologies, pluralism, and translation in Star Trek (1966/2009).” Paper presented at the XXXVth International RSACS conference Pluralism in American Culture, Moscow, Russia, December 2009. Supernova. www.snovasf.com Survey about Star Trek XI on Russian Trekkers’ Forum, accessed January 02, 2012, http://www.trekker.ru/forum/showthread.php?t=4468&page=82. Trekker.ru http://www.trekker.ru/subs/ “Why is Star Trek Finally Cool Again,” June 17, 2009, accessed January 02, 2012, http://scifiwire.com/2009/06/9-reasons-star-trek-is-no.php.

JUST WHO IS THE PASSIVE AUDIENCE HERE?: TEACHING FAN STUDIES AT UNIVERSITY LINCOLN GERAGHTY

This chapter investigates the theories and practices surrounding the learning and teaching of fan studies in higher education. Based on primary evidence and experience of teaching audience and fan studies across both undergraduate and postgraduate UK courses in Media and Film studies I discuss the notion of cultural distinction and hierarchies within student perceptions of who fans are and analyse the varying approaches students take to developing their understanding of fans and fan practices. Despite students having access to and use of myriad forms of technologies that allow communal interaction through social networking sites, blogs and videos many continue to regard similar fan practices and uses of technology as being somehow inconsequential, geeky and childish. These observations remain firmly entrenched within a position of defensive naiveté; students, rather than seeing themselves as part of this multimedia landscape and recognising their own actions as part of being a fan of something, take up a position of superiority. To them, fans, as the stereotypical “passive” consumers of media texts, are cultural dupes and through a position of knowing critique students are outside observers – objective and freely detached from any emotional or personal attachment to media texts. In some ways this failure to recognise one’s self and one’s own participation in the activities of being a fan is connected more generally to how students feel about entering and engaging with the world of higher education. They are suspicious of academia and the processes of research, writing and having to think for themselves while taking into account diverse voices, perspectives and arguments. But also, I would argue that the strongly felt opinions about fans made by many students studying fandom conform to what Jonathan Gray (2003) calls “anti-fandom” and thus situate student reactions as a form of opposite expression that ironically parallels similar positions of distinction, judgement and taste that fans routinely take up against other fans and texts. Indeed, I would go

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further and describe those who take such a position are more than antifans. They do not see themselves in the text, as part of the same discourses around consumption, cultural distinction and fan practices, thus their position is made invisible. This “invisible” fandom is clearly characterised by notions of judgement and taste. Yet, as Cornel Sandvoss suggests, the basis for the relationship between fan and object of fandom is a “selfreflective reading” that fans do not recognise or see (2005, 121), therefore I would argue that those students who are wary of studying fandom and see themselves as separate from it are ultimately as much part of participatory culture as any diehard fan.

Discussion Teaching across a range of film, media and creative writing courses at my institution I regularly encounter students who are very open about their fandom. They come into class displaying their favourite film, television show, video game, comic book character or music artist through their clothing, what they are reading or what music they have on their ipods. In this, I am confronted with a range of media texts that are but a tiny fraction of the global media ecology. Fandom is constantly being flagged, both banally and with great extravagance, and the posters, books and toys that line the walls of my own office are testimony to the fact that being a fan and what I teach are just extensions of who I am. Still, university continues to be a place where freedom of expression allows for students to be proud of who they are and what they like and also a place where hopefully students encounter new texts, ideas and people they would not normally encounter at home. As such, many students are completely unaware of the multiple interests and passions their peers have and when this is flagged up are surprised and sometimes cautious as to how to interact. While new media pervade students’ lives and the media texts that encourage devoted fans to participate and produce new texts continue to dominate film, television and the web there is a clear sense of divide between what students think they should study, what they can study, and what the students are actually interested in studying. For example, I lecture on audience research methods and introduce students to the multiple ways media audiences have been studied and theorised. In doing this I suggest that students can look to their own media consumption practices and use the skills of auto-ethnography to perhaps understand the practices of others. In suggesting that all students are “fans” of something – music, video games, blogging, facebook – there is a clear reaction from the class

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as they respond by saying they are not “serious” about those things and they do not see themselves as passionate about their activities as perhaps those who dress up in their favourite Star Trek costume or watch all episodes of 24 season eight on DVD back to back in one day. In reacting like this the students are displaying their cultural capital by distinguishing their media consumption practices from those more overt and often stereotyped activities associated with Trekkies or people who watch too much TV. Of course, even equating regular and popular media practices like downloading music or updating the status of your facebook page to the practices of Star Trek fans who talk to and share with each other through similar media channels makes students react even more strongly by saying that fans take it all too seriously and such activities suggest fans should “get a life” (see of course Henry Jenkins’ Textual Poachers for a discussion of this attitude towards fans). Similarly, in a postgraduate class I teach over the length of a semester I cover the history and theories of fan studies and some students are wary of talking about themselves and their own consumption practices. The language used by students in seminars, where we discuss key readings and apply them to case studies, suggests a “we” and “they”, “us” and “them” dichotomy. This objectification of fans, criticising what they do and like, is part of a discourse of distinction that not only stops students seeing themselves in the text but also stops them from engaging with the academic work on the subject. They treat the scholarship with suspicion and judge it on their own terms of media consumption and usage – if they don’t like a TV show or film then why should someone write about the fans of it and why should they have to read it. This mild form of antiintellectualism corresponds to Matt Hills’ (2002, 3) description of “imagined subjectivity”, whereby the students attribute their own value to their own insular interests, knowledge and media consumption while “denigrating or devaluating the ‘improper’ subjectivity” of the academic work they must read for class and the fans and/or fan practices they are studying. Of course, what those students who take this position do not recognise is that choosing to remain distrustful of academia and in opposition to taking fans and fan studies seriously is that this mirrors the “imagined subjectivities” of the scholar-fan and fan-scholar: the former “typically looked down on as not being ‘proper’ academics” and the latter “typically viewed within fandom as ‘pretentious’ or not ‘real’ fans” (Hills 2002, 21). Further, while the students I teach often see fans as being unable to distance themselves from the media text – they (the students) feel they are more able than the fans to discern fact from fiction, real from unreal – they ironically take up the position of those academics who pour

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scorn on media scholar-fans for studying the object of their fandom and supposedly remaining critical, objective and neutral. Or, in the words of Matt Hills, “By laying claim to the nonaestheticized study of popular culture, scholars have sought to discursively distance themselves from what are viewed as normative practices of media consumerism” (2007, 35). I say this is ironic since most students are quite distrustful of academic discourse and so by reacting in similar ways to those academics that also look down on studying popular culture they stray quite close to being something they would not normally want to be. Teaching on a fan fiction creative writing course offers a different experience of student attitudes to fandom and fan studies. While they have to write critically about the practice of fan fiction and contextualise it within a history of media fandom the students also have to produce their own stories. The latter task is met with tremendous enthusiasm. Students share quite freely their desire to thrust Sherlock Holmes into the Saw universe, having the famous detective pit his wits against the calculating Jigsaw. Many are keen to write about scenarios like what happens in Friends’ Central Perk when the six friends are at work: who sits on the couch and drinks coffee? Are they as close friends as Joey, Chandler, Ross, Phoebe, Rachel and Monica? In fact, the range of Alternative Universe or Crossover fanfic written by students is a delight and highlights how truly diverse their tastes in media consumption are and how much they value those texts they regularly watch and write about. Some students confess that they have been writing fanfic for some time, publishing on fanfiction.net and keeping a portfolio of work. These examples of what and how students want to write signal an instinctive engagement with their favourite fictional worlds and media narratives; they clearly want to feel part of them and write themselves into them. Such actions correspond to how and why cult TV fans interact and enjoy their favourite series. They are made up of increasingly complex story arcs centred on a “perpetuated hermeneutic” (central mystery) set within a “hyper-diegesis” (unfinished world) stretched over an “endlessly deferred narrative” (Hills 2002, 131) that encourages fan loyalty and offers repeated pleasures. As GwenllianJones and Pearson state “seriality, textual density, and, perhaps most especially, the nonlinerarity of multiple time frames and settings that create the potentially infinitely large metatext of a cult television text create the space for fans to revel” (2004, xvii). Yet, when students start to research their creative practices they shy away from a critical engagement with fan scholarship and offer a largely surface analysis of what they wrote and why they chose a particular media text to write about. Again,

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students in this case do not recognise, or are not willing to recognise, themselves in the text. Although fan fiction is a popular choice with students, learning about particular genres of the form does prove challenging to some. The most extreme reaction comes when students are introduced to Slash Fiction. While accepting the worthiness of the Alternative Universe, the What Ifs, Crossovers and Romantic Pairings stories that come from a Slash tradition, including hurt-comfort, Slash stories are deemed by most students I have taught as highly dubious. What purposes do these types of story have and why would people write it? What do they get out of it? They must be missing something in their lives. Even when I contextualise Slash, explain its historical roots and discuss how authors use Slash as a form of resistance and to express their own self-identity students find it hard to acknowledge the need for such seemingly extreme (in some cases) stories of homoerotic love between characters not shown to share that relationship on screen. The Kirk/Spock (K/S) example is the most often critiqued but is considered by most students as being another reason why fans, and Star Trek fan practices in particular, are somehow unusual, exceptional and unrepresentative of what “normal” fans should be doing. That fan fiction can be described as a “democratic genre” (see Pugh 2005) and as a tactical manoeuvre of the powerless to resist or transform the system and products of the powerful (see Jenkins 1992, Bacon-Smith 1992 & Penley 1997) are facts not disputed by students since they tend not to recognise the need for such resistance in the first place.

Education Returning to the point about “imagined subjectivity” and teaching fan studies I made earlier we might do well to look to the work of education scholars who have studied student attitudes and approaches to learning. The suspicion some students held towards the material I taught on fan theory is symptomatic of a wider problem in higher education: where students do not fully engage with the scholarship and knowledge required for a deep and active understanding of the subject. In the case of fan studies, the fact that this scholarship and knowledge includes being familiar with communities, fan practices and those media texts a typical student might ordinarily avoid clearly complicates the matter further. Yet, no matter the particulars of what subject is being taught, perhaps what needs to be acknowledged is the position most undergraduates (and some postgraduates) feel they are in when coming to university. Part of the problem attached to student approaches to learning is that they can feel

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isolated from the academic discipline when they first arrive at university. Making the leap from high school to degree level can be hard, especially if one is unfamiliar with the methods and traditions of higher education teaching practices, such as the lecture and seminar, or the types of assessment such as the extended critical essay. Students are expected to read widely and be critical of the texts they consume. Therefore it is important to remember that they are at the beginning of their studies and “are undertaking” what D’Andrea and Gosling call “a ‘cognitive apprenticeship’”, where they “are metaphorically moving from the ‘periphery’ of a subject to becoming proficient in it” (D’Andrea and Gosling 2005, 86-87). If students feel anxious about what they must do, learn, and complete when they first embark on their degree studies, it is imperative that they are made aware of the expectations that tutors have. Fan studies throws up some peculiar problems in that as well as asking students to get to grips with the theoretical approaches to studying fans – becoming familiar with critical studies that originate from diverse academic disciplines including sociology, psychology, film, television and cultural studies – they also have to take on board the multiple media texts that attract fans, acknowledge the diverse array of fan practices, and keep up to date with the community’s increasingly complex use of technology and social media. It is no wonder then that some students find it difficult to develop and maintain a critical engagement with the topic while they also have to keep on top of its ever evolving nature. In some ways, student engagement with fans and fan studies reflects a similar problem students have when dealing with referencing and secondary sources. Hendricks and Quinn argue that the errors in referencing some students make in their essays are not surface problems but rather are “connected to a deeper understanding of multi-voiced texts and the construction of knowledge” (Hendricks and Quinn 2000, 456). Similarly, when students have to recognise and manage different and competing voices in a text, fan community or even the differing opinions of academics it can be hard to situate themselves within this world. As outlined by Philip Martin, the extent to which a certain body of knowledge can be engaged with and written about by students is dependent on a series of problems uniquely associated with the Arts and Humanities. The bodies of knowledge crucial to the student experience of assessment in the humanities “are very difficult to define or delimit in precise terms, and are continuously disputed by academics and practitioners” (Martin 2003, 302). As new books are published and new theories and arguments are put forward by academics they may augment, or even replace, the common body of

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knowledge used to develop and establish the teaching curricula in many humanities subjects, including fan studies. So, if fan studies represents a new world in which students have to engage with unfamiliar and ever-changing theory and fan communities and practices that may not necessarily be ones in which those students indulge themselves, then it is important to remind them that they must find their own way through the material, finding their own opinion and how to voice it by building up a thorough and critical appreciation of the material. Students should be able to demonstrate this in their assessment, whether it is a presentation or an essay. Making sure that they find their own voice in an academic essay is vitally important (Lea and Street 1998); it is after all an essential skill that moves the author beyond a surface approach – when students perceive the assessment to be simply a test of “unreflective memorization” – towards a deep approach that will see them achieve a deeper level of understanding – engaging in “active conceptual analysis” of the chosen theory and the sources that inform its definition (Struyven, Dochy and Janssens 2005, 326-327). Hanne Bock acknowledges that students’ understanding of academic texts is reliant on two factors – contextual knowledge and language competence – “without the former, reading becomes simplistic and subjective; without the latter it becomes associative rather than analytical” (Bock 1988, 25). Furthermore, as students begin to see and read the enormous amount of academic work on fan studies they may begin to get an appreciation of how important such scholarship is and how serious the discipline can be when engaging with the personal and emotional attachments fans have with their object of fandom. Philip Martin makes it clear that academic subjects within the arts and humanities “are concerned with acts of continuous reinterpretation and revision. Hence the use of the word ‘engagement’” (Martin 2003, 302). Engagement with the subject means you must interrogate both the text and the body of knowledge associated with it. If lack of student engagement with fan studies in the examples discussed so far in this chapter can be contextualised within a broader framework of education studies and an understanding of approaches to student learning at university then in the following section I want to employ a model from fan theory to help us identify what defines student engagement with fans and the cultural practices of media fandom.

Anti-Fans and Invisible Fans Much of what I have written about can be described as a form of “antifandom” by which those students who take up a position of critical

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distance from both fan theory and examples of popular fandom are displaying their dispassion for the particular examples being discussed in class. Yet, in doing this they are also displaying their fan tendencies because they are assuming a hierarchical position of taste superiority and value that forms a crucial part of what being a fan involves on a daily basis. Derek Johnson (2007, 286) believes these typical “struggles for discursive dominance constitute fandom as a hegemonic struggle over interpretation and evaluation through which relationships among fan, text, and producer are continually articulated, disarticulated, and rearticulated.” Take a further example from the undergraduates I teach. On a unit called Approaches to Popular Culture I lecture on sports coverage on television, Star Trek, and the Harry Potter novels – quite disparate examples of popular culture. While the first topic gets people’s attention, it is part of the national character to watch football on the TV and, because of its regularity, is ubiquitous most weekends and evenings and therefore familiar, the lecture and accompanying seminars on Star Trek in American culture is met with much more resistance. For students fresh out of high school, watching a television show from the 1960s is a challenge. It is slightly different for Harry Potter since while studying the novels’ fans is problematic for some students they still recognise the franchise’s overall cultural significance – not least because most have read at least one of the seven books or watched a number of the eight films. On the other hand, the Star Trek episode I screen may be the only one most students have seen of the original series – clips from nostalgia shows on TV or You Tube do not count – and despite this being unrepresentative of the entire Star Trek franchise or its fan community students are quick to pass judgement: boring, dull, stupid and other such words are mentioned. Thus students, the “anti-fans”, who have not seen enough of the series to really have formulated a well-informed opinion “construct an image of the text – and, what is more, an image they feel is accurate – sufficiently enough that they can react to and against it” and with the critical reading that they fail to do for seminars students routinely “engage in distant reading, responding to texts that have not been viewed” (Gray 2003, 71). According to Jonathan Gray, we must be cautious in dismissing antifans and anti-fandom since to understand the multiplicity of media texts and how we engage with them on a daily basis it is important to recognise the varied discourses of anti-fandom around particular examples just as much as those discourses of fandom. Similarly, we can discern a lot about a media text from studying its anti-fans as well as its fans. Certainly, considering the sheer amount of media texts that are being consumed by students it is important to ask why they like particular texts over others

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and recognise that “Fragmented, distracted and over-saturated textual delivery and consumption show no signs of decreasing” (Gray 2003, 79) therefore it is not a surprise that students can react in resistant ways to the texts they have to study and the episodes they have to watch in class. However, what is problematic is the fact that students supposedly keen to learn new things while at university are so intent on identifying the fan practices of others as strange and theorising those practices as deeply suspicious. What this suggests is that students who do not see themselves in the very texts they study are also unaware, or at least unwilling to recognise, the fact that the media pervades our lives so much that we all act as fans now. Indeed, media audiences are becoming increasingly fractured as they spread out across a variety of popular and new media. From blogging on the Internet to posting home-made videos and watching blockbuster films online rather than in the cinema, the mainstream audience can no longer be seen as just that. It is acting in such a way that it mirrors the practices of fans who in order to pursue their various fandoms had to go beyond what was made available to them and get closer to the text in whatever way was possible: for example, for fan fiction writers this meant printing and sending their own stories to other fans by post and for fans of long-lost television series or cult films they had to meet at conventions or movie theatres to watch their favourite and rare texts. What is more, as new technologies influence the way we consume, use and produce media texts, audience tastes and value judgements tend to shift wildly as consumer choice increases. The fragmentation of the media audience has occurred due to the continually evolving “relationship between technologies, industries, markets, genres, and audiences” (Jancovich et al 2003, 4). This convergence of media and technology, according to Henry Jenkins (2006, 15-16), “alters the logic by which media industries operate and by which media consumers process news and entertainment.” Consumers of media texts are now producers of new texts as established industry made media products are disseminated across multi-media platforms and chopped up and mixed with a multiplicity of differing images and texts. For example, Hollywood could never assume the film audience understood or watched a movie in the same way; now, even more, Hollywood has to recognize that its diverse audiences are learning how to use new technologies to “bring the flow of media more fully under their control and interact with other consumers” (Jenkins 2006, 18). For those students who doubt the importance of studying fan texts and fan practices what they are clearly not able to grasp is that fandom is at the heart of the very media they have

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chosen to study at university. This concept is invisible to them just as much as their own likes and dislikes of particular media texts.

Conclusion In effect, then, when teaching fan studies at university it is crucial that as teachers we must engage students on several levels. We must recognise the multiple fandoms that they may or may not have while also teaching them how to see themselves in the texts they are studying. As difficult as it is to make sure this happens it is just as difficult to get students to engage with academia on a deeper level. Reading textbooks, engaging with theory, multi-voiced texts, book chapters, articles and simply going to lectures is just as much the problem for students as the subject matter of fan studies. Students want it both ways, they want to get that degree and move on in their lives but they also want to learn interesting things (that is, things of interest to them) without being challenged so as to confront their own inabilities and idiosyncrasies. From the examples I have discussed in this chapter it might be easy to jump to conclusions about student learning and approaches to fan studies; I would have to say that for every “anti-fan” there is often an enthusiastic student who is very keen to display his or her own fandom and tackle the theory. Indeed, when students are offered the opportunity to place themselves within the text being studied they often produce their best work – as if being able to approach the subject from a position of knowledge and familiarity gives the student confidence to move beyond a surface approach to learning and engage more critically with the topic and academic readings. As argued in the section on education, the problems associated with student approaches to learning do not simply spring from a dislike of the subject or a lack of competence but rather stem from a deeper fear of engaging with things unfamiliar to them – in the contexts of this chapter this includes both the methods of researching at university and fan texts and fan practices. Therefore, I would suggest that to really engage students in fan studies and with fan theory is to first break down those barriers of unfamiliarity and ignorance – start from a position of familiarity and work towards the unfamiliar. One could take heart from the creative writing students who read out their drafts in front of their classmates; the obvious indicators of fandom (a student’s detailed knowledge of a media text coming through in their fan fiction) did not prove off-putting as peers could recognise the same in their own work. Perhaps the invisible fandom at this junction became visible. As students listened to one person’s story about Joey from Friends entering the world of Two and a Half Men they

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shared in the textual pleasure of the author imagining this happening and, at the same time, reflected on their own stories and the pleasure they experienced when writing, visualising, drafting, and reading them out. While this chapter has attempted to plot out some of the recurrent problems in how students engage with fans and fan theory – describing students as “invisible fans” that take up positions as “anti-fans” who do not recognise that fandom is now a crucial part of media landscape that surrounds us – I would also want to stress that it perhaps offers fellow teachers some insight into the practices of teaching fan studies and the value we must place in engaging with students on their level. Once this is achieved we can then start to help them in the difficult transition of becoming university scholars and teach them the importance of valuing different perspectives, multiple tastes, and that to be a student at university is to be a fan of learning.

References Bacon-Smith, Camille. 1992. Enterprising Women: Television Fandom and the Creation of Popular Myth. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Bock, Hanne. 1988. “Academic Literacy: Starting Point or Goal?” In Literacy by Degrees, edited by Gordon Taylor, Brigid Ballard, Vic Beasley, Hanne Bock, John Clanchy and Peggy Nightingale, 24-41. Milton Keynes: Open University Press. D’Andrea, Vaneeta, and David Gosling. 2005. Improving Teaching and Learning in Higher Education: A Whole Institution Approach. Maidenhead: Open University Press. Gray, Jonathan. 2003. “New Audiences, New Textualities: Anti-Fans and Non-Fans.” International Journal of Cultural Studies 6.1: 64-81. Gwenllian-Jones, Sara, and Roberta E Pearson. 2004. “Introduction.” In Cult Television, edited by Sara Gwenllian-Jones and Roberta E. Pearson, ix-xx. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Hendricks, Monica, and Lynn Quinn. 2000. “Teaching Referencing as an Introduction to Epistemological Empowerment.” Teaching in Higher Education 5.4: 447-457. Hills, Matt. 2002. Fan Cultures. London: Routledge. —. 2007. “Media Academics as Media Audiences: Aesthetic Judgments in Media and Cultural Studies.” In Fandom: Identities and Communities in a Mediated World, edited by Jonathan Gray, Cornel Sandvoss and C. Lee Harrington, 33-47. New York, NY: New York University Press.

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Jancovich, Mark, Antonio Lázaro Reboll, Julian Stringer, and Andy Willis. 2003. “Introduction.” In Defining Cult Movies: The Cultural Politics of Oppositional Taste, edited by Mark Jancovich, Antonio Lázaro Reboll, Julian Stringer and Andy Willis, 1-13. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Jenkins, Henry. 1992. Textual Poachers: Television Fans & Participatory Culture. New York: Routledge. —. 2006. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York, NY: New York University Press. Johnson, Derek. 2007. “Fan-tagonism: Factions, Institutions, and Constitutive Hegemonies of Fandom.” In Fandom: Identities and Communities in a Mediated World, edited by Jonathan Gray, Cornel Sandvoss and C. Lee Harrington, 285-300. New York, NY: New York University Press. Lea, Mary R., and Brian V. Street. 1998. “Student Writing in Higher Education: An Academic Literacies Approach.” Studies in Higher Education 23.2: 157-172. Martin, Philip W. 2003. “Key Aspects of Teaching and Learning in Arts, Humanities and Social Sciences.” In. A Handbook for Teaching & Learning in Higher Education: Enhancing Academic Practice, edited by Heather Fry, Steve Ketteridge and Stephanie Marshall, 301-323. London: Routledge Farmer. Penley, Constance. 1997. NASA/Trek: Popular Science and Sex in America. New York: Verso. Pugh, Sheenagh. 2005. The Democratic Genre: Fan Fiction in a Literary Genre. Bridgend: Seren. Sandvoss, Cornel. 2005. Fans: The Mirror of Consumption. Cambridge: Polity Press. Struyven, Katrien, Filip Dochy, and Steven Janssens. 2005. “Students’ Perceptions about Evaluation and Assessment in Higher Education: A Review.” Assessment & Evaluation in Higher Education 30.4: 325341.

FANDOM IN THE CLASSROOM: A PEDAGOGY OF FAN STUDIES PAUL BOOTH

Ethical Issues in Teaching Fandom1 Teaching students about technology and fans necessitates an investigation into the way fans use technology, which invites a host of ethical complications into the classroom. What does it mean for students if a fan, writing in a public forum but for a specific audience, posts slash fandom online and it becomes used as an exemplar in another classroom? How can the investigation of a fan community’s collaborative writing on a wiki facilitate a student’s learning about collective intelligence without sacrificing the quotidian experience of the fan? In other words, can the investigation of any fans’ work be itself a worthy study, justifying an intrusion into a semi-private space? In this chapter, I want to consider two different fan-based assignments, each of which encouraged my students to consider the ethics of fan-based media. In the first assignment, I asked students to critique media as fans might: using mash-up videos to construct a rhetorical argument about a topic in popular culture. For the second assignment, I asked students to contribute information to Wikipedia about a media text of their choice, as fans often do with wikis based on their favored texts. In both these cases, however, I discovered that the intent of the project was augmented by an unexpected lesson in online ethics. As Jenkins, et al. (2009) suggested, research into fandom can become a path to understanding and augmenting research into media and cultural literacy. Students’ use of fan tactics to construct mash-up videos became a way to talk about the ethical considerations of intellectual property rights, copyright, and authorship, and using a fan methodology to contribute to a wiki became a way to talk about collaborative authorship and the rather sticky nature of “truth” online. By treating the classroom as a minute fan community, students effectively discussed the contemporary media scene and articulated a meaningful point of view about the practice of fandom. In other words,

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treating students as fans helped illustrate connections between fan culture and classroom culture.

Teaching Fans, Fandom To introduce the topic of fandom in my classes, I ask my students to work as fans. Many students feel, thanks in part to mass media representations, that fans are “Others”—people with unhealthy attachments to media texts. My classes try to dispel that myth, and one way to enact that is by integrating fannish activities into class. My classes revolve around assessments of new technologies (like wikis, social network sites, and microblogging) both pedagogically and practically; that is, I not only assign readings about the development of these technologies, but also assign projects that ask students to use these technologies. My research into fandom (Booth 2008, 2009, 2010a, 2010b), similarly, focuses on the way fans use new technology to form communities and to interact across a range of media platforms and environments. Fans can be found at the forefront of technological use; often when a new technology develops, fans are some of the first people to invest time, energy, and (importantly) money into that device. For instance, Jenkins (1992) describes how fans opened up the world of the Video Cassette Recorder (VCR) upon its advent in the late 1970s. Before the Internet opened up to commercial development, fans were using list servs and bulletin boards to communicate about all manner of shows (Jenkins 2006a, 2006b; see also Baym 2000). Ultimately, the participatory nature of the fan studies discipline can translate into an exemplary pedagogical tool. Critically examining the self (and self-interest) becomes the first foray into the study of aca-fandom— and should therefore be at the heart of teaching fan studies. As Jenkins et al. (2009, xii) reminds us, “a growing body of scholarship suggests potential [pedagogical] benefits from these forms of participatory culture, including opportunities for peer-to-peer learning, a changed attitude toward intellectual property…and a more empowered conception of citizenship.” Using fandom as both a topic and a practice in my classroom has provided positive learning outcomes, including more insightful and thoughtful discussions of ethical issues in the classroom. All my classes, graduate and undergraduate, look at ethical issues in media studies through the lens of the fan. Just as Jenkins (2010) describes his own fan classes, however, I teach fan studies to undergraduates differently from how I teach it to graduates. Each style stems from one end of the aca-fan dialectic. For undergraduates, I tend to teach from a fan’s perspective, as if

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I were teaching students how to be fans. They write fan fiction, create a fan community in the classroom, and treat commercial media objects as fodder for close analysis. In this way, I have each student examine a particular media text as “silly-putty,” by “stretching its boundaries to incorporate their concerns, remolding its characters to better suit their desires” (Jenkins 1992, 159). Student choose one media text with which they’ll work all quarter [10 weeks]: they write an analysis of why it is a cult text, they read and then write their own fan fiction (complete with beta readers—third parties who reads a draft of a fan fiction work in order to comment or critique it before publication), and they create a fannish web project as a final. Students become fans, and work in the world of fans. Course evaluations show that students enjoy this style of teaching as it (as they have written) engenders a “new understanding of fans, and fan culture,” while allowing them to “explore other aspects of academia.” Ethically, however, I find some particularly troubling situations have emerged from this style of interaction. Many students are uncomfortable working outside the boundaries of their chosen text. Instead, they prefer to hold onto the auteuristic “creator-is-God” model of cult appreciation (“why do I think I can make Star Trek better than Gene Roddenberry can?”). Still other students are terrified of allowing other people (beta readers) to read their fiction, wanting that work to remain private—at least, private for the community for which it was intended. To grade this form of assignment, I assign a reflection paper about the experience of being beta-read, in which students reflect on getting feedback on their creative work. In most cases, students have described the experience as powerful. Additionally, while teaching students about beta-reading, the obvious parallel between having one’s fiction reviewed and having one’s academic writing critiqued becomes a useful heuristic for detailing the importance of revision in the writing process. The characteristic of a “good” beta critique that Karpovich (2006, 180) recommends, for example, matches precisely the characteristics for a “good” student critique: [He/she] does not rely on the beta reader to re-write the story…does not take offense at the beta reader’s criticisms…[is] understanding about the time it takes to get something beta read…takes the beta reader’s advice…thanks the beta reader for all her hard work.

Simply replace “beta-reader” with “instructor” to illustrate the connection. In class we discuss how this connects to receiving (and giving) feedback on academic work as well (I also use it as a way to discuss why my comments may be critical but are intended to help these

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budding scholars). I have found a correlation between this type of metateaching and more productive classroom discussions, as students feel more comfortable sharing insights about their own writing when they view it as a collaborative, interactive experience. The student’s own insights into their role in evaluation helps make clear the role of media and reception in their own lives. Many students seem terrified of using beta readers, but have ended up finding the experience useful. For example, when I asked my students to use another student as a beta-reader, to read through their work and catch mistakes, most commented that the experience (while terrifyingly humbling) was beneficial: “By being a neutral third party,” one student commented, “my Beta reader was able to offer me insight that I would not have seen myself.” Such a comment is the goal of any writer. These issues in undergraduate fan studies make for worthwhile discussion and facilitate learning opportunities in the classroom. To debate the issue of authorship, for example, one can introduce the notion of intertextuality or the Bakhtinian (1981) notion of heteroglossia to illustrate how texts often speak with many voices. Many students are wedded to the auteur theory, but by “acting” like a fan in the safety of the classroom, they start to see how active reading constructs meaning as well. For the graduate class, alternately, I tend to teach from the academic perspective, examining fan studies as a body of work that speaks to issues of authorship, identity, community, psychology, religion, and economics. I still assign the investigation of a fannish text, and the fan fiction project, but I expect them to use these assignments as opportunities to critique the methodology of studying fans. By learning about fans and learning to be fans, students engage in both the theoretical and the practical, and look at fandom self-reflexively, treating fan studies itself as Jenkins’s “sillyputty.” Yet, even with teaching fan studies in graduate classes, I have run across ethical issues. For example, when I open up discussion on the first day of my fan class, at least one student always remarks, “why even bother studying fans?” Such queries are common in media studies. In a way, answering them helps justify the discipline not just to the questioning students, but also to instructors. These justifications make us aware of the importance of demonstrating the practical applications of the media field to students’ lifestyle. Students deserve the chance to voice concerns and instructors need to review their own involvement in a discipline. To address this, I integrate real-life ethical considerations into their everyday experiences. I give these considerations a fan-based bent to provide students with the critical distance necessary for self-examination. Through fan studies, students see themselves.

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Video Assignment: Copyright, Legitimacy, and Ethical Attribution One of the most common accusations leveled against fans, at least from dominant media corporations, is the notion that fans steal works of fiction in order to construct their own fan work. Many copyright experts contend that fans’ work should be legitimized under current copyright law. For example, Lessig (1994; 2008) argues for the historical legitimacy of vernacular creativity (see also Burgess and Green 2007) and Tushnet (1997; 2007) argues against the legal merits for pursuing fans for copyright infringement. Yet, there remains a great deal of confusion from students about what copyright itself is supposed to do. In its most crudest outline, the ethical debate within fandom seems to rage between those who believe that current intellectual property law protects the rights of the creators and those who believe that fans’ work is considered “fair use,” as it substantially changes the original work in question (see the Organization for Transformative Works website for information about fandom and fair use issues). This debate is a fruitful area of discussion in class, especially when students are also faced with the ethical issues of plagiarism and academic integrity. Although there are many reasons students plagiarize (leaving assignments until the last minute, ease of finding sources on the Internet), to many students, the requirement of using a bibliography or citing a page number may simply seem arbitrary in this day and age. Intellectually, students seem to know that copying and pasting from the web is incorrect for academia, but the particular ethical foundation of why this is the case escapes them—either through ignorance or neglect of study (see Wilhoit 1994 and Harris 2004 for specifics; also, Park 2003 for an overview of literature on plagiarism). Yet, the larger subject of intellectual property rights is a subject students are faced with on a daily basis. They just may not know that this is what they’re encountering. Many universities require incoming students to listen to an introductory lesson in the legality of downloading and file sharing music, movies, and television programs over the robust university network. (It seems as though students, many of whom have come from slower networks at home, feel that being in an environment where so much information is so readily available and then to be told that they cannot use the network for file sharing is akin to leading a starving person to a fast food buffet and telling them that trans fats are bad for their health). They are told on the first day of class that the professor has a strict policy on academic integrity. Professors argue that using sources without attribution is dishonest. Students are told in no uncertain

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(and often incorrect) terms that Wikipedia is a poor substitute for so-called “real” research, and that copying information from the Internet is the wrong type of research (see Rosenzweig 2006). Yet, for these digital natives, many of whom have never been without the World Wide Web, learning and using from the web may simply not viewed as an act of dishonesty, but rather an issue of morals (Park 2003, 474–6). They settle bar bets (as many of us do) by clicking on the Wikipedia app on their smart phone. They flip on YouTube or Vimeo between their classes and watch half of last night’s Dancing with the Stars. They post quotations on each others’ Facebook pages and add clips of movies without attribution. Understanding students’ digital media use becomes what William Merrin (2009) calls a “media studies 2.0” methodology: as teachers, we must strive to provide education that matches quotidian use of technology. In academia, we use the study of fans to debate the relative merits of copying, sharing, and open source mentality on transformed and transformative works of fan-content. But we rarely connect this type of reasoning with the larger issue of plagiarism. Although there are major differences between the two—posting unattributed music or video clips is not the same thing as passing material off as one’s own—there is a significant enough overlap in the underlying rationale for plagiarism/ copyright that the latter can serve as a useful heuristic for the former. In my mashup video assignment, for example, I help students gather video clips from various media sources—usually DVDs and YouTube—and reassemble them in a new order, with a new audio track laid on the clips. Students often use free editing programs provided on their own computers to recut the clips, and provide MP3s of their favorite bands for the soundtrack (see Anderson 2007 for more about video mashup assignments). Pedagogically, the practical application of sampling for a classroom video translates nicely into discussions of plagiarism, or what one class decided was “the sampling of text for classroom papers.” Like Sandler (2009, 86) argues in his short piece about “Teaching Media Convergence,” the goal of my assignment is to have students “combine critical thinking and industry practice.” The assignment opens up discussion about sampling as a musical art form, the different qualities of a database and a narrative (see Booth 2010a; Manovich 2001), and copyright as a concept as well as practical application because students actually participate in such activities. In terms of copyright issues, one of my students met resistance from YouTube when posting her remix video for class, as the site censored the musical score due to copyright infringement. Although she had brought a backup copy to class, the

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suppression of her video online made for a productive discussion of the types of “workarounds” that fans have to do online, like finding other posting venues or hosting the clips themselves. The situation also segued nicely into a discussion of the hegemony wielded by the music companies, which many of my students had only heard about in theory, but never seen in practice. Students are able to draw on their own experiences to translate knowledge of authorship and intellectual property into ideas about academic integrity. I pair students’ work with readings about copyright and the value of intellectual property (for example, Lessig 1994, 2004, 2008; O’Brien and Fitzgerald 2006; Tushnet 1997, 2007). In this way, students learn copyright by both using and subverting it. These mashup videos foster an understanding of copyright in the digital age because students get firsthand knowledge of video editing and theoretical knowledge of the difficulty such editing work can have. Thus, students are presented with a case where the appropriation of material is not only challenging, but also compelling. Specifically, students self-reflexively learn the value of individual authorship when planning their videos, as they become aware of the sheer amount of work it takes to be creative. Of course, the discussion doesn’t end there. I use recent research on fandom as a form of gift economy (Jenkins, et al. 2009) to demonstrate the sampling and borrowing of folk and vernacular cultures in all cultural texts (see Burgess and Green 2007). The gift economy, a form of exchange economics that differs from our traditional market economy, sees the relationship between parties in an exchange as more critical than the unit exchanged. Fandom, and the trading of fan texts, can be analyzed using the economics of the gift; for example, I once ordered a Doctor Who DVD from eBay and received not only my DVD, but a surprise DVD-ROM, featuring over 100 pdf files of past issues of Doctor Who Annual. I didn’t ask for it and certainly didn’t pay for it, but my fellow fan simply wanted to build good will (and succeeded). One critical lesson in this delineation relies on using the classroom videos of my students as cultural artifacts themselves. By analyzing the symbols and motifs that they themselves insert into the video, the meaning they attempt to create, or the rationale for the music and clips that they choose to a host of other online and broadcast clips, the class reflexively see themselves as “produsers” (Bruns 2008). This comparison also illustrates that students’ learning often takes place within various fan subcultures. For example, I screen a clip of the American version of The Office, where boss Michael Scott dances at Jim and Pam’s wedding, with the wedding dance made famous by the online video “J K Wedding Entrance Dance” (TheKheinz 2009), a video which

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we also watch. We discuss the way that popular culture, especially texts with fan followings like The Office, often borrow material from other sources, and how that material itself can come from other sources (“J K Wedding Dance,” for example, echoed other “pop music” wedding dance videos, like the “Thriller Wedding” (Rockwood Comic 2006) or “Wedding Dance First As A Couple FUNNY Baby Got Back” (Kevfla 2007), as well as the music of Chris Brown). This dialogic screening encourages students to see their own material as borrowed, and to see the “poaching” of fan material as a more nuanced issue. Students re-examine their approach to copyright, intellectual property rights, and authorship in the framework of academic integrity.

Wikipedia Assignment: Authorship, Truth, and the Ethics of Trust Beyond video, today’s fan studies scholars and students are faced with an array of social networking technology—blogs, wikis, social networking sites, microblogs, and other assorted tools for consumer-generated content —and with it comes a host of reliability issues that crop up in popular discourse about today’s media landscape. Students are usually familiar with Wikipedia in a negative context: many are told, especially in high school, that Wikipedia is not a reliable source and that they should never use it for research in academic essays. Although much is made of the rewritability of Wikipedia—a feature that critics like Kean (2007) dislike —contemporary high school classrooms seem to make little mention of the pedagogical value of encyclopedic research in general (see Rosenzweig 2006). As Bruns (2008, 103) points out, wikis are digital remnants of “representations of knowledge”; that is, by positing all viewpoints as equally valid, wikis portray the diverse knowledge bases that make up a culture’s multi-faceted views. Indeed, historiography relates that the recording of history is itself fraught with uncertain details and constructive elements (Rosenstone 2006). There is no one “authority” on what happened in the past, as any events are necessarily filtered through the cultural and ethical lens of those relating the historical events. Fans know this challenge to authenticity intimately. As Jenkins (2006b, 55) points out, the “moral authority” of fans can challenge the original creator’s vision, establishing a new hierarchy of what is “canonized” and what isn’t. Encyclopedias, even in hard copy, are necessarily biased by those that construct them: a fact pointed out by Collison (1966) in his immense and detailed history of encyclopedias. Indeed, it is from the intersection of the

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cultural value of the encyclopedia and the ease and near-universal accessibility of wikis that contemporary pedagogical research should emerge. Fans, of course, use wikis in ways both similar to and different from the ways other participants in contemporary culture use wikis (see Jenkins 2006a and his discussion of how a “collective intelligence” is concretized on wikis). In fact, as Mittell (2010) and I (2009) both show, wikis can become useful repositories of fan-created meta-knowledge about a text: that is, wikis become a place where knowledge about a text can be scribed. Other uses of fan-based wikis include the cataloguing and delineation of elements from media texts, as well as the digital publication of individual fan fiction works. Researching wikis, however, can be an unsettling business: wikis are constantly changing and adapting with their uses. But it is important to undertake such research, as in doing so, ethical considerations about validity and truth surface in our students’ minds, as well as in fan scholars’. In class, I charge my fan studies students to investigate wikis in order that they discover the ways that fans catalog and organize ideas in collaborative environments. Students are encouraged to go to Wikipedia, and to adjust or change their cult text’s page by adding new information not currently on it. They are supposed to contribute to the larger knowledge community at the heart of Wikipedia by enacting what I have previously referred to as “narractive” fan-based research, which involves communal research (see Booth 2010a, 119–21). The first time I taught this way, what came back was revealing and problematic: to many of my students, “investigate Wikipedia” didn’t just mean read and compare it to other sources, but to actively change and alter the text of the online encyclopedia itself. I expected students to contribute positively—that is, to add correct information or bolster the already robust articles on their texts’ pages. However, many students added false information, vandalizing the page. Some mocked the text, despite—or because—they considered themselves fans if it. And, in the spirit of rebellion that characterizes much of college life, my students didn’t just vandalize unintentionally: many of them deliberately sabotaged entries, or wrote meaningless drivel to amuse their friends. During our discussion of the assignment, many students were understandably amused by their online vandalism. After all, whom did it hurt? What difference does it make if, say, Spock came from Uranus instead of Vulcan? Yet, at stake are issues of authorship, reliability, and truth; the discussion of which formed the bulk of our in-class conversation. One has to ask, however, whether the informative discussion

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generated by my students’ vandalism justified such vandalism. In other words, how egregious does an ethical violation have to be before it becomes pedagogically untenable? For many of my students, sabotaging Wikipedia had a positive effect on their learning. From purely practical skills (one student wrote that he/she “never knew what a wiki was and now I know!”) to more theoretical discoveries, students discovered for themselves the uneasy relationship between truth and “representations of truth”; and in class we compared this to the fannish difference between canon and fanon. Although I looked as this as a positive—now many will be cautious when checking bias of any source—it is also true that any erroneous information they posted for their own edification was online for others to change or, more likely, to see and accept as truth. For students such revision is pedagogically useful; for fans it is ethically troubling. At the end of that particular class, I encouraged my students to edit out the erroneous comments, or to revert the entry back to what it was before. To my happy surprise, most students came back to class the next day and reported that the changes had already been corrected—the Wikipedia project had self-corrected their alterations. By editing entries on Wikipedia—a feat that only one out of a class of thirty had ever done before—these students learned firsthand how unstable writing on Wikipedia is. Individual authorship, already a tenuous construct in my students’ minds after our video assignment, becomes almost meaningless when each student can contribute to an article online. Further, students viscerally learned how unreliable Wikipedia can be through their own erroneous entries—and were then able to apply these lessons to encyclopedia writing in general. By altering the wiki text, even if not deliberately with incorrect information, students were able to experience the way that memory creates gaps in historical accuracy. Further, by intruding onto and into normally fan-inhabited spaces, I had my students work as fans themselves do: by appropriating the materials and the tools of others to create their own work, a concept we cover on the first day. That their work was counter to the work of the amateur content creators is the ultimate turn of events, as fan fiction itself runs counter to authoritatively-sanctioned media texts. Jenkins (1992, 160) alludes to a similar ethical delineation for fans before the Internet made coping/pasting so easy. He describes how the publication of ‘zines often caused fans’ ethical concerns, as other fans might copy them “for sale without their editors’ authorization.” The fans’ ethical concern that their work will be sold for profit ironically reflects back to copyright ethics,

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albeit subverted: fans stealing fans’ works for profit is related to fans stealing producers’ works for creative purposes. Working within the framework of Wikipedia provided an unstable learning environment for my students. Students learned the subversive work of fans by working in the manner of a fan. To debate the ethical merits of the subversion of the Wikipedia system becomes discussion of the ethics of fandom itself. Perhaps this, then, is the ultimate lesson, not just for the students but for their professor as well: that fans’ intense creative work, although functioning outside the bounds of the authoritative system, provides a necessary perspective on the variability of history, truth, and representation in any cultural system.

Conclusion Just as immersing oneself into the world of the fan community can become overwhelmingly complicated, so too can teaching students about the same issues. Critics may argue that for students to deliberately sabotage a Wikipedia entry on, say, Doctor Who, may be turned into a learning experience; but to do so at the expense of the fan community one researches is akin to coloring-in cave paintings, or contaminating lab samples. Proponents can argue that the deliberate flaunting of copyright in order to learn about intellectual copyright is like a firefighter setting a house on fire in order to learn how to subdue the flames—in controlled situations, it can be immensely useful, but it can easily conflagrate. Safely controlled and monitored transgressions may in fact blossom into a greater understanding and respect for the very norms being transgressed. To create norms it is necessary to know where their limits are. And the only way to do that is to note the areas where norms becomes differently articulated. Teaching and learning about fans and fan groups means breaking away from an “us vs. them” dichotomy, and seeing fans instead as participants in their own culture. Maybe “our” rules don’t apply there, but studying the ethics of fandom can lead to greater understanding of ethics in general. Ultimately, the ethics of fan research can be applied to the classroom, but the lessons learned in the classroom must be reapplied anew to the study of fandom. It is not enough to stop at video mashups or Wikipedia re-editing, but as instructors it is imperative that we take our students to the limits of media studies. Many of my students have continued to post on their blogs, contribute to wikis, or comment on fan fiction. Those I have spoken to about this process enjoy seeing the hit count increase on their fan videos, posted to YouTube or elsewhere. We discuss their fandom and their scholarship outside of the classroom,

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outside of the prescribed space of pedagogy. But by working within fandom itself, students gain valuable insights that they can turn about and apply in their own lives as well.

Notes 1. Portions of this chapter have previously been presented at the 11th Association of Internet Researchers (AoIR) conference, in Goteberg, Sweden, in Oct 2010. My thanks to those in attendance for their helpful feedback. I also want to think the editors for their help in reading an early draft, and my wife Kate for her extremely helpful editorial advice.

References Anderson, Daniel. 2007. “Literary and Informational Videos.” Low Bridge Video: A Workshop, 19 Apr. http://teachmix.com/vidshop/?q=node/15. Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 1981. “Discourse in the Novel.” In The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, edited by Michael Holquist, trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist, 259–422. Austin: University of Texas Press. Orig. pub. 1975. Baym, Nancy. 2000. Tune in, Log on: Soaps, Fandom, and Online Community. London: Sage. Booth, Paul. 2010a. Digital Fandom: New Media Studies. New York: Peter Lang. —. 2010b. “Fandom in/as the Academy.” Flow 13 (5): http://flowtv.org/2010/12/fandom-in-as-the-academy/. —. 2009. “Narractivity and the Narrative Database: Media-Based Wikis as Interactive Fan Fiction.” Narrative Inquiry 19 (2): 372–92. —. 2008. “Re-Reading Fandom: MySpace Character Personas and Narrative Identification.” Critical Studies in Media Communication 25 (5): 514– 36. Bruns, Axel. 2008. Blogs, Wikipedia, Second Life, and beyond: From Production to Produsage. New York: Peter Lang. Burgess, Jean and Joshua Green. 2007. YouTube: Online Video and Participatory Culture. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press. Collison, Robert. 1966. Encyclopaedias: Their History Throughout the Ages. New York: Hafner. Harris, Robert. 2004. “Anti-Plagiarism Strategies for Research Papers.” Virtual Salt, 17 Nov. http://websitevalidity.pbworks.com/f/Anti+Plagiarism+Strategies.pdf. Jenkins, Henry, with Ravi Purushotma, Margaret Weigel, Katie Clinton, Alice J. Robinson. 2009. Confronting the Challenges of Participatory

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Culture: Media Education for the 21st Century. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Jenkins, Henry. 2010. “Fandom, Participatory Culture, and Web 2.0 - A Syllabus.” Confessions of an Aca-Fan, 09 Jan. —. 2006a. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York: New York University Press. http://henryjenkins.org/2010/01/fandom_participatory_culture_ a.html. —. 2006b. Fans, Bloggers, and Gamers: Exploring Participatory Culture. New York: New York University Press. —. 1992. Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture. New York: Routledge. Kean, Andrew. 2007. Cult of the Amateur. New York: Random House. Kevfla. 2007. “Wedding Dance First as a Couple Funny Baby Got Back.” YouTube. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vqiw-Kqtlr0. Lessig, Lawrence. 2008. Remix: Making Art and Commerce Thrive in the Hybrid Economy. New York: Penguin. —. 2004. Free Culture: The Nature and Future of Creativity. New York: Penguin. —. 1994. “The Creative Commons.” Florida Law Review 55: http://homepages.law.asu.edu/~dkarjala/OpposingCopyrightExtension/ commentary/LessigCreativeCommonsFlaLRev2003.htm. Manovich, Lev. 2001. The Language of New Media. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Merrin, William. 2009. “Media Studies 2.0: Upgrading and OpenSourcing the Discipline.” Interactions: Studies in Communication and Culture 1 (1): 17–34. Mittell, Jason. 2010. “Sites of Participation: Wiki Fandom and the Case of Lostpedia.” Transformative Works and Cultures 3: http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2009.0118. O'Brien, Damien S. and Brian F. Fitzgerald. 2006. “Mash-Ups, Remixes and Copyright Law.” Internet Law Bulletin 9 (2): 17–9. Organization for Transformative Works. 2011. http://transformativeworks.org/. Park, Chris. 2003. “In Other (People’s) Words: Plagiarism by University Students—Literature and Lessons.” Assessment and Evaluation in Higher Education 28 (5): 471–88. Rockwoodcomic, 2006. “Wedding Thriller Dance.” YouTube. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OPmYbP0F4Zw. Rosenstone, Robert. 2006. History on Film/Film on History. Harlow, Pearson Education.

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Rosenzweig Roy. 2006. Can history be open source? Wikipedia and the future of the past. Journal of American History, 93: 117–46. Sandler, Kevin. 2009. “Teaching Media Convergence.” Cinema Journal 48 (3): 84–7. TheKheinz, 2009. “J K Wedding Dance.” YouTube. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-94JhLEiN0. Tushnet, Rebecca. 2007. “Copyright Law, Fan Practices, and the Rights of the Author.” In Fandom: Identities and Communities in a Mediated World, ed. Jonathan Gray, Cornel Sandvoss, and C. Lee Harrington, 60-71. New York: New York University Press. —. 1997. “Legal Fictions: Copyright, Fan Fiction, and a New Common Law.” Loyola of Los Angeles Entertainment Law Journal 17 (3): 651– 86. Wilhoit, Stephen. 1994. “Helping Students Avoid Plagiarism.” College Teaching 42 (4): 161–5.

STUDENTS AS FANS: STUDENT FANDOM AS A MEANS TO FACILITATE NEW MEDIA LITERACY IN PUBLIC MIDDLE SCHOOLS MICHAEL LACHNEY

Introduction Media fans use digital technologies to actively participate in the critique, creation, and circulation of popular culture. These modern day production practices of fans and fan communities offer new media literacy educators a catalog of classroom activities that function to challenge society’s increasing “participation gap” (Jenkins et al. 2009, xii) – that is the gap between those with the knowledge and production skills to participate as cultural producers and those without. The use of fandom in the new media literacy classroom allows students to use their own cultural expertise of popular content to engage in digital production and critical media education. However, teaching students to participate as fans and in fan communities invites an array of ethical complications around the uses of popular culture, digital technologies, and new media in the public school context. For example, how do media educators approach issues around copyright law, as students/fans use and remix pre-existing media content in the classroom? When do educators restrict the creativity of students to maintain standards of appropriateness for the school environment? And where is the line drawn between students’ informal/private peer-governed worlds and the formal/public adultgoverned media classroom? Through the lens of fan studies, the 21st century ethics that schools face as part of the digital age are brought to fruition as practical aspects of classroom culture. In this chapter, I use a six-week afterschool fan fiction workshop directed towards sixth through eighth grade students to consider ethical issues around enabling cultural participation in a formalized public school environment. The public school context remains a contested space where

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administrative forces and teachers continually negotiate and renegotiate new technologies and platforms of participation. With this said, the fan fiction workshop provided students with an opportunity to voice and construct their own positions on these 21st century issues through the practical applications of fan fiction criticism and production. The curriculum positions fan fiction in both literary and performative terms to include audiovisual representation of bodies alongside the printed word. Within this framework, the production of fan fiction offers media educators an array of playful activities that engage middle school students in the acquisition of 21st century new media literary skills. However, within the middle school setting media educators must constantly negotiate between those standards and expectations set by the school district and their own goals of creating media literate citizens. In this sense, what I teach about copyright law, authorship, and social networks is often viewed by students as contradictory to what they learn during the school day. While refusing to directly challenge their teachers’ authority, I use these contradictions in students’ own schemas to invoke discussions of ethics around issues of plagiarism vs. copyright infringement, ownership, and public vs. private space. Generally, these issues play out for students in two ways. First, discussions of ethics transfer into their fan work, as they critique others’ artifacts and produce fan fiction of their own. Second, students use these discussions to confront local issues of digital technologies and new media access in their own schools. I find that through the lens of fan studies, middle school students and educators are able to work through the ethical issues around media content, digital technologies, and the Internet that are taking place in their schools at a local level. This chapter positions the afterschool space as experimental grounds where professional in-school educators can draw lessons from and critique the ethical issues associated with the new media literacy agenda. It is my hope that as this chapter works through technical, ethical, and pedagogical issues within the public school context, it can function as part of a larger reformist road map for education institutions that plan to incorporate new media literacies into their curriculum.

Media Literacy, Fandom, and the Afterschool Space Within a public middle school context fandom serves as a useful tool to engage students in the core “cultural competencies and social skills” required for them to become cultural participants in 21st century media ecologies (Jenkins et al. 2009, xiii). In this sense, the pedagogy of fandom

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does not so much stem from theoretical and academic considerations as much as from the practical: teaching students to critique and play with narrative and textual gaps and produce digital artifacts for a public and/or fan audience. Teaching students to be fans, therefore, works within the framework of what Henry Jenkins et al. (2009) call new media literacies, which defines media literacy as the ability to critically read and judge both mainstream and peer-produced content, participate as part of a community, and author reworked and/or original digital creations to circulate online. To reach these goals the curriculum stresses the new media literacy skills of performance, appropriation, transmedia navigation, and networking¹ to position students within a formal classroom structure (Jenkins et al. 2009, xiv). Using the lens of fan studies in this six-week afterschool workshop enabled such pragmatic applications, as I had students critique fan fiction of their peers and from fanfiction.net, learn to identify narrative and textual gaps, and produce fan fiction, videos, audio dramas, and stage performances. The afterschool fan fiction workshop was part of a larger initiative by the Digital Youth Network (DYN)² to introduce new media literacy skills to five Chicago communities. I had been assigned to work in a predominantly Latino public middle school, Monday through Thursday for a large duration of the school year. I was one of four media educators on site, chosen based on my documentary production background and previous work in the media literacy field. With regard to the fan fiction workshop, my responsibilities included curriculum development and implementation. Nine sixth through eighth grade females and two males signed up for the six-week course, which began at the end of the school day and extended into afterschool time. While I was required to maintain school rules, I found that the introduction of popular culture, new media, and digital technologies into the classroom forced me to ethically reconsider and negotiate these standards for the afterschool space. For the remainder of this chapter I will use students’ online-blog posts and fan fiction and my own curriculum, recollections, and experiences to discuss how fandom serves as a tool to highlight 21st century media ethics in United States public middle schools. Commonly, afterschool programs that incorporate new and digital media function as contested spaces, in that their purposes are negotiable between those of academic vs. social instructions (Herr-Stephenson et al. 2011, 21). An academic focused afterschool program structures time as an extension of in-school education, while a social focus provides a space for students to explore recreational interests that are excluded from the formal curriculum. While DYN leans toward the social side of scale, the Chicago

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Public School (CPS) network contains an academic bias. Digital media has yet to fully integrate into the everyday school curriculum, and while most schools have computers with Internet access, a power bloc of administrative forces restrict many of the participatory websites like YouTube, Facebook, etc. As these websites facilitate new media literacies, restricted access limits afterschool media educators’ abilities to make curriculum that is relevant to students’ informal media ecologies. Therefore, media educators must use their creativity and ingenuity to overcome these issues, while at the same time working to maintain a level of innovation that prepares students to engage with media in both formal and informal settings. In this sense, afterschool programs provide grounds for experimentation with new media literacies in the context of public school standards and rules. Numerous studies and reports demonstrate the usefulness of fan production (and in particular writing fan fiction) to the pedagogy and acquisition of traditional literacy skills in formal and informal settings (Black 2008, Jenkins 2006, Black 2005). However, my goal is to broaden the pedagogical scope of fan production and include, or even conflate, the traditional literacy skills associated with writing fan fiction alongside the new media literacy skills of creating fan videos, graphic designs, and music/audio to circulate online. As DYN requires all curriculum developments to center on the creation of digital artifacts the literary frame of the term “fan fiction” restricts application. Therefore, during development and within the classroom it is helpful to reframe fan fiction in terms of performance. Francesca Coppa asserts a move from literary to performative to define fan fiction as, “creative material featuring characters that have previously appeared in works whose copyright is held by others” (2006, 226). Coppa’s shift reorients the fan fiction storytelling medium from that of repetitive words to repetitive bodies. This focus on characterization broadens the scope of fan fiction as an inclusive transmedia enterprise where industry-owned representations of bodies are reproduced through various types of fan texts. Fan fiction as performance is helpful for the middle school media literacy classroom in two ways. First, it allows students to easily identify what aspect of their fan text, i.e. the characters, move from storytelling platform to storytelling platform. I use this to challenge students’ creativity in the construction of a continuous narrative that begins with the written word, moves to a pictorial-fanvid, and ends with a radio drama. What I found crucial for student success in transmedia navigation and production was a prior-knowledge of basic post-production software. This included the iMovie, GarageBand, and iPhoto MacBook applications.

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Fortunately, students in the workshop were all prior participants in DYN’s Record Label Curriculum, which teaches a range of production skills: music, podcasting, graphic design, and video. While I stressed my familiarity with video production and voice recording in the curriculum, I also encouraged students to cross characters into fan art, music, etc. For example, a group of The Smurfs fans used their radio drama to make an audiovisual comic book in iMovie. This required them to make a radio drama in GarageBand and a comic book in Comic Life, which were both imported into iMovie and arranged accordingly. These students demonstrated literacy proficiencies not only in the construction of a transmedia narrative but also in transmedia production - that is the utilization of multiple production platforms in the creation of a digital artifact. Second, this reframing positions fan fiction within a specific temporal context that foregrounds characterization in terms of copyright law and, therefore, also around the shifting pedagogical issues of fair use, attribution, and intellectual property rights. Using words like “copy,” “steal,” and “remix," I entice students in discussions around a fan’s/student’s right to change and alter someone else’s work, even when that work is legally protected. However, many of the issues that center on copyright law are not intuitive to students’ everyday lives. Therefore, in the classroom I find it useful to frame the fan/student and copyright relationship, and other ethical considerations for that matter, through the students’ own formal and informal learning experiences.

A Student’s Right to Copy and Remix Traditionally, schools avoid issues of copyright law through displacing the process of copying on an understanding of plagiarism and attribution. However, as schools move into the digital age and students begin to copy licensed work to use and remix as part of the in-school curriculum, teachers and administrators can negotiate and make sense of copyright law alongside material already present in the formalized curriculum. With the use of digital technologies in the fan fiction workshop, issues of copying and remixing others’ work and source attribution move beyond traditional literacy skills. This occurs when students, for example, sample work from their favorite musicians to add a soundtrack under their anime music videos. Unlike with plagiarism, which has historically pertained only to the printed word, digital copies trigger copyright law each time materials are down- and/or uploaded from or to a device or platform. In addition, the ability to copy materials has become increasingly inexpensive, which allows copyright violations to be, for some, a normal aspect of everyday

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life. These issues require media educators to have a firm grasp on copyright law’s “fair use” doctrine, as to avoid legal issues of copying and remixing mainstream content in the classroom. Working through these issues of copyright law in the fan fiction workshop offers a lens for larger issues of appropriation, reworking, and attribution that public schools face as they transition into the digital age. While these issues pedagogically extend beyond fan fiction into basic video, graphic design, and music production workshops, the frame of fan studies represents this ethic of responsibility in a particularly applicable fashion, as all produced artifacts digitally trigger copyright law. The lowcost and readily available digital technologies that DYN uses to position students as producers are part of a larger revolution in the amateur’s ability to appropriate, remix, and produce content. This democratization of semiotic materials transforms how users relate to media industries and copyright law. With this increase in the user’s ability to produce content, media corporations that own character representations seek control over meaning by either directing fans to work in industry created activities (websites, contests, etc.) or through cease and desist letters to fans who make “unauthorized” artifacts (Jenkins 2006, 134). The navigation of these emerging relationships is an integral aspect of cultural participation for fans and, therefore, became part of the fan fiction workshop. During the second week of the workshop one student noticed the side effects of industry and copyright control. I had assigned the class to find an age appropriate (K rated) fanfic to critique and blog about from fanfiction.net. During the activity, a Harry Potter fan brought to my attention a “disclaimer” at the top of a fanfic that she had been reading. I brought this curiosity to the attention of the class by projecting a screenshot of the FBI anti-piracy warning that appears at the beginning of DVDs to clarify that fans may feel threatened when producing fan fiction, as they do not legally own the characters in their stories. I asked students to discuss if it is right for fans to copy characters from stories that are not their own? And, what is the difference between what fans do and acts of plagiarism in school? For the most part students found no harm in copying characters to produce fan fiction. Many students stressed the importance of their own creativity for why they would produce fan fiction that differs from and “improves” upon the original; as one student pointed out in a blog post, “[With fan fiction] Youu Can Also Fix Thinqqs Such As How A Story Ends To Be In Your Perspective Or Your Side!!!”³ To further the discussion, I framed copyright law alongside plagiarism to help students make sense of the nuances around this complicated issue. Students are

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familiar with issues of plagiarism from in-school curriculum and, therefore, positioning copyright infringement alongside plagiarism functions to reinforce discussable aspects of classroom culture. Working through the similarities (the act of copying and the importance of source attribution) and differences (mainly that schools enforce plagiarism and courts enforce copyright infringement) between copyright infringement and plagiarism allows students to discuss proper attribution skills as a formality that extends bi-directionally between formal classroom culture and informal fan culture. While my own classroom discussions did not directly address the particular legalities of copyright law, they did demonstrate that students, like fans, are willing to maintain the ethical responsibility of attribution while using copyrighted materials. Proper attribution to a source text is a skill that both public schools and DYN construct as part of their curriculum. While students may follow directions and cite sources to avoid plagiarism as part of school instruction, framing these issues in terms of fandom breaks down the traditional barriers between school and popular culture. As popular culture is brought into the public school, formal education becomes more relevant to the informal learning that takes place during out-of-school media interactions. When schools begin to employ new media literacy lessons in the classroom, the production of fan fiction can function to introduce students to the ethical responsibility of attribution for both formal and informal settings in the digital age. The reinforcement of this responsibility in a formalized setting offers new and exciting opportunities for educators to connect in-school lessons with students’ everyday lives. However, the critical examination of copyright law and plagiarism for students is different than the educator’s dilemma of actually encouraging students to use copyrighted materials as part of the school curriculum. Further complications occur when the school district implements clear stipulations against the use of materials protected under copyright law. Chicago Public Schools’ policy manual, “Student Acceptable use of the CPS Network,” adopted July 2009, explicitly states that students/users are not allowed to “transmit to, or disseminate from, the CPS Network any material that is protected by copyright, patent, trademark, service mark or trade secret unless such use or disclosure is properly authorized and bares the appropriate notations - ” (4). CPS maintains what Lawrence Lessig calls, “Read/Only” digital culture, that is an industry-produced culture “less practiced in performance, or amateur creativity, and more comfortable (think: couch) with simple consumption (2008, 28). While some educators work around these issues through the sole use of Creative-CommonsϺ materials in the classroom, this approach limits students in two ways.

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First, it does not allow them to remix and participate in the popular culture of which they are a part, whether that be Harry Potter or anime communities. Second, it maintains the devalued status of popular culture in the classroom, which restricts students’ popular voice. In opposition to the Read/Only digital culture, which CPS systematically supports, a fan fiction workshop requires educators to negotiate copyright law and promote a participatory “Read/Write” culture of fandom. A Read/Write digital culture supports the new media literacy values of adding “to the culture [that students/fans] read by creating and re-creating the culture around them” (Lessig 2008, 28). To properly negotiate copyright law and promote a participatory ethic, educators require knowledge of the fair use doctrine before and during the implementation of curriculum that uses licensed materials. Fair use is an aspect of copyright law that allows users, under specific circumstances, the right to appropriate and use copyrighted material without payment to and/or explicit authorization from copyright holders. While fair use is flexible, it most often holds up in a court of law when the use is considered transformative. According to Rebecca Tushnet, “Transformative uses are uses that add new insights or meaning to the original work” (2007, 61); triggering fair use fleshes out meanings not apparent on the surface of the text but in the subtext. The same value of transformation applies to education. The Center for Social Media’s The Codes of Best Practices in Fair Use for Media Literacy Education document states, “Students should be able to understand and demonstrate, in a manner appropriate to their developmental level, how their use of a copyrighted work repurposes or transforms the original” (2011, 13). In terms of creating fan fiction, fair use requires students/fans to relate their work to the original source text, as opposed to using licensed material to create something new that has no connection to the original author’s work. However, while fanfic can be classified as fair use under these criteria, Tushnet notes that not all fan creativity functions as transformative. In particular she attacks the mash-up phenomenon of fanvids, where fans edit popular and pre-existing visual footage to a music track. Tushnet notes that this creativity “services its ordinary function and doesn’t give new meaning, at least not in the way that a court is likely to accept as transformative for the purposes of the fair use text” (2007, 71). This would, in turn, seem problematic for a media literacy classroom that uses fanvids to teach new media literacy skills. However, as the context of use changes from informal to formal, the scope of transformative uses broadens to include educational purposes. Therefore, fanvids classify as

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fair use in the media literacy classroom through a demonstration of their transformative and educational values. In theory, fanvids allow students to gain new media literacy skills as they remix the popular culture of which they are a part and critically examine how images and music juxtapose to create and change meanings. Semiotic and media scholars have long examined how meaning can be placed or displaced upon a text through commutation tests. A commutation test involves “trying out a sound change and observing whether a meaning change is produced or not” (Thompson 1991, 184). When students sound change - that is substitute one sound for another - in a text they perform commutation tests to examine how they, as media producers, construct meaning for particular affects. To frame the production of fanvids in terms of commutation tests requires that students not only complete a fan music video but also compare and reflect on how different music changes the meaning of their text. The activity is transformative and critical, when students appropriate and edit images in a montage fashion only to switch in and out songs. This allows them to examine how the abstract semiotics of music alters the ways in which images generate meaning. The montage aspect promotes beginner literacies of video production, as students order images in new ways to participate in the construction of popular culture. A fanvid/commutation test activity, therefore, fulfills the requirements of fair use in media literacy education to be both transformative and educational. Yet, these transformative and critical uses of fanvids only flourish under formal classroom instruction. The paradox of creating fanvids between formal and informal contexts is that media literacy education teaches students activities deemed illegal outside the school walls. This relationship reveals that current copyright law, which favors formal education in the written act (Center for Social Media 2011, 5), limits new forms of literacies that flourish as part of the informal learning of everyday life. The new media literacy skills and conditions that Jenkins et al. (2009) outline in Confronting the Challenges of a Participatory Culture inform media education through the recontextualization of practices that already take place within informal 21st century media ecologies. In this sense, new media literacies are already part of everyday life and arrive to formal education through a back door of in-school and afterschool programs. If the aim of media literacy is to facilitate a Read/Write culture where users participate in the construction and circulation of audiovisual texts, ideas of education and teaching must extend beyond the classroom. Section 505(c)(2) of the United States Copyright Act states that educators “who rely reasonably on fair use are insulated against statutory damages”

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(Center for Social Media 2011, 5). The protection of formal teachers who “reasonably” take advantage of fair use ensures future possibilities of a participatory Read/Write school culture, which extends beyond traditional literacies in the digital age. However, the criminalization of informal Read/Write cultures restricts the democratic potential that media education works to facilitate. If education can be understood to provide social and individual skills that prepare students for actual life experiences (Dewey 1938), then the act of teaching can be positioned to extend bi-directionally between formal and informal settings. In this sense, the process of creating fanvids outside of the school walls becomes an act of learning. How students acquire information may change when they rely on online tutorials, user blogs, etc. as opposed to bodily authorities, but the process remains pedagogical. Fans may take for granted the switching in and out of music to find the “perfect” song that draws out the meaning they desire as a part of preproduction, yet from the lens of informal pedagogy they conduct commutation tests. Therefore, media education remains incomplete until user creativity in informal media ecologies falls under the frame of education. The new media literacy skill of appropriation renders meaningless in terms of cultural participation unless students are able to use it for personal enjoyment and gain without fear of breaking copyright law. The use of student fandom and popular culture in the classroom allows proactive scholars and educators to frame clear connections between students’ in and out of school experiences, as to promote media education’s democratic potential. The decriminalization of informal participation must be part of media education’s reformist agenda. The goal to break down the dichotomy between formal and informal education has gained steady popularity among academics, activists, and educators since its introduction during the United States’ Progressive Era (1880-1920). In part, these progressive goals embrace a “flexible curriculum driven by student interests,” communities, and cultures (Herr-Stephenson et al. 2011, 5). In the afterschool setting, interests of popular culture function to engage students in assigned projects, as it may be more fun to learn montage editing through a Harry Potter mash-up than shots from their school grounds. In addition, as students bring their fandom into the classroom they are given an expert voice through the familiar language of popular culture. This serves to facilitate discussions and meta-analyses where learning takes place bi-directionally between teacher and student. This, in turn, breaks down traditional roles of classroom authority. However, while students are granted a certain amount of autonomy when their out-of-school interests become part of in-school curriculum, as in the

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fan fiction workshop, media content (like Supernatural) and platforms of expression (like Facebook) continue to be negotiable in terms of school procedures, curricula, and policies. Formal education maintains a history of opposition to popular culture, and teachers and administrators hold it in suspicion of undermining school and curriculum authority (Buckingham 2003, 157). In addition, schoolteachers and administrators maintain a legal right to restrict student speech if it does not serve to the so-called benefit of formal education (see Frederick v Morse 2007). In this sense, the marginalization of popular culture in schools proves to be a roadblock to introducing fandom into formal education, especially if the content is considered too controversial or adult. However, the ability to produce digital artifacts that students can share and discuss online with peers preserves an ethic of participation that works to overcome these problems of marginalization. If fan practices are positioned as consistent with the Western ideas of democracy (Booth 2010b), then fandom in the classroom represents a potential democratic shift from a hierarchal (and hegemonic) banking method of education to a participatory method of “learning by speaking” (Lessig 2008, 87). Unlike the banking method where learners are “objects” of retention (Aronowitz 1998, 4), learning by speaking represents a participatory ethic where students learn to take on the responsibilities associated with reworking popular culture in their own voices.

Politics of Popular Culture, Student Fandom, and Digital Platforms in the Classroom According to David Buckingham, users relate to popular culture through particular aspects of pleasure and play (2007, 162). For fans, the pleasure of popular culture derives from an emotional investment in media texts and those characters within them. Play allows fans to engage in forms of learning, such as digital production, online circulation, and identity negotiation, which reinforce that pleasure. The introduction of popular culture into the fan fiction workshop helped me maintain students’ engagement during the facilitation of new media literacies. As media texts trigger emotional investments, classroom lessons incorporate into the peergoverned world of popular culture. This places a larger emphasis on those aspects of popular youth culture that are often left unspoken during the school day or only whispered about between classes and at lunch period. Allowing students to incorporate their own interests into the classroom proves a challenge when popular culture is marginalized to maintain age appropriateness within a “proper” educational setting. What does a media

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educator do, for instance, when a student wants to write a fanfic about Jersey Shore, while another student wants to write about Harry Potter? Should one be allowed and another not? Is it right to privilege one fandom over another? Working through these issues can help educators balance pleasure and play with a critical analysis of media content and form that is required for a successful media literacy classroom. While the marginalization of popular culture in schools may function to avoid inappropriate or unacceptable behaviors, it also restricts youth from forming a language of self-critique and the knowledge to participate in the construction of their invested cultures. Ray Browne argues that, “the popular culture of a country is the voice of the people – their likes and dislikes, the life blood of daily existence, their way of life” (2006, 76). In Browne’s terms, the absence of popular culture in schools also represents an absence of the youth voice and a lack of participation. The law reinforces this absence, as in 2007 the Supreme Court ruled in the Morse v. Frederick case that the First Amendment does not pertain to the speech of students in public schools. As long as students continue to be rendered voiceless there will be aspects of their everyday lives not addressed in formal education, a total loss of teachable moments. However, as afterschool programs continue to represent contested spaces between that of academic and social purposes, they are useful settings to work out how popular culture can become part of the curriculum with an inclusive position of students’ media interests. Student fandom offers a way for educators to balance pleasure and play with the formation of critical metaanalyses that both reflect upon and deconstruct media content during production and circulation processes. The majority of students in the fan fiction workshop had no problem classifying themselves as fans and identifying their fannish objects. Unlike the negative stereotypes of adult fans as pathological others (Jenson 1992), mainstream culture expect youth to use and engage in media as a “natural” extension of childhood. Adult fans, often represented in popular media as child-like, may collect toys and other paratextual items but the mainstream market for such goods functions through a youth-oriented bias. This youth consumer culture is a diverse and complex chain of media products that, with technological changes, become more interactive and expansive with the temporal progression of market demands. For some students, engagement in franchises like Pokemon and Yu-Gi-Oh means more than just watching the television show, but also collecting the cards, playing the video games, and reading the manga (Jenkins 2006). These types of transmedia narratives facilitate what Buckingham calls the formation of “postmodern identities,” that is, a process where individuals appropriate

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available resources to define and construct their life-styles in active and self-aware ways (2007, 158-159). Youth actively pull from their popular culture, which is a vast array of content and formats, to negotiate their identities and peer-relationships. Therefore, these informal negotiations also enter into the afterschool space as students incorporate their own interests. The fan fiction curriculum requires students to draw on their familiar interests in often unfamiliar ways. Out of all the students in the class not one had produced fan fiction, though many were accustomed to fanvids from websites like YouTube. Offering students a chance to pull their unofficial peer-governed worlds into the classroom provides opportunities to expand upon and perform narratives that are already integral parts of everyday lives. In this sense, as students play with commercial material in the classroom and produce popular culture, they negotiate and make sense of lived social experiences. The make-believe performances that can occur as part of classroom play hinge on children’s/student’s “real” identities (Dyson 1997, 14). According to Anne Haas Dyson, when students appropriate and remix symbolic resources through fictionalization, they open up new possibilities to negotiate themselves and their relations to others in the actual world. Learning to manipulate and play with cultural works, as to reimage oneself, frames new media literacies in such a way that links authorship with community participation. The blend of official and unofficial spheres in the fan fiction workshop, combined with a focus on authorship, gave students a space to invoke meaning in more deliberate ways than the informality of speech. In other words, teaching new media literacies through fandom invites students to organize and reflect upon their own societal and cultural positions. Despite the importance of appropriation and play for community participation, asking students to incorporate their media pleasures into the fan fiction classroom is risky business. For as students generate content, DYN mentors must act as censors and screen out inappropriate subject matter. This risks concretizing the meaning of said text based on school standards, which would then infringe upon the students’ informal social and cultural spheres of fandom. To overcome issues of codifying meaning from the top-down, the fan fiction classroom aimed to operate as a public forum where both students and educators conversed and voiced their opinions about popular culture, new media, and digital technologies. While the majority of students chose age appropriate content to expand upon and play with – Harry Potter, Adventure Time, Twilight, etc. – a number of students in the fan fiction workshop chose television shows

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with adult-themes, such as Supernatural and Jersey Shore. As a media educator I was confronted with the ethical choice to either privilege one fandom over another or simply allow the students to continue playing with textual and narrative gaps within the confines of school appropriateness. On the one hand, to take an exclusive stance and privilege one student’s fandom over another stunts many of the goals of the fan fiction workshop: participation and play in one’s own culture, using students’ emotional investment in media content to facilitate new media literacies, and the formation of a link between formal and informal media ecologies. On the other hand, allowing students to play with an adult-themed text would require that I censor their content, decreasing the agency and autonomy of the students and imposing my own meaning on the text. When considering the range of choices, an American pragmatic ethicϻ - that is one that allows society to experimentally progress as a democratic/participatory culture - suggests an inclusive stance of media interests. All students should be able to engage in their invested cultures, and as not all students have production resources at home or in their local community centers, afterschool youth media programs provide that participatory space. To overcome the challenge of imposing top-down meaning, educators can help students form meta-analyses to discuss and critique texts. Instead of restricting content, the class is able to offer their own evidence or meta-analyses for why certain aspects of adult-themed media may not be allowed in the school environment. Within the fan fiction workshop students were able to form their own reasons for why certain language and performances of sexuality and violence were inappropriate (and therefore not allowed) for the media classroom and school in general. These types of discussions allow students to set their own rules for producing fan fiction, even if those standards are predetermined by the school district and guided to through teacher facilitation. Helping students develop these types of critical thinking skills creates a classroom environment that maintains school standards, while also allowing students to participate in the creation of those standards. Creating, bending, and maintaining rules in the classroom mirror many of those meta-analyses that fan participate in to determine and challenge boundaries of their fan texts. Meta-analyses, meaning critical discussions of media form and content, are important aspects to the formation of fan communities. Meta-analyses allows fans to discuss and construct the textual boundaries of a text’s canon and use characters from popular culture to negotiate social experiences. Jenkins (1992) argues that,

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A fan fiction classroom should seek to replicate this type of space, where students freely debate and negotiate the expectations and boundaries of their fan texts. During the second week of the workshop, students were paired up and asked to find a crossover fanfic that contains characters from each of their texts. Students were issued a set a questions where they had to critique and offer their own expert insights into how fan authors play with and expand upon fictional worlds and characters’ personas to construct crossover narratives. Using the crossover genre of fan fiction, which inevitably brings up issues of canon as two fictional worlds blend together, encourages students to not only question their own perceptions of textual boundaries but also those boundaries set forth by fan authors and mainstream producers. Students in the workshop were quick to note how the crossover genre allows fans to move beyond official narrative norms. As two students pointed out in their blog post: “Mixinq This Stories Would Make People Think Out Side The Box And Will Encouraqe Them To Be Creative Themselfs.” However, like some fans, I found that the majority of students’ likes and dislikes of crossover texts pertained to how “true” the characters’ actions were to the official versions. These attitudes positively transferred into production, as I observed two students critique and help each other maintain character consistency while producing a Supernatural and Twilight crossover, which they titled “SuperTwilight”. These observations suggest that middle school students are fully capable of maintaining the pleasures, in this case character consistency, of popular culture during classroom play, while also engaging in the critical examination of texts as fluid entities that can stretch beyond the mainstream canon and across platforms. When students began to produce fan fiction and play with boundaries across production platforms, I included time for class discussions about new media and digital technologies within the curriculum. This served to help students form additional meta-analyses around online spaces of expression that are blocked by school administrators, namely Facebook, MySpace, and YouTube. Social network sites are integral to the 21st century fan experience and have become increasingly important for fans’ productivity and community formations (see Booth 2010a). Like playing with media content, social networks serve to construct and negotiate

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individual and community identities through the creation of profiles, groups, etc. They allow fans to make their fandom public in a highly visible space with a large amount of virtual traffic and potential peer-topeer connections. Relating fandom to these spaces was relatively easy for students to grasp, as many publicly voiced knowledge of fan groups on Facebook. Fandom proved as a fruitful entry point for students to discuss ethical issues surrounding social networks. Throughout the year I encouraged students to make their own groups on DYN’s closed social network site, Remix World, which helped introduce students to the importance of social networks to online communities and the issues of Internet privacy that fans/students face. While administrators outside of local control block MySpace and Facebook from the CPS network, the sites were an ever-present part of the school culture. Students used email to check Facebook updates and DYN cameras to take pictures, which they would load on their flash drives to take home and post. In addition, there was an incident where students were disciplined in school for comments and posts they had made on Facebook during their own time at home. While none of the students in the workshop were involved, they all had their own opinions about the school’s involvement in informal media spaces. The reigning attitude among my students was that when teachers or administrators log-on to Facebook and search for student profiles, it is an invasion of their privacy: “If Facebook is not allowed in school, why should they be able to punish us for what we do on it?” Despite student concerns, they were rarely given an opportunity to participate in conversations and ask questions about school policy. As the fan fiction workshop aimed to provide a democratic atmosphere, the afterschool space became a place for students to work though these issues and voice their opinions. After the incident, which occurred near the end of the workshop, a classroom conversation about fans and social networks turned into a discussion about online privacy. The conversation revealed disconnects between the actions and rationale of teachers to discipline students for their inappropriate and public actions on Facebook and the students who felt an invasion of privacy. Using DYN’s social network site, Remix World, I took this opportunity to introduce students to what Jenkins et al. (2009) call, “the ethical challenge” of media education. “The ethical challenge” encourages students to “become more reflective about the ethical choices they make as participants and communicators and about the impact they have on others” (2009, 26). The reality of new media is that the private has now become public. By this I

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mean that in the digital age information that was once considered personal and private - where you live, how old you are, your birthday, etc. becomes public when posted to social networks. To some such issues may seem obvious, would not youth already be aware that the information they post is public, after all they are “digital natives,” right? The students who were in the fan fiction workshop are certainly digital natives, and have grown up in a world where the Internet and digital media are part of everyday life, part of their popular culture. As Jenkins et al. (2009) argue however, a laissez-faire approach to burgeoning new media spaces and digital technologies does not account for the “ethical norms needed to cope with complex and diverse social environments online” (15). Media educators must not only help students become digital producers in new media spaces, but also help them understand how activity in these spaces affect their public personas. The challenge for media educators who do not have access to specialized social networks like Remix World is how to confront these issues and help students develop meta-analyses in schools where sites like Facebook are blocked. As these circumstances continue there will be a disconnect between educators who wish to teach students about “the ethical challenge” of online communities and students who are only allowed to access social network sites as part of their informal media ecologies. Therefore, as a continuing argument about media education’s reformist agenda, the informal spaces where students already participate as producers must be considered in terms of pedagogy. Again, this requires a broader scope of the term “teaching,” which does not only include formal spaces of the classroom but also informal spaces of everyday media interactions. Digital technologies and new media are prevalent aspects of popular youth culture and fandom. To distance them from formal education stunts their pedagogical potential and ill-prepares students for full cultural participation in today’s media ecologies. If formal schooling wishes to take a prioritized position in students’ informal lives institutions must work to build curricula that incorporate student interests, as to make formal education relevant and meaningful to a variety of everyday experiences. This goal seeks to place formal education at the top of students’ priorities and reinvent the school not only as a place of knowledge acquisition but also knowledge production and community participation, values highly present in fan communities.

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Conclusion The use of student fandom in the afterschool space foregrounds 21st century ethical issues around copyright law and appropriate vs. inappropriate classroom media. Teaching students to be fans ultimately facilitates a participatory culture both in and outside of the classroom. This works as media educators draw on fan creativity and practices to engage and maintain students’ excitement in criticism and production while also breaking down traditional pedagogical barriers between formal schooling and informal learning. What fans demonstrate, as they produce and circulate texts, is that many of the new media literacy skills that modern day media educators work to instill in youth are already prevalent in popular culture. If the goal of 21st century media education is to decrease the participation gap among youth, institutions and lawmakers must recognize the blurring lines between formal and informal pedagogy. Therefore, to fully acknowledge students as cultural participants whose formal and informal learning does not occur in isolation but blends into one another, terms like “teaching” and “education” must be recontextualized to include pedagogy that exists outside of the school walls. Moving forward, fan studies scholars and educators can begin to frame fan creativity and practices in terms of teaching and learning. Fandom as a pedagogical institution functions through a complex web of production and reception, which begins with initial viewings, moves into community interactions, and loops around to production, circulation, and group reception. Once a fan text is presented for public use, I suspect that the pedagogy of reception is different (and similar) to the initial reception of said mainstream program. In this sense, the pedagogical conditions that are present when fans learn from each other differ to those of mainstream producers and advertisers. Scholarship that frames fans as teachers and students will inform how media educators can further co-opt informal learning to benefit their own classrooms and students. Media literacy and fan studies has a hopeful future of collaboration that can help motivate education reform and change for 21st century learning.

Notes i. Performance – The ability to adopt alternative identities for the purpose of improvisation and discovery. Appropriation – The ability to meaningfully sample and remix media content. Transmedia Navigation - The ability to follow the flow of stories and information across multiple modalities.

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Networking – The ability to search for, synthesize, and disseminate information. ii. The Digital Youth Network is a Chicago based new media literacy outreach initiative that works primarily with middle and high school students. Founded by Dr. Nichole Pinkard, the organization functions through an array of grants from the likes of The MacArthur and The Gates Foundations. iii. To maintain a sense of authenticity I have kept the spellings and misspellings from the students’ original blog-posts. iv. Creative-Commons is a non-profit organization founded by Lawrence Lessig. The organization seeks to provide a diversity of digital materials for others to use, remix, and circulate free of cost and copyright restrictions. v. I use American pragmatism in reference to philosophers John Dewey and Richard Rorty, who favor a progressive ethic that champions proactive philosophies as tools to promote Jeffersonian ideas of democratic experimentation.

References Aronowitz, Stanley. “Introduction.” In Pedagogy of Freedom, by Pablo Freire, 1-19. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2001. Black, Rebecca. “Access and Afflation: The Literacy and Composition Practices of English Language Learners in an Online Fanfiction Community.” Journal of Adolescent & Adult Literacy 49 (2005): 118128. —. “Online Fan Fiction and Critical Media Literacy,” Journal of Computing in Teaching Education 26 (2009): 75-80. Booth, Paul. Digital Fandom: New Media Studies. New York: Peter Lang, 2010a. —. “Fandom in/as the Academy,” Flow, 13.5 (2010b): Accessed July 17, 2010, http://flowtv.org/2010/12/fandom-in-as-the-academy/. Brown, Ray. “Popular Culture as the New Humanities.” In Popular Culture Theory and Methodology, edited by Harold E. Hinds, Marilyn F. Motz, and Angela M.S. Nelson, 75-84. Madison: The Popular Press, 2006. Buckingham, David. Media Education: Literacy, Learning and Contemporary Culture. Malden: Polity Press, 2009. Chicago Public Schools. “Student Acceptable Use of the CPS Network.” In Chicago Public Schools Policy Manual. Accessed July 10, 2011. http://policy.cps.k12.il.us/documents/604.1.pdf. Coppa, Francesca. “Writing Bodies in Space Media Fan Fiction as Theatrical Performance.” In Fan Fiction and Fan Communities in the Age of the Internet, edited by Karen Hellekson, and Kristina Busse, 225-244. Jefferson: McFarland and Company Publishers, 2006. Dewey, John. Experience and Education. New York: Collier Books, 1938.

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Dyson, Anne, Haas. Writing Superheroes: Contemporary Childhood, Popular Culture, and Classroom Literacy. New York: Teacher College Press, 1997. Herr-Stephenson, Becky, Diana Rhoten, Dan Perkel, and Christo Sims, with contributions from Anne Balsamo, Maura Klosterman, and Susana Smith Bautista. Digital Media and Technology in Afterschool Programs, Libraries, and Museums. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2011. Jenkins, Henry, with Ravi Purushotma, Margaret Weigel, Katie Clinton, and Alice J. Robinson. Confronting the Challenges of Participatory Culture: Media Education for the 21st Century. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2009. Jenkins, Henry. Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture. New York: Routledge, 1992. —. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York: New York University Press, 2006. Jenson, Joli. “Fandom as Pathology: The Consequences of Characterization.” In Adoring Audiences: Fan Culture and Popular Media, edited by Lisa A. Lewis, 9-29. New York: Routledge, 1992. Lessig, Lawrence. Remix: Making Art and Commerce Thrive in the Hybrid Economy. New York: Penguin, 2008. Morse v. Fredrickson. 127 S. Ct. 2618. 2007. Supreme Court of United States. Accessed July 10, 2011. http://www.supremecourt.gov/oral_arguments/argument_transcripts/06 -278.pdf. The Center for Social Media. The Codes of Best Practices in Fair Use for Media Literacy Education. Accessed July 04, 2011. www.centerforsocialmedia.org. Thompson, John, O. “Screen Acting and the Commutation Test.” In Stardom: Industry of Desire, edited by Christine Gledhill, 183-197. New York: Routledge, 1991. Tushnet, Rebecca. “Copyright Law, Fan Practices, and the Tights of the Author.” In Fandom: Identities and Communities in a Mediated World, edited by Jonathan. Gray, Cornel Sandvoss, and C. Lee Harrington, 6071. New York: New York University Press, 2007.

A POST-SECONDARY WRITING COURSE THAT STUDENTS WILL LINE UP TO TAKE: FAN FICTION MAKES THE GRADE LISA MACKLEM

What are the goals of any university or college writing course? What skills do instructors want their students to leave with? While some of these goals and skills may vary, a few are unanimous. Most syllabi include a list of skills that students will have attained by the end of the course. Writing courses generally delineate the following: Students should be able to write in a clear and accurate way, utilizing standard grammar, punctuation and convention. Writing should be of a level and quality appropriate for business and publication, and writing should be targeted towards a specific audience. Writers should be able to edit their own and others’ work. Writers should be able to do competent research and attribute that research appropriately and should be able to identify and avoid plagiarism. Writers are expected to be able to navigate competently through a digital environment. It may be business, academic, or creative writing that is the core focus of the class, but these goals and skills are still the desired outcome. Keeping students engaged and connecting with them in a relevant way is the on-going challenge that teachers/instructors/professors face. The best way to learn how to write is to write. Every successful author will tell you the same thing as will every writing instructor/professor. The only way to teach students to write is to have them write, and re-write, often. The rhetorical tradition of copia was grounded in this idea. The problem, however, lies in getting students to want to write, and Richard E. Miller points out that “[t]here is ... no real audience for student writing” (2009, 145). There is, in contrast, a large and enthusiastic audience for fanfiction. Fan fiction is at the center of a dynamic community of readers and writers. Fan fiction culture entails an active interaction between writers and their audience, with readers providing encouragement and support for writers through reviews and forums. Letting students write about something that they are already fans of--that they are already

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passionate about--is one way of engaging them and those around them in the writing process. Privacy concerns generally prevent instructors/ professors from having students post directly to outside sites, but students are certainly free to post their stories elsewhere for ready and waiting audiences if they choose to do so. Some instructors, primarily at the primary and secondary levels, are incorporating writing fan fiction into their curriculum with interesting results. Rhetoric has been taught in schools since the Sophists invented it around 600 BC, and sometimes it seems that little has changed when one looks at the writing courses offered in most higher learning institutions. This is not to imply that Aristotle and the like no longer have anything relevant to say on the subject, but professors and instructors often find they need to bring these foundational ideas into the twenty-first century in order to allow the students they find in their classrooms to make the most of the class. Writing well is still a foundational skill for everything from performing one’s civic duty to applying for a job, but the typical audience has expanded from the town square to the entire world with the help of the internet. A recent study points out that “[t]he challenge faced by many educators ... is in developing pedagogical approaches that can be personally engaging and socially meaningful while still meeting the accountability challenges of a testing system that continues to treat literacy as a set of discrete skills that can be measured without regard to context” (McWilliams et al 2011, 238-9). Richard E. Miller decries the fact that “[f]ar from evolving in relation to the globalization of experience, our teachers, our curricula, and our expectations of education remain frozen in time, preserved like some prehistoric insect in a golden drop of amber” (2009, 144). Most of the research on using fan fiction as a writing exercise focuses on the primary and secondary school level and fails to consider that most of today’s undergraduates have grown up in the digital world and are already familiar with writing spaces in that environment. Rebecca Ward Black points out that “the relationship between popular culture and schooling is still problematic at best, as most schools and administrators steadfastly continue to dismiss popular culture and media as frivolous, potentially harmful, and as a distraction from more important (e.g., formal) learning endeavours” (“Convergence and Divergence” 2008, 126). Yet, media studies and communication studies departments and popular culture courses are growing in both number and respect in universities and colleges. The 2011 Joint Conference of the National Popular Culture Association and American Culture Association and the Southwest/Texas Popular Culture and American Culture Association drew

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over 3200 participants from across the academy. The interest in fan fiction alone is growing across the curriculum: Academic attention to fan fiction has varied widely in terms of disciplinary approach and focus, with studies stemming primarily from cultural, communication, media, and literature studies. Also, because fan fiction is derivative work based on copyrighted intellectual property, the genre has also been looked at from legal... and ethical standpoints. (Black Adolescents 2008, 12)

This interplay between disciplines has also influenced approaches to literacy studies. Black states that sociological perspectives and [New Literacy Studies] perspectives have effectively expanded our notions of literacy beyond discrete, rulegenerated decoding and encoding skills to include consideration of many shifting forms of semiotic and textual meaning-making practices, such as those that develop in tandem with new technologies, contexts, and intentions of individual and collective literacy users (Adolescents 2008, 24).

Fan fiction is not simply valuable as a study in and of itself, however; it is also a valuable educational exercise. At first glance, fan fiction may appear as simply a parasitic artistic endeavour, feeding off of the original, bordering on either plagiarism or copyright infringement. Given a closer inspection, fan fiction is a web of intersecting artistic mediums linking both media and people in its global scope. Fiction written by fans about their favourite television show, movie, book, comic, or other text has been around a long time. The internet, however, has allowed fan fiction to experience a greater and more widespread distribution. Fan fiction is the creative outlet of what has been described as an alternative social community and, depending on the fandom, it can be a very active community indeed. The threads of fan fiction discourse tie together traditional elements of rhetoric with more modern ones. Henry Jenkins, one of the biggest academic champions of fan-created media, describes “convergence culture, where old and new media intersect, where the power of the media producer and the power of the media consumer interact in unpredictable ways” (Convergence 2006, 2). Jenkins goes on to pinpoint the consumer and his/her social interactions as the driving forces behind dissemination, not the actual media itself. Fan fiction brings together artists from every walk of life and every age group all over the world. In one fandom alone, fan fiction stories may incorporate song lyrics, fan videos, and fan artwork, such as banners and

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avatars, all based on a television series, movie, video game, or book. The community around fan fiction is made up of writers, readers, editors, teachers, students, illustrators, adaptors to other media, and academics. Far from being a parasitic entity, fan fiction is a vibrant cultural community that weaves together threads on a global scale, producing a new entity from the original pupae. In his book Textual Poachers, Jenkins rejects “media-fostered stereotypes of fans as cultural dupes, social misfits, and mindless consumers, … [perceiving] fans as active producers and manipulators of meanings” (1992, 23). He, in fact, “proposes an alternate conception of fans as readers who appropriate popular texts and reread them in a fashion that serves different interests, as spectators who transform the experience of watching television into a rich and complex participatory culture” (1992, 23). It is this participation that begins to weave the web of community. Busse and Hellekson posit that “the act of performing fandom parallels the act of performing academia. Both rely on dialogue, community, and intertextuality” (2006, 25). Black refers to this sense of community as affinity spaces¹ and emphasizes the supportive nature of this relationship between readers and writers, which she credits with helping to nurture emerging writers. Fanfiction.net provides Black with a “clear example of an affinity space in which members are using digital literacy skills to discover, discuss, and solve writing- and reading-related problems, while pursuing the goals of developing social networks and affiliating with other fans” (Adolescents 2008, 107). A community of fan writers has existed in different forms for a long time. Shakespeare and other Renaissance writers relied heavily on source material for “inspiration.” Similarly, Lev Grossman provides a useful working definition of fan fiction today: “stories and novels that make use of the characters and settings from other people's professional creative work” (2011). There are other ways that fans have found to get more closely involved with the work they are interested in, as well. Readers of Dickens’ serialized stories tried to anticipate where the story was going and wrote him suggestions. It is not uncommon for fan fiction authors to request such prompts in the author’s notes to their stories. Jenkins points out that “critics suggest that it was the rich interplay of writers, editors, and fans which allowed science fiction to emerge as a distinctive literary genre in the 1930s and 1940s”(Textual Poachers 1992, 46). This community of writers, editors, and readers who happen to be fans make up the fan fiction communities of today. Before the advent of the internet, fan fiction was circulated on paper in fanzines. Fanzines are publications produced by fans, written by fans, and read by fans. The earliest ones, like The Comet,

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were dedicated to science fiction. It seems logical then that one of the earliest television shows to warrant its own fanzine was Star Trek. Fanzines had limited print runs and distribution, however, and therefore, the scope of their individual readership was somewhat limited. Today’s fan fiction aficionado has far more fan productions at his or her fingertips through the internet. Matthew Smith points out that “Among the most intriguing aspects of the Internet are the possibilities it presents for the development, growth and maintenance of distance-transcending relationships” (1999, 87). Prior to the early 1990s, most fan fiction was either shared face to face or mailed from fan to fan via snailmail in paper “zines,” photocopies, or the like, but the ever expanding possibilities of the Internet have enabled the ever expanding possibilities of fan fiction. Busse and Hellekson point out that “technological tools affect not only dissemination and reception, but also production, interaction, and even demographics” (2006, 13). They also point out that while fans have become more sophisticated in their use of advancing technology, moving from Genie to Usenet to ListServs, bulletin boards, and blogs, it is misleading to think that any of these mediums have been abandoned: all are still active. The Internet has not made face to face contact between fan fiction enthusiasts obsolete either. There are still entire conventions devoted to fan gatherings as well as smaller group gatherings. These conventions may focus on writing fan fiction, on producing other fannish artifacts, or on celebrating the original show or book. For example, fans of Supernatural have gathered for KazCon in Lawrence, Kansas, to spend a weekend discussing themes in the show and conducting writing workshops. Wincon is a fan-run weekend that began as a Supernatural focused event and as of 2012 is multi-fandom and includes panels and workshops on vidding and writing. Different venues and technologies foster community in different ways. Similarly, a classroom setting can foster either an online environment or a physical, print one. J.K. Rowling has long been a fan of fan fiction herself: “J.K. Rowling and Scholastic, her publisher, had initially signalled their support for fan writers, stressing that storytelling encouraged kids to expand their imaginations and empowered them to find their voices as writers” (Jenkins Convergence 2008, 194). After Warner Brothers acquired the rights to make the movies, the studio did try to stop what they felt was an encroachment on their rights by sending out cease and desist letters to some sites, but they realized that in fact they were only damaging their relationship with the fans whom they were counting on to make the movies a success. Rowling has stipulated that she does want the characters to remain true to her interpretation and portrayal and asks fans not to

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include things like explicit sex or drug use. Her continuing support of fans’ creativity is demonstrated by her new site Pottermore which will encourage fan interaction and creation on an unprecedented scale. It is currently still in the construction and beta stage, however, so it is unclear at this writing exactly how the site will function. Jenkins suggests that for fans, “fandom offers not so much … an escape from reality as an alternative reality whose values may be more humane and democratic than those held by mundane society” (Textual Poachers 1992, 280). According to Francesca Coppa, “Media fandom may now be bigger, louder, less defined, and more explicit than it’s ever been” (2006, 57). Nonetheless, Busse and Hellekson speculate that “as new creative art forms join fan fiction as fannish artifacts, the community that interprets it remains just that: a community, one that continually shifts its boundaries and the roles assigned to reader, writer, and audience to permit, and even invite, play” (2006, 31). Participants take on a number of different roles: readers review, reviewers write, writers beta, and betas read. Each of these roles serves to foster and encourage the writing process, and students can assume each of these roles. In fact, this is essentially the model of peer-review used in virtually every postsecondary writing course. A beta is essentially an editor. Those who are new to fan fiction often express surprise at the prevalence of betas. Authors will often apologize if they were unable to secure a beta and will thank the betas they do use. Readers will leave scathing reviews if a story is posted without a beta if the story is fraught with errors. Most fan fiction sites encourage betas by offering easy ways to find one if a writer wants help. Entire communities on LiveJournal are devoted to betas: spn_betas is specifically devoted to Supernatural fan fiction. The administrator for that site states that “[w]ithout betas, fandom would be a much scarier place. And I would have beaten someone to death with a dictionary by now.” ² Betas will usually be candid about their capabilities, clearly stating their strengths and weaknesses. They may be good at grammar, or they may have no clue about commas but are good at checking for logic, plot and adherence to the canon, defined by Busse and Hellekson as “the events presented in the media source that provide the universe, setting, and characters” (2006, 9). Readers are encouraged to respond to what they read. Authors will frequently encourage (or out and out beg) for responses to what they have written. Much to these authors’ disappointment, there are always more “hits” to a story than there are reviews left. Readers who do not leave a response are referred to as “lurkers”. Most “newbies” lurk for a while before gaining the courage to leave their first review. Generally, once a review has been left, any visitor to the site can view it as

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well as the author’s response to the review. By and large, reviews are generally positive and encouraging, fostering a continued growth and strengthening of community. Many writers admit that they rely on the feedback and encouragement they get through reviews to keep them writing. When reviews contain constructive criticism that is delivered diplomatically, they can be incentive for improvement. Often more experienced writers will take newbies under their wings and mentor them, helping them to become better writers. Sometimes this relationship is sparked by an experienced writer leaving a review for a newbie, and sometimes a newbie will approach a writer they admire. Writers may start out on one site, such as fanfiction.net and move to another community, which may have more rigorous expectations of their writers, like LJ, an Archive of Our Own, Dreamwidth, or even Tumblr. LJ and Ao3 in particular seem to have higher standards. Another feature of most online fan fiction is the Author’s Notes at the beginning or end of fictions. This is another way for authors to foster a support network. Black explains that Author’s Notes are a point where online fanfiction [sic] writing diverges from the writing classroom, in the sense that fan authors assume an interactive, dialogic learning space where they are able to communicate with and receive almost immediate response from readers via the Internet [and] to play a formative role in shaping the activity and to at least influence how the audience will provide feedback to [the] text. (“Convergence and Divergence” 2008, 135)

Authors will frequently ask readers to be kind and excuse certain mistakes, or they may ask for reviews or criticism. Caroline Land points out that authors are “also in a way learning how to market [themselves] as [writers]” (2010, 42). Author’s Notes are a way for the author to engage the reader and encourage the reader to take an active interest and role in the story, frequently even asking for suggestions on where the story should go next. Reviews are a good incentive for authors to hone their craft, as well-written fiction receives more reviews. Readers value well-structured plots, accurate characterization, and good grammar and punctuation. Other features of online writing communities also foster the development of good writing. Many communities have challenges or writing memes. Authors are asked to write to a specific theme or genre. Sometimes contests are based on length or prompts, such as the 100 word drabble. One recent trend is for “Bingo” cards to be issued. Each square contains a word that must be incorporated into the story in some way. Authors accumulate points as they fill squares, lines, and cards. Stories

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must be of a minimum length to qualify and bonuses are awarded as various lengths are met. There are also larger challenges that occur on a yearly basis that encourage and help writers to tackle novel length works. The Big Bang on LiveJournal encourages novel length works and matches writers with betas and artists. Fandoms often participate in NanoWriMo: a challenge open to all writers to produce a novel within the month of November. There is even a community dedicated to it on LiveJournal: lj_nanowrimo. While participation is often organized through a fandom, the idea is to produce original fiction, not fan fiction. The goal is not to produce something that is necessarily publishable, but to encourage writers to write, to produce that copia, which will then provide the raw material that can be polished into a finished work. The 50,000 words of original fiction that writers produce in the month of November will owe much to the fan fiction that preceded it and will hopefully be something that the writer can submit to mainstream publishing. The production of a large volume of writing ties in with language theories that support learning to write by writing and then, receiving meaningful feedback on that writing. There is a long history of this tradition as even “schoolboys in Elizabethan England, already conditioned to the centuries-old tradition of scholastic disputation, were advised by their humanist schoolmasters (including Erasmus [the author of Copia]) to prepare ‘copybooks’” (Sloane 1991, 121). Copybooks were just that: word for word copying of texts. These included famous quotations but also the students’ pro/con arguments. Thus, the exercise included both imitation and invention, much like fan fiction does. Sloane states that “Erasmus’s task becomes one of moving that audience from familiar ground to less familiar, as part of his intention of showing them that rhetoric encompasses not merely style but invention as well” (1991, 126). Fan fiction writers learn how to plot interesting stories, to write dialogue, and to create characters by mimicking those in the original. This movement from canon to fanon is the first movement from a derivative to an original creation. In addition, Erasmus stressed that “sometimes obscene words can be used, sometimes they cannot – it all depends, as does everything in rhetoric, on audience and occasion” (Sloane, 1991 128). Writing fan fiction teaches writers to write for a number of discrete audiences. First, and perhaps most obviously, they are writing for fans of the particular show/book/movie/game, but those fans may be further broken down. Readers of hurt/comfort fiction will have different expectations than those who are reading a romance or “crack” fiction, for instance. “Crack” fiction is generally humorous but may be parody or satire, often placing characters in particularly unexpected scenarios. Even fans of the same

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show may view events in the show differently and be interested in reading a story that shares their particular viewpoint. Stories are also generally rated for things like adult content that may include explicit language, drug use, or graphic sexual scenes. These more adult-themed elements are likely not suitable for an audience at any education level.

Fan Fiction at the Secondary Level A number of recent studies have focused on using fan fiction to engage students at the primary and secondary level. One research group identified that “[t]he challenge faced by many educators... is in developing pedagogical approaches that can be personally engaging and socially meaningful while still meeting the accountability challenges of a testing system that continues to treat literacy as a set of discrete skills that can be measured without regard to context” (McWilliams et al 2011, 238-8). Educators are increasingly acknowledging that students are learning outside of traditional learning spaces and that “[w]ith multimodal and socially mediated texts, our ways of interpreting meaning become more active, collaborative and distributed across multiple resources”(Gomez 2010, 22). It is evident that traditionally based education is largely entrenched at this level too: “new literacy practices are often relegated to out-of-school settings and viewed as inferior to the print-based, teacherdriven learning prevalent in schools” (Gomez 2010, 22). In order to connect with students, it is imperative that educators remain in touch with students. Students are increasingly engaged in communities over multiple platforms. It behoves educators to connect with students through these communities and modalities to answer the following question: What kinds of reading and writing assignments will prepare learners to engage with the vast range of knowledge-building and problem-solving communities that increasingly characterize the educational, vocational, and social experiences of many adults? (McWilliams et al 2011, 238)

In this instance, the researchers designed units around Twitter, fan fiction, and The Crucible, seamlessly blending new technologies and literacies with a traditional text. Teachers have long used the exercise of asking students to write “missing scenes” from novels, like The Crucible, or plays that are being studied in class. Asking students to take on the persona of a character and tweet that character’s feelings and responses to an incident, however, is a new and exciting way to encourage student engagement.

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Designing Elements to Cover the Curriculum It seems logical to assume that if adolescents were producing a great deal of fan fiction in the recent past, gaining confidence in using online spaces and communities to foster and hone their writing skills, at least some of those writers must now be of post-secondary school age. It also seems logical that if fan fiction can be used to promote writing at the secondary level, it should have application at a more advanced level as well. There is currently no research focusing on incorporating fan fiction into a college or post-secondary education environment, though several schools have offered courses at this level.³ Black points out that the “typical institutional components of process-based writing activities such as Writer’s Workshop include planning or prewriting, drafting, peer review, revising, editing, and publishing or sharing” (“Convergence and Divergence” 2008, 130). All of these elements are easy to incorporate in a fan fiction space. As has already been seen, betaing or editing is an integral part of the process, as is publishing and peer review. Students often feel like they have little control over what they are required to write and study. Setting up a fan fiction community within a class setting can be a rich opportunity for students to be empowered in shaping their learning environment. Students will likely be limited to interacting within their own class or possibly their own department, due to privacy policies at most institutions, but they can be empowered to set up their own fandoms. Groups of students can form their own fandoms based on their common interests. One class could have a Buffy fandom, a Lost fandom, a Dragon Age fandom, and a Twilight fandom, for instance. The students can read the fiction produced in each fandom, reviewing and betaing in any of them but forming a core group around their primary fandom. Many of the norms of the fan fiction community can be used effectively as instructional tools in the classroom. Challenges can be issued for all fandoms or between fandoms to increase student motivation with friendly competition. A weekly assignment could be to write a drabble (a self-contained, 100 word story). Each week a word can be assigned that must be included in that drabble. Each fandom can take turns assigning the word of the week for everyone, or they can assign a word for a specific fandom that they might feel is particularly challenging. The writing opportunities for students are almost limitless, except that most writing courses have upper limits on how much (often a specific number of words) students can be asked to write in a given semester. The drabble exercise teaches students to edit judiciously and get their message across succinctly. This direct writing is valued in business writing.

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Students can also write longer “one-shots”, which are self-contained stories. One-shots may be missing scenes from a favorite episode or a character study, for example. Chapter fics take several chapters to unfold. Alternate Universe stories take the canon characters and place them in non-canon situations. Having several fandoms in one classroom can foster having “cross-over” stories between fandoms where students can collaborate on a story. Collaboration is also a valued transferable skill for most work environments, which are increasingly operating in a “team” system. Black notes that in contrast to fan fiction spaces “[i]n classrooms, students commonly are positioned as passive recipients of the teacher, textbook, and curricular knowledge and are seldom provided with occasions to construct and generate their own perspectives on the information being presented to them” (Adolescents 2008, 43). There are many opportunities for students to interact with each other and help design the course, thereby increasing motivation and investment in the material. Other learning opportunities arise out of publishing. It is likely easiest to set up an online resource for publishing utilizing the institution’s online class resource, such as OWL. These spaces usually offer the ability to leave comments and respond to those comments. Part of students’ course assignments should be leaving reviews that offer insightful and constructive comments. There is also the opportunity to produce a hard copy Zine as another writing exercise in publishing and document design. Black points out that “[a]nother important feature of fan fiction spaces is that language and technology are used as means rather than as ends. To be more specific, resources on the site are distributed across networks of people and different technologies” (Adolescents 2008, 127). Each department will, no doubt, set up the course in different ways. In situations where multiple sections are offered, it is possible that these sections could have a space in common, either print or electronic, to allow interaction for reviews for instance. It is also possible that sections in different institutions could implement a system to share fiction. The kind of research that can be encouraged through fan fiction is varied and could include research into which medium is the best fit for the particular course. Some research will relate to the use of the source text. It is important that students have a thorough knowledge of the canon before they begin adapting it in much the same way a parody or satire must draw on its original source. Research can be done into the various fandoms. An initial assignment in the envisioned fan fiction classroom is for each fandom to prepare a presentation for the other fandoms introducing students to the canon on which their fandom is based. This presentation should include a synopsis of the basic storyline and characters. The art of

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summary is an elusive skill, valued in virtually every discipline, but it is difficult to teach in an interesting and effective manner. Summarizing the canon insures that the students all have a firm grasp on the tradition that they are building on. Students can also engage in research for authenticity of facts used within the fan fiction. This could take the form of looking for medical accuracy for a hurt/comfort fiction or historical accuracy in relation to a flashback or time travel story. Finally, the internet itself provides wonderful resources for helping students learn about such diverse topics as writing, technology, events in fandom, and their legal rights concerning fan fiction. The instructor/professor will need to take a leadership role in at least some respects. One thing to consider is the nature of the fiction that will be allowable within the classroom. What rating will stories have to fall within, for instance? Slash and erotica are common genres on the internet and there are strong proponents for these as empowering writers, especially women writers. Many of the studies on fan fiction focus on why people write, and Black writes that “shipper fanzines [can be seen] as forms of social critique and satire that enable women to explore their position in patriarchal society”(Adolescents 2008, 13). However, explicit sex and extreme language may be unacceptable in the classroom, either due to explicit institutional policy or simply the comfort level of students or instructors. It is important to remember that one of the goals is to foster community and insure that that community fosters a safe and comfortable environment for all students to encourage participation. Students are expected to read and comment on each others’ work in this collaborative environment.

Legal Considerations There are several legal considerations to take into account when teaching fan fiction. These become teachable moments/elements in their own right. Legal elements to consider include copyright, privacy, and the internet. The first consideration is the copyright question. This dovetails nicely with any discussion of plagiarism that is a basic component of every writing class at the post-secondary level or any class that has any kind of written assignment. If the university were a business, its stock in trade would be ideas or intellectual property, so it is a given that any theft of intellectual property is one of the most serious “crimes” that can be committed in academia. Because fan fiction is a derivative work, the copyright issue has been a long standing concern. As already discussed, this is a “parasitic” artistic endeavour, so how can it be legal? The issue

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would have a clearer “bright line” as to its legality if there was only one statute to adhere to. The difficulty with fan fiction is that it so often crosses legal boundaries, and the internet has only exacerbated this issue. In general, there are a few elements which serve to make fan fiction acceptable from a legal standpoint. Both the United States and Canada have exceptions for “fair use” built in to the statutes. Copyright laws are meant to protect the interests of the creator by insuring that he or she is able to profit from his or her creative endeavour, but the laws are also meant to foster creative activity by allowing others to create based upon what has come before them. In the US, Title 17, the Copyright Act §107 allows for fair use when the work is considered news reporting, criticism, comment, teaching, scholarship, and research and it outlines four factors to be weighed: (1) the purpose and character of the use, including whether such use is of a commercial nature or is for nonprofit educational purposes; (2) the nature of the copyrighted work; (3) the amount and substantiality of the portion used in relation to the copyrighted work as a whole; and (4) the effect of the use upon the potential market for or value of the copyrighted work. The fact that a work is unpublished shall not itself bar a finding of fair use if such finding is made upon consideration of all the above factors. The Canadian Copyright Act (CCA) (R.S.C., 1985, c.C-42) stipulates the following exceptions under §29-30: for research or private study, criticism or review, and news reporting. Educational institutions and libraries, archives and museums have specific carve outs. The CCA stipulates that derivative works cannot be for “motive of gain” (§29.3) and should also incorporate the following information: (a) the source; and (b) if given in the source, the name of the (i) author, in the case of a work, (ii) performer, in the case of a performer’s performance, (iii) maker, in the case of a sound recording, or (iv) broadcaster, in the case of a communication signal. (29.1; 29.2) All writing students are taught to attribute all of their sources to avoid plagiarism. Citations should include direct quotes but also summary and paraphrase of the original. Use of canon in fan fiction is almost entirely a

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matter of summary and paraphrase – the exact elements that writing students seem to struggle with the most. Any kind of online element will inevitably have ramifications for students’ privacy. Virtually every institution at the post-secondary level has an online student resource of some kind where students can post and discuss through forums dedicated to particular classes. Students may be required to post assignments, read articles, comment on each other’s posts, or engage in live chat dialogues. These are secure locations where the instructor/professor generally controls who sees what and/or whom. Students may see other students’ comments, teacher’s comments to their own work and/or the work of others – usually the parameters are flexible. However, these are closed communities almost always limited to class enrollment. Privacy policies also generally discourage or outright forbid instructors/professors from setting up online forums that are open to the public or from using public forums. There are liability issues that the institution may open itself to through the use of such unmonitored sites. Educational institutions are protective of students’ personal information and safety, and this extends to any exposure a student may suffer from being asked to visit a public forum. Here again, instructors and students alike need to be aware of a number of different policies that may affect them, including differing laws by country in addition to department and institution policies. A recent study at UC Berkeley School of Information examines the relationship between privacy and online learning, specifically in the context of P2PU: “a grassroots open education project that organizes learning outside of institutional walls and gives learners recognition for their achievements. P2PU creates a model for lifelong learning alongside traditional formal higher education.”Ϻ Heather Ford and Alex Smolen “feel that privacy compels [them] to stop and take stock of the real impact of technology on the educational future of so many and that it is useful not only for protecting students but for enabling more meaningful engagement in online educational communities” (2011, 3). Ford sees privacy as having two facets: “privacy is both contextual and experiential. A privacy violation occurs when information flows in a way that violates peoples’ expectations based upon established social norms” (2011, 45). Lauren Steinfeld and Kathleen Sutherland Archuleta also comment on the different facets to privacy considerations in the educational environment: “Privacy management is an essential component in any organization’s overall effort to manage information responsibly. In higher education, that effort is uniquely challenging.... A privacy program can be based merely on complying with applicable laws, but such a compliance model is the

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least mature in the range of privacy program models.” The statutes to be aware of are FERPA (Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act) and the USA Patriot Act in the US and PIPEDA (Personal Information Protections and Electronic Documents Act) and the Privacy Act in Canada. The digital environment changes so quickly that the law, which is not meant to be reactionary, often struggles to keep up. Most educational institutions will err on the side of being conservative and doing their utmost to protect students’ privacy. This can be a barrier to students and instructors/ professors building a truly global community. Students and instructors/ professors should know their rights, however, and this is an important area to include when designing and implementing a course in writing fan fiction.

Conclusion Post-secondary institutions are missing a very teachable opportunity by not offering courses in writing fan fiction. Black stresses that “[f]an fiction authors ... are learning to write in globally networked, pluralistic arenas where the convergence of different modes of representation, media, texts, languages, literacies, and perspectives is commonplace” (35). Engaging students, especially in a course that is often required, can be a challenge, and fan fiction offers instructors and professors a way to connect with their students. Fan fiction also enables instructors/professors to ensure that their students acquire the skills that they are expected to obtain from a writing course. Incorporating a beta and review system teaches constructive criticism of others’ work, editing skills, grammar and punctuation. It also fosters a collaborative community with members who are comfortable both giving and receiving feedback. Students also learn to assess their own strengths and weaknesses accurately, thus increasing their success in improving. Students learn to write for specific audiences and to do accurate and credited research. By gaining an understanding of the law, students can also gain an understanding of respecting others’ creative endeavours the way they wish theirs to be respected. Richard E. Miller is among those pushing for change in the curriculum and sees “[w]hat is approaching is an opportunity to redefine the pedagogical function as promoting a tolerance for ambiguity, as cultivating informed curiosity, as encouraging connective thinking about multivariant real-world problems” particularly those found in an online, global environment(2009, 150). A course in fan fiction can easily meet all the goals that are the desired outcome of post-secondary writing classes, and it’s a class that students are sure to line up to take.

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Notes 1. A term also attributed to James Paul Gee by Henry Jenkins in “Why Heather Can Write” Convergence Culture. 186. 2. http://spn-betas.livejournal.com/ 3. The University of Western Ontario and the University of Calgary have both offered courses in writing fan fiction. 4. http://p2pu.org/en/pages/about/

References Black, Rebecca W. 2008. Adolescents and Online Fan Fiction. New York: Peter Lang. —. 2008. “Convergence and Divergence, Informal Learning in Online Fanfiction Communities and Formal Writing Pedagogy.” In Popular Culture and Education, edited by Diana Silberman-Keller, Zvi Bekerman, Henry A. Giroux, and Nicholas C. Burbules, 125-143. New York: Peter Lang. Coppa, Francesca. 2006. “A Brief History of Media Fandom.” In Fan Fiction and Fan Communities in the Age of the Internet, edited by Karen Hellekson and Kristina Busse 41-59. Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland & Company, Inc. Ford, Heather and Alex Smolen. 2011. Masks: Designing for Privacy in Online Education. http://www.ischool.berkeley.edu/files/student_projects/masks.pdf. Accessed June 15. 2011. Gomez, Mary Louise, Melissa Schieble, Jen Scott Curwood and Dawnene Hassett. 2010. “Technology, Learning and Instruction: Distributed Cognition in the Secondary English Classroom.” Literacy. 44.1: 20-27. Grossman, Lev. July 2, 2011. “The Boy Who Lived Forever.” Time Entertainment. Accessed. November 3, 2011 http://www.time.com/time/arts/article/0,8599,2081784-1,00.html. Hellekson, Karen, and Kristina Busse, eds. 2006. Fan Fiction and Fan Communities in the Age of the Internet. Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland & Company, Inc. Jenkins, Henry. 2006. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York: New York University Press. —. 1992. Textual Poachers Television Fans and Participatory Culture. New York: Routledge. Land, Caroline. 2010. “‘I Do Not Own Gossip Girl’: Examining the Relationship between Teens, Fan Fiction, and Gossip Girl.” Language and Literacy. 12.1:

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CONTRIBUTORS

Matt Hills is a Reader in Media and Cultural Studies at Cardiff University. He is the author of five books including Fan Cultures (2002), and most recently Cultographies: Blade Runner (2011). Matt has published widely on cult media and fandom, and is currently working on a book about the TV series Torchwood for I.B. Tauris. Kristina Busse has a PhD in English from Tulane University and teaches in the Department of Philosophy at the University of South Alabama. Kristina has been an active media fan and has published a variety of essays on fan fiction and fan culture. She is coeditor of Fan Fiction and Fan Communities in the Age of the Internet (2006) and Sherlock and Transmedia Fandom (2012), as well as founding coeditor of Transformative Works and Cultures, an Open Access international peer-reviewed journal about fan cultures and fan works. Karen Hellekson is an independent scholar based out of Jay,Maine,who works in the fields of fan studies and sciencefiction. She is a founding coeditor of the Open Access fan studies journal Transformative Works and Cultures. Heather J. Meggers has a Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology from the University of Missouri and is currently an Assistant Professor of Psychology at Birmingham-Southern College. Her primary research interests include human sexuality and media psychology, with an emphasis on sexual fantasies and the intersection of female sexuality and body image. She is currently working on research concerning online female sexual communities. Catherine Coker is an Assistant Professor and the Curator of the Science Fiction Research Collection at Texas A&M University. She is an Associate Editor for Foundation: The International Journal of Science Fiction. Her research interests focus on the history and depiction of women, gender, and sexuality in science fiction and fantasy.

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Christine Handley has an M.A. in English Literature from Dalhousie University. While her primary area of research is in fan culture studies, she has also worked as a member of the EMiC (Editing Modernism in Canada) Project, and on the academic journal Compendium 2. She currently works as a publisher’s representative for Broadview Press. Simone Becque is currently working toward her PhD in the department of Mass Communication and Media Arts at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. She holds an MA in Media Studies from the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications at Syracuse University. John Walliss is Senior Lecturer in the Faculty of Sciences and Social Sciences, Liverpool Hope University, UK. Larisa Mikhaylova is a Russian philologist, literary critic and translator. She teaches world literature of the 20th Century and Science Fiction in Literature and Media at Moscow State University, Department of Journalism. Academic Secretary of Russian Society for American Culture Studies (1989-). Russian SF magazine Supernova. F&SF Chief Editor (1994-). SFRA and SFWA member. Lincoln Geraghty is Reader in Popular Media Cultures in the School of Creative Arts, Film and Media and Director of the Centre for Cultural and Creative Research at the University of Portsmouth. He serves as editorial advisor for The Journal of Popular Culture, Reconstruction, Atlantis and The Journal of Fandom Studies with interests in science fiction film and television, fandom, merchandising and collecting in popular culture. He is author of Living with Star Trek: American Culture and the Star Trek Universe (IB Tauris, 2007) and American Science Fiction Film and Television (Berg, 2009). He has edited The Influence of Star Trek on Television, Film and Culture (McFarland, 2008), Channeling the Future: Essays on Science Fiction and Fantasy Television (Scarecrow, 2009), The Smallville Chronicles: Critical Essays on the Television Series (Scarecrow, 2011), and, with Mark Jancovich, The Shifting Definitions of Genre: Essays on Labeling Film, Television Shows and Media (McFarland, 2008). He is currently serving as Editor of the Directory of World Cinema: American Hollywood, an online and print publication from Intellect Books (2011), and his next book, entitled Cult Collectors: Nostalgia, Fandom and Collecting Popular Culture, is forthcoming from Routledge.

248

Contributors

Paul Booth is an Assistant Professor of Media and Cinema Studies at DePaul University. He is the author of Digital Fandom: New Media Studies (2010, Peter Lang). He is currently working on a book about time, television, and narrative. Michael Lachney is an in-school and after-school new media literacy educator for Chicago’s Digital Youth Network. He recently graduated with his Master of Arts degree in cinema and media studies from DePaul University. Lisa Macklem holds an Honours English BA, a JD with a specialization in Intellectual Property and Information Technology from the University of Western Ontario, and an LLM in Entertainment and Media Law from Southwestern Law School in Los Angeles. Currently, she is working on a PhD in Media Studies and is an HQP with the Grand Network. Lisa taught writing and Literature at the post-secondary level for 15 years, including a course in writing fan fiction. Partial support for this chapter was provided by the Grand Network. Katherine Larsen teaches courses on fame, celebrity and fandom in the University Writing Program at George Washington University. She is the principal editor of the Journal of Fandom Studies. Lynn Zubernis is a clinical psychologist and teaches in the Counselor Education program at West Chester University of Pennsylvania. Larsen and Zubernis are the coauthors of Fandom at the Crossroads: Celebration, Shame and Fan/Producer Relationships (2012 Cambridge Scholars).

INDEX

Abrams, J.J., 98, 99, 100, 162, 170, 172, 173, 174, 175 acafan, 18, 19, 38, 40, 47, 54, 56 Adorno, Theodor, 104, 105, 106, 108, 109, 122, 254 Allen, Christina, 47 Amichai-Hamburger, Yair, 83 Anderson, D, 196 Anderssen, Norman, 66 Arndt, William B., 76 Aronowitz, Stanley, 216 Association of Internet Researchers, 202 Austen, Jane, 133 Bacon-Smith, Camille, 88, 94, 129, 141, 148, 168, 169, 181 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 108, 109, 114, 115, 122, 193 Barchard, Kimberly, 53 Bassett, Elizabeth, 45 Batson, C, 68 Baymn Nancy, 191 Becque, Simone, 267 Benefiel, Candace, 17 Benjamin, Walter, 122 Berger, Arthur Asa, 1 Berry, David, 50, 53 Bivona, Jenny, 75 Black, Rebecca, 134, 136, 137, 140, 141, 142, 143, 208, 228, 229, 230, 233, 237, 238, 239, 242 Bock, Hanne, 183 Boehlefeld, Sharon, 47 Booth, Paul, 18, 190, 191, 196, 199, 216, 221, 268 Borges, Jorge Luis, 121 Bradley, Marion Zimmer, 9, 95, 96, 100, 101, 102

Brooker, Will, 17, 19, 36, 112, 115, 116, 117, 129, 134, 139 Brown, Ray, 217 Bruckman, Amy, 46 Buffy the Vampire Slayer, 23, 90, 91, 156 Burgess, J., 194 Burr, Vivien, 17 Busse, Kristina, 2, 6, 18, 22, 23, 41, 49, 52, 70, 110, 111, 116, 117, 130, 131, 140, 230, 231, 232, 233, 266 canon, 7, 8, 12, 13, 14, 87, 92, 93, 94, 95, 106, 112, 114, 116, 117, 130, 131, 132, 133, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 147, 200, 220, 233, 235, 237, 238, 241 Capurro, Rafael, 44 Cicioni, M, 131 Cicioni, M., 148 Cixous, Helene, 111, 119 Clerc, Susan, 62 Coker, Catherine, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 14, 17, 37, 86, 102, 266 Cooper, Al, 61 Coppa, Francesca, 129, 208, 232 copyright, 7, 45, 47, 86, 98, 190, 194, 195, 196, 197, 200, 201, 205, 206, 209, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 215, 223, 224, 229, 239 fair use, 7, 107, 194, 209, 213, 214, 215, 240 plagiarism, 42, 45, 194, 195, 196, 206, 210, 211, 212, 227, 229, 239, 240 Creative-Commons, 212, 224

250 de Certeau, Michel, 86, 106, 108, 109 Derecho, Abigail, 105, 110, 112, 114, 115, 120 Dewey, John, 215, 225 Digital Youth Network, 207 Doctor Who, 22, 23, 27, 30, 31, 134, 197, 201 Doctorow, Cory, 120, 122 Donath, Judith, 49, 51 Duchesne, Scott, 167 Dwyer, Michael, 20 Dyson, Anne, 218 Ess, Charles, 48, 56 ethics, 2, 3, 7, 44, 52, 53, 57, 104, 190, 198, 200, 201, 205, 206, 208, 210, 213, 216, 219, 225, 251, 263 Facebook, 1, 7, 179, 195, 208, 216, 221, 222, 223 fair use. copyright fan fiction, 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 11, 12, 13, 14, 22, 26, 41, 42, 44, 47, 54, 56, 62, 63, 64, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 74, 75, 77, 78, 80, 81, 82, 83, 87, 92, 105, 106, 107, 108, 110, 114, 120, 122, 123, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 142, 146,147, 148, 149, 151, 153, 154, 155, 158, 159, 168, 180, 181, 185, 187, 192, 193, 199, 200, 201, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 213, 216, 217, 218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 227, 228, 229, 230, 231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 238, 239, 241, 242, 243 slash, 10, 13, 22, 44, 64, 65, 69, 70, 71, 88, 98, 102, 130, 138, 139, 140, 148, 149, 181, 190, 239 fanvids, 8, 63, 213, 214, 215, 218 Fiske, John, 106, 147 Frazetti, Daryl, 166

Index gender, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 35, 63, 64, 66, 67, 70, 71, 72, 75, 76, 77, 81, 90, 105, 110, 111, 112, 113, 119, 129, 131, 142, 164, 172 Geraghty, Lincoln, 5, 177, 267 Gray, Jonathan, 18, 19, 20, 177, 185 Grossberg, Lawrence, 28, 34 Grossman, Lev, 230 Gwenllian-Jones, Sara, 180 Hall, Stuart, 147, 157, 158 Handley, Christine, 7, 8, 14, 104, 267 Harry Potter, 184, 211, 212, 215, 217, 219 Hartley, 20 Hausken, 25 Hellekson, Karen, 4, 5, 6, 22, 41, 49, 70, 110, 116, 117, 130, 131, 230, 231, 232, 233, 266 Hills, Matt, 4, 6, 8, 17, 19, 22, 24, 25, 28, 30, 180, 266 Fan Cultures, 17, 36, 179, 180 Horkheimer, Max, 104, 105, 106, 108, 109, 122 Horton, Donald, 1 Jareo, Lori, 105, 111–24 Jenkins, Henry, 17, 20, 88, 123, 129, 130, 137, 148, 190, 192, 197, 198, 205, 207, 214, 222, 229 Convergence Culture, 185, 186, 191, 208, 210, 218, 232 Fans, Bloggers and Gamers, 120 moral economy, 16, 27 Textual Poachers, 26, 28, 29, 85, 86, 89, 101, 106, 129, 147, 148, 179, 191, 200, 220, 230, 231, 232 Jenson, Joli, 218 Kraus, Daniel, 97 Kristeva, Julia, 107, 108, 109, 120 Kustritz, Anne, 131, 148 Lachney, Michael, 7, 205, 268 Lamb, Jean, 96, 100 Lamb, Patricia, 131 Larsen, Katherine, 1, 6, 11, 15, 268

Fan Culture: Theory/Practice Leiblum, Sandra, 62, 75 Leitenberg, Harold, 76 Lessig, Lawrence, 194, 196, 212, 213, 216, 224 Lichtenberg, Jacqueline, 91 LiveJournal, 35, 43, 45, 48, 63, 70, 93, 150, 233, 234 Longhurst, Brian, 24 Lucas, George, 91, 97, 98, 100, 104, 105, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 119, 120, 121, 122 Macklem, Lisa, 7, 227, 268 Media literacy, 224 Meggers, Heather J., 4, 5, 7, 11, 13, 61, 266 Meyer, Stephanie, 14, 91, 146, 150, 153, 155, 156, 158, 159 Meyrowitz, Joshua, 1 Mikhaylova, Larisa, 9, 162 Mikhaylova,Larisa, 4, 162, 171, 267 Mittell, Jason, 20 new media literacies, 206, 207, 208, 214, 217, 218, 219 Ogas, Ogi, 50 Organization for Transformative Works, 48, 194 pedagogy, 202, 206, 207, 208, 215, 223, 224 Pegg, Simon, 10 Penley, Constance, 51, 130, 131, 148, 181 Phillips,Tom, 29 plagiarism. See copyright Poe, Edgar Allan, 87 privacy, 4, 6, 7, 41, 42, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 55, 56, 57, 75, 221, 222, 228, 237, 239, 241, 242, 260, 263 Propp, Vladmir, 113 Pugh, Sheenagh, 87, 92, 93, 129, 130, 133, 141, 181 Racefail, 99 Radway, Janice, 149, 150, 153, 154, 155, 159 Rebellious Pixels, 90 Rehak, Bob, 130

251

Roddenberry, Gene, 91, 98, 162, 167, 169, 170, 172, 175, 192 Sandvoss, Cornel, 21, 24, 29, 36, 129, 178 scholar fan. See acafan Scodari, Christine, 2 sexuality, 4, 7, 10, 11, 12, 13, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 130, 142, 148, 220 sexual identity, 73 shame. See sexuality Silverstone, 16 Silverstone, Roger, 20, 21, 22, 25, 27, 36 slash. See fan fiction Smith, 24 Star Trek, 4, 9, 13, 22, 91, 92, 93, 95, 97, 98, 100, 101, 130, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 173, 175, 176, 179, 181, 184, 192, 231 Star Wars, 91, 97, 104, 105, 110, 111, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 120, 122, 134, 139, 141, 173, 252 Supernatural, 3, 6, 8, 9, 12, 13, 43, 44, 54, 101, 125, 127, 216, 219, 221, 231, 233 The Lord of the Rings, 87, 93, 101 The Phantom Edit. See Star Wars, See Star Wars Tolkien, J.R.R., 87, 92, 95 Torchwood, 31, 32, 33, 36 Transformative Works and Cultures, 48, 49, 54, 55 True Blood, 156 Tushnet, Rebecca, 194, 196, 213 Twilight, 8, 13, 14, 90, 91, 93, 102, 146, 147, 149, 150, 153, 154, 156, 158, 161, 219, 221, 237 Van Zoonen, Liesbet, 20 Vasquez, 27 Walliss, John, 4, 11, 12, 13, 14, 129, 132, 267

252 Warhammer, 11, 12, 13, 129, 131, 133, 136, 141 Wikipedia, 190, 195, 198, 199, 200, 201 Winnicott, Donald, 24

Index Wohl, R. Richard, 1 Yeskov, Kirill, 87, 92 YouTube, 90, 195, 196, 201, 208, 218, 221 Zubernis, Lynn, 1, 6, 11, 15, 268