I Mourn for Adonis and the other perils of fan fiction (which is still destroying America, by the way)

Not so long ago, I warned that fan fiction was destroying America.

I’ve been silent on the subject since then because of the vitriol-filled emails I got from five different fanfic authors.

Five of them. That’s what, seventy or eighty percent of the people who write fanfic, right?

Clearly, I touched a nerve.

Their impassioned death threats and photos of the front of my house left me with both a lot to think about and an extreme reluctance to go outside, let alone touch on the subject again.

Until now.

Their chief complaint, after the one about my continued existence in a living, non-tortured state, was that as someone who didn’t write fanfic, I wasn’t a special star and could therefore never know what I was talking about.

Au contraire! I have written fanfic. In fact, I can count on three fingers the number of fanfic works I’ve written:

Two Doctor Whos (one thirty years ago, one about ten years ago) and one Star Trek (about twenty-five years ago).

So I have not only fanfic writing experience, but the wisdom, when speaking of it, that comes with age.

I know, I know, you’re thinking, “Ian, you’ve written fanfic? Bullsh*t.”

I can sympathize with this assessment. If I didn’t know myself intimately (and believe me, I do), I would share that assessment.

Therefore, I offer proof.

The first Doctor Who fanfic is lost to history, so I cannot present it as evidence of my bona fides. And the second Doctor Who story was written for an audience of exactly two (myself and the Missus, who is the star of the tale), and is not meant to be shared.

Both stories are also so terrible that to read them threatens the very fabric of space-time, and as my hero, the Doctor, would never stand for that, they shall remain forever beyond your reach.

That leaves the Star Trek story. When I first hit upon the idea of using it as my rebuttal to the vile electronic hate-scrawls that filled my inbox after the first blog post, I despaired. For I believed it, too, to be lost forever.

I was dimly aware of a copy reproduced in my high school Science Fiction club newsletter, but remembering the name of and then tracking down the phone number and calling the president of the club seemed like far too much effort.

In addition, ever since the burning paper bags with copies of Star Trek: Voyager inside them started appearing on my porch, I’ve been less than enthused about the idea of interacting with the outside world.

You have no idea how difficult it is to remove melted plastic from concrete. Especially when you know what had been on that plastic.

This is the hardware responsible for proving a horrific truth. There should be a Star Trek episode where Kirk and Spock go back in time to prevent the device from ever being built. Hmm, I may have a story idea there…

Then I bought a used USB Zip drive (via mail order, of course), and started going through all the Zip disks I had stored in my garage.

It proved to be a treasure trove of old pictures, letters, school papers, and, yes, works of fiction by yours truly.

It is this recent development that now allows me to present to you, my discriminating readers, proof of two things:

1) That I have indeed partaken of the fan fiction fount, and can therefore trash talk it without consequence from the tiny but fanatic community that still perpetuates this literary crime against Humanity

2) Fanfic is, as I have always maintained, and as my story demonstrates beyond any doubt, a literary crime against Humanity

So I now present to you, mostly unedited (except for the Kirk/Spock/time-traveling Wesley Crusher threesome scene – propriety demanded I cut it), Star Trek: I Mourn For Adonis. I recommend donning Peril-Sensitive Sunglasses before reading any further.

 

An Open Letter to Wil Wheaton

Funny, or crime against the working man? Image source: http://thebloggess.com/ (and Wil Wheaton, of course)

As a voice for the unheard, a seer for the unseen, a lightning rod for those without electricity or other forms of power, I receive a lot of letters and emails from those whose views are underrepresented in the media and pop cultural at large. I feel both joyous pleasure and a heavy responsibility as I page through these myriad fan letters, their authors pleading for my help.

Usually I laugh and delete these amusing cries for succor after I’ve finished reading them, but today, today one stood out as worthy of my attention and, less importantly, of course, yours.

I now present to you this important missive, raw and unedited except for the parts I disagree with, which have been omitted.

Mr. Wheaton, I am not writing to you as the local chapter head of the Paper and Parchment Collators Union Local 420, though that ought to be reason enough.

I am not writing to you as a passionate paper collator, a lover of that art form who studied its precise movements under his father, who, in turn, studied the practice under his father.

I am not writing to you as a professional who attended three years of collation trade school.

I am writing to you as a husband and father, as a man who has mouths to feed:

Please, stop collating paper yourself and leave it to the professionals.

Sure, you Hollywood types think it’s ‘fun’ and ‘gritty’ to jump down in the trenches and get your hands dirty. But what you fail to realize is that when you, as an amateur, collate paper for a photo-op or to help out a blogger, you not only are taking that job away from a licensed collator who needs the money, especially in this economy, but you’re also propagating a terrible myth, a myth my fellow collators and I have spent years combating, have shed blood and tears trying to dislodge from the American psyche.

What myth is that?

That you don’t need years of schooling, you don’t need to work as an apprentice under a seasoned master for decades, to be an adept paper collator.

Have you no sense of decency? Of honor? Or, failing that, of simple social justice?

When you posed for that thoughtless picture, you told the world that anyone who spent a couple of years ‘slumming’ it at Juilliard or some other ‘acting’ school can collate paper.

You told the world, “No, you don’t need to pay top dollar to an expert to get your paper collated correctly. Just go down to the nearest casting session at a studio to collect one of the rejects, or, if you must, call a temp agency.”

You committed the sin of implying that collating paper is easy.

Is your family warm at night? Are you all well-sated when you all leave your table at Cafe La Boheme? Are you able to wear the latest in sturdy, comfortably clothing?

For my family, the answer to all those questions is “No!”

My wife and I shiver at night in the cold because I can’t afford to heat my home.I assume my children shiver too, but since our house is too small for my family, they sleep out back with the dogs, who thus far have kept them warm enough to survive.

My children cry for more at dinner because Cafe La Boheme only has so many leftovers to hand out after they close each night, and it isn’t enough for a family of four. Who also have three dogs to feed.

Our clothes are the most disgustingly two-seasons-out-of-date styles, which regularly results in my young children being beaten on the playground.

By their teachers.

Mr. Wheaton. I can’t tell you the number of jobs I failed to get where the hiring manager clapped me apologetically on the shoulder and said, “I’m really sorry, but we looked into it, and even Wil Wheaton is cheaper than you are. If we can’t get him, we’ll call you.”

They haven’t called me, Mr. Wheaton. Which means not only are you destroying the reputation of paper collators world-wide, but you’re also a union-busting scab.

For the love of all that is good and sweet in this world, please, Mr. Wheaton, stop collating paper!

Signed,

NAME WITHHELD TO PROTECT AUTHOR FROM THE WRATH OF WIL WHEATON

 

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