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Dude, I read too much
Nov. 13th, 2001 01:03 pmChicago happened slowly, like a migraine. --American Gods, Neil Gaiman
Words, words, words. Sometimes sentences leap out and strike me with the utter simplicity and brilliance that sometimes leap out of the morass of the English language.
And they're Neil's words, no doubt about it, but when I say Los Angeles unfurled, like the jaws of a carnivorous flower, it's a style imitation straight out of my high school english class. It's no longer Neil's words, it's just his idea, and my words - something I've loved and made my own.
That's fanfic for you.
Maybe I've been thinking about it too much lately. Between the article by Henry Jenkins (finished), Science Fiction Culture by Camille Bacon-Smith (page 190), and a dash of American Gods by Neil Gaiman (page 58), theories and counter-theories about fandom and fanfic have been pinballing through my head.
I don't always listen to them. In the end, I make the story my own. Sometimes I'll publish my own version, sometimes not. The words belong to the author - the story is, in the end, mutable.
Seattle hid from me, in her green and her mists.
Words, words, words. Sometimes sentences leap out and strike me with the utter simplicity and brilliance that sometimes leap out of the morass of the English language.
And they're Neil's words, no doubt about it, but when I say Los Angeles unfurled, like the jaws of a carnivorous flower, it's a style imitation straight out of my high school english class. It's no longer Neil's words, it's just his idea, and my words - something I've loved and made my own.
That's fanfic for you.
Maybe I've been thinking about it too much lately. Between the article by Henry Jenkins (finished), Science Fiction Culture by Camille Bacon-Smith (page 190), and a dash of American Gods by Neil Gaiman (page 58), theories and counter-theories about fandom and fanfic have been pinballing through my head.
I don't always listen to them. In the end, I make the story my own. Sometimes I'll publish my own version, sometimes not. The words belong to the author - the story is, in the end, mutable.
Seattle hid from me, in her green and her mists.
