On Rabid Fans

I welcomed the New Year by watching “The Howling” and making no resolutions whatsoever. Huge mistake on both counts. My dreams were filled with shape-shifting weirdness and not in a cool Sam Merlotte sort of way. When my son cried in the middle of the night, I was convinced it was because he was transforming into a were baby and I panicked because I did not know how to help him. The lack of resolutions has proven to be my downfall as well. I am the soul of sloth these days and a fog has settled around my brain.

I don’t feel particularly guilty about this. Currently, I am planted firmly on the sofa in eager anticipation for tonight’s dinner of homemade gnocchi and meatballs with absolutely no vegetables, while I watch, yet again, the Colin Firth version of "Pride and Prejudice."

Speaking of Sam Merlotte (told you – mind rambly today – please refer to paragraph one), I grow steadily angrier at a percolating issue in the writing world, enough so that I need to pause dear Mr. Darcy and rant on behalf of writers, readers, and Art. I speak of the rabid fans, small in number but like any extreme group, destructive.

There are few authors whose books cause me to salivate in anticipation of a new release. I get so lost in their worlds that I dream about the characters at night. Sometimes, I am so reluctant for a book to end that I have to email the author to assure her that she is the best in hopes that she'll write the next installment that much quicker. Such is my imagined power as a fan of Karen Marie Moning's Fever series and Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse mysteries.

Now these books will never grace the halls of Harvard. The tales aim to entertain and they never, ever fail. The characters in these novels may as well be real figures rather than denizens of the page.

As an avid reader, I, too sometimes forget that Scarlett never plowed the red earth of Tara, that Samantha and Michael Taggert don’t really live in a brownstone in NYC, that Lily Bart never overdosed in a seedy room in that same city. I cringe when Emma snaps at Miss Bates as if it were my own transgression and my morals are offended when Rowan Mayfair cheats on Michael with Lasher. Sometimes, the deaths of characters (sob! Kisten!) affect me more than the death of a great-aunt with whom I’ve been acquainted all my life. (I probably shouldn’t admit that in public.)

Yet I know, like most fans, that the characters are not real and I come down to earth eventually to commune with the real world, anxious for the next book, but basking in the glow of a well delivered piece of fiction as I get on with daily life. We are, ultimately, grateful that the author shares her gift with us and takes us away from it all in true Calgon fashion (yes, I am really dating myself here), no matter what befalls our characters.

Unfortunately, there are some fans, and I hesitate to call them such as psychotic freak jobs may be the better term, that never do come back from the clouds. Instead, these fans invest their entire happiness in fictional characters. If the outcome of a book is not to their liking, they will go out of their way to insult and terrorize the author as if said author owes them something.

I suppose one should feel pity for such pathetic people but I cannot. As a writer and a fan of writing, I just can’t condone such enemies of art. Such people do not deserve the pleasure of reading.

Both Ms. Harris and Ms. Moning have been compelled to defend themselves to such “fans” in their blogs. Ms. Moning addressed accusations that she condones rape because she allowed such a fate for Mac, and Charlaine Harris wrote a letter defending her latest Sookie novel, Dead and Gone, to readers who were offended by the “murders” of pregnant “women” (there was only one) and general bitterness that their beloved Sookie has become “foul-mouthed and mean,” not sugar sweet and compliant as she always has been.

Every one is entitled to an opinion. And it is a real downer when you spend nearly twenty dollars on a hardcover that disappoints. But the reader has a choice and only has oneself to blame for gambling on a purchase. However, the choice for these fans is not between purchasing and library or not reading at all. Nor are the arguments about the quality of writing. These fans miss the point of writing altogether. Who condones rape? Who condones murder? I certainly didn’t feel pleasure while reading Mac’s rape. I was horrified. But I didn’t slam the book down and exclaim, “Karen Marie Moning condones rape! I shall never read her again and I’ll write her a letter telling her so!”

These so-called fans are so wrapped up in a weird emotional state, believing that the author owes them, that these characters are “family” (really!), that they should probably be institutionalized with women who believe Mr. Darcy fathered their offspring. (Don't look at me like that!)

Their craziness is acceptable if they keep it to themselves. Instead, they lash out at the authors and therefore, at Art, which is a gift from the gods, or God, the Muse, the Universe, Light or whatever divine form in which you believe, and therefore must be defended at all costs. That the author has to waste time arguing against such ignorance infuriates me. So here I am, arguing on their behalf, albeit not well (brain fog, remember).

Because the authors also have a choice. The author can serve her ego or she can serve the story. Free will versus Fate. Serve the self or serve the muse. Play God or submit to God. Sometimes, the latter choice isn’t the popular one but it is the only choice that is true to Art. One might get a grand story by playing God with characters and there is absolutely nothing wrong about going that path, but when an author allows the Divine to intervene, ah! The characters grow and evolve and dare I say it? They become real.

Now let’s look at the accusations in question.

Artistically speaking, Moning’s rape was the only option for Mac. The girl had to be brought to the lowest point of human existence in order to evolve into a warrior for humanity. If the author had allowed Mac to slay her would-be rapists, Mac would have stayed somewhere between spoiled girl and arrogant woman. If she had killed her, then she'd have to bring her back to life and Joss Whedon's Buffy has already done that. Besides, as Whedon reveals, surviving death is easy. Surviving rape is not. If Moning had opted for the easy way out, then the story, as an artistic medium, would have failed. The story would be unremarkable.

Nor does Charlaine Harris condone the slaughter of pregnant women because one is murdered in her book. The character had to go. To keep her or her offspring alive would have dragged the series down. The murder set the plot in motion. Harris made the only choice to serve her story.

Further, Dead and Gone is the best installment of the series thus far because Sookie does decline in character. For nine books, Sookie has been used, abused and confused and she faces it all with good cheer and kindness. This time, she loses nearly everything, hatred surrounds her, and she has to contend with quite a few revelations. Her faith slips. She is angry. Her easy ability to forgive is hard to find. And it’s about bloody time. She must change to evolve and sometimes, going through hell is the only way to grow. How much better will this end tale be when Sookie finds redemption after the fire? Brava to Ms. Harris for serving her story well!

There is probably no getting through to the rabid fans who, dissatisfied with their own lives, take revenge on the creator of the only “real life” they have. In taking no responsibility for self, they attack, condemn and blame. Enough. Get a life. Find religion. Use your vitriol to fight for those less fortunate than yourselves, as do the heroines you say you worship. If you can’t open your hearts enough to do that, then just go away. These authors owe you nothing. They no doubt work harder than you do to serve something greater than themselves. We are lucky to be a part of the fallout, if we so choose. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. And if you think it could be better, then write your own book. Otherwise, if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all.

Now leave me alone. Mr. Darcy and I have a hot date.

On the Bookshelf: A whole bunch of Mary Balogh's romances. She makes me smile. The Echo Maker by Richard Powers.

On the iPod: The "New Moon" soundtrack. Over and over and over again.

Love and Heroin

Take away love, and our earth is a tomb.
Robert Browning

In between staving the fulfillment of my two latest addictions, which is the Netflixing of Season Two of Burn Notice and Season One of True Blood (Vampire Bill being the latest boy toy of choice in my middle-aged brain), I’ve been – gasp! – writing, inspired by the fact that North Korea just may make good on their threat, a sharp reminder that life is too short to whittle away time while waiting for the Muse to strike.

So I’ve returned to my notes for Avery and Jeremy’s story, another Cakian tale, jotted ideas for some children's books, penned some eulogies, and am writing some fiction and non-fiction tales inspired by a day spent above stormy Scituate seas with my sister, also an author. (Apologies for the blatant use of alliteration, but the fact remains that I was in Scituate and the sea was stormy.) We are determined to be on Oprah and between us probably have enough stories to get us there. If only Vampire Bill would stop interfering!

Mostly, though, I’ve been on a reading marathon, which includes much spiritual based non-fiction – Caroline Myss, Eckhart Tolle, Neale Donald Walsch and Don Miguel Ruiz, plus a lot of great fiction. Of course, the Sookie Stackhouse series is included in this list and some Megan Hart, who packs emotional punches throughout her simmering tales.

But last night I finished Alice Hoffman’s The Story Sisters. Ms. Hoffman is probably my favorite modern writer. She sees life through the same glasses that I wear and manages to capture that worldview with a pen. This book particularly resonates for me as the tale is about three sisters and the blood ties between them. Fundamentally, though, this is a book about true love. Not the romantic kind, although there is that, but Ultimate Love, that which fuels the universe, and that which saves us.

And this morning I finished Grunge is Dead: An Oral History of the Seattle Music Scene, which was a rare biography/history because it wasn’t written second-hand by a biased fan or outsider. Instead, the author, Greg Plato, compiled first-hand interviews and uses these comments to compile the book’s timeline, which takes us back to the seventies and brings us up to the so-called “grunge” explosion. This is a fascinating history for music fans in general and lovers of the Seattle music scene in particular. A worthy work and it’s a shame Chris Cornell of Soundgarden fame or the remaining Nirvana members did not participate. The book reads like a novel, craft-wise, with build-up, climax, dark moment and redemption, and the last quarter of the book is riveting, as dark material always is.

Like Elv in The Story Sisters, so many of the characters in Grunge deal with heroin addiction. Unfortunately, these are real people, and while the world knows of the tragic demise of Kurt Cobain, this book delves a little deeper into the influence of the music industry and heroin on his choice to end his life. The book continues with a chronicle Layne Staley’s slow death, heroin again, through the eyes of his friends and mother. All mothers should read these chapters. The book makes it clear that drug addiction can happen to ANYONE and maybe just being prepared for such a fate can help a parent prevent it. I don’t know. Incredibly sad.

I’ll never forget Rush Limbaugh’s laughter at Kurt Cobain’s death. How he stated, “All drug users should be put to death.” I was disappointed when he became addicted to drugs himself and did not meet such an end, but perhaps he is more compassionate now as a result of his own experience. I doubt it, but one can hope.

Both books, though, leave one with the absolute certainty that love does conquer all, most obviously in Hoffman’s tale, as fiction has a way of tying themes together in a tight little bow, but Grunge finds this truth as well, culminating in the professional success and spiritual growth of many of the survivors of that time period.

On the iPod: “Season of the Witch,” Donovan.

On the Nightstand: Intrusions by Ursula Hegi