Fan Fiction and Real New York Pizza

I don't understand fan fiction. Or, more accurately, I don't think anyone but the original author should create within the "universe" of his/her books. Each author's creation is as unique as that author. What gives another author the audacity to step into someone else's writing? Or why would anyone want to? I don't write about Stephanie Plum's (Janet Evanovich's character's) Trenton  and she doesn't write about Jude Hayes' Grand Junction. (Yes, I'm sure Janet is simply salivating to do so!) As my character Jude Hayes would say, "Geez. Go find your own muse instead of 'borrowing' someone else's."

I would never presume to enter another author's world. How can the vision of one author be congruent to another's? I even have a hard time understanding collaboration on a particular work of fiction.  Perhaps it's normal for screenwriters, as in a popular series where several writers collaborate to create an episode. That does seem to work. Even so, if you are a true fan, you can often the detect the hand of the master (writer) and note the episodes where his touch is absent--or diluted.

I can understand why dedicated readers may seek out fan fiction. We all crave our favorite authors and rush to our favorite bookseller--online or otherwise--to snap up their latest novels. Many authors only publish one book a year, however, and some readers feel that this is an interminably long time to wait. So they seek out fan fiction. But friends, the writing is just not going to be as good!

I call this the "pizza syndrome." For instance, if you live in New York--especially if you grew up here--you know what really good pizza tastes like. If you should travel to certain parts of the Great American West, such as my beloved Grand Junction, Colorado, try the locally raised beef, the excellent wines, the native peaches--but do not order pizza! Very few restaurants out West, in my estimation, can make a passable pizza pie, much less one in the same league as New York pizza. Wait until you get home, Empire Staters.

The saddest example of fan fiction occurs when an author passes away and his/her offspring picks up the deceased author's series. I've seen recent examples of this after a favorite mystery author and a favorite sci-fi/fantasy author died. In each case, a child picked up the parent's series. Oh, they are competent writers of their genres, but their writings--at least in the "universe" of the parent--are but poor shadows of the original. Perhaps they will do better with their own series. Apparently, you can pass on the pizza recipe to someone else, but it just ain't gonna taste the same, folks.

Here, from Amy Gardiner, the actual author of Jude Hayes Mysteries, Book 1, Remover of Obstacles, is a glimpse into the genuine world of Jude Hayes--the office building where her detective agency is based:

Thusly loaded up and flanked by two dogs who were pretending not to covet my breakfast, I sprinted up the steps to the old brick building that was once a school and now houses an odd mixture of commercial tenants. Owned by the town and designated as a part of the historic district, it can’t be torn down for more lucrative applications even though it’s prime realty on the main drag.

In its heyday the building was called Edmund Homer Grammar School. Now it’s just “The Homer” to those of us who took a chance and claimed spots for our businesses before the remodeling. The place was little more than rats and ruins two years ago, but the contractors did a good job on the restoration. The Homer has now been returned to its former self—not too modern, with the air of a distinguished old gentleman. I love having my office there.

The original architectural details are far from twenty-first century business vogue. There are wonderful hardwoods in the halls—now refinished to a brilliant sheen—and a truly majestic marble staircase with an elaborate banister. The day I moved into my office, Decker trotted over to the banister’s ornately carved newel post with obvious intent to christen it. I caught him just as he was lifting his leg and got a seriously dirty look for my horrified screech. The look said “What? How am I supposed to make this place home?”

Less amusing was a near-electrocution scene when the young carpenter, who was evidently unused to dealing with banks of light fixtures resembling old-style ice cube trays with metal dividers, believed the assurances of an equally green electrician who thought the power had been cut to those weird-ass lights. After a quick EKG at Valley Hospital, carpenter boy was pronounced fine.

Writing Characters: If You Knew Clicker Like I Know Clicker

It's time to get back to Jude Hayes and Grand Junction. I'm going to be doing a series of posts about writing the Jude Hayes Mysteries and escape from the cranky old lady rants that have hijacked this blog. Yes, everyone will breathe a sigh of relief, I'm sure!

All right then, let's start with characters . . .

As it happens with many authors, people sometimes ask me where I get the inspiration for a particular character. Oftentimes, they think they already know the answer. Sometimes they're sure they know the answer. As in, "A.J. Pierpont is that feisty old lady on Downton Abbey," or, as a close friend recently declared, "You're Jude."

My polite answer is usually, "Well . . . no." Writing fiction is like having a dream. I once heard Stephen King speak at an alumni dinner at our mutual alma mater, the University of Maine, where he talked about getting most of his best material from his dreams. Wow--imagine having nightmares that scary--or that lucrative! But that's not quite what I'm talking about.

If we can remember anything of our dreams upon waking, it's that the characters are usually similar to those in real life or literature, but often not exactly the same. The represent something but are not equivalent to it, as in, a symbol. Fictional characters are much the same. They are born from a combination of thoughts and experiences which may span our whole lives, or only the idle, fleeting inspiration of a moment.

After I've created a character, I sometimes think I've encountered him or her in real life--the reverse of my friend saying, "You're Jude." It seems to be one of those cases where life imitates art. Then I think about it and, well, again . . . no. He or she just reminds me of one of my characters. Ever meet someone on vacation who reminds you so much of someone you know that it's uncanny?  He or she looks like that person, has similar mannerisms and voice inflection, etc. But if you engage the stranger in conversation, you quickly discover that there are many differences. She is not exactly like your old friend or he is not so much like your favorite high school teacher, really.

That being said, over the weekend I saw someone who reminded me so much of Jude's friend Clicker. As mentioned in a previous post, I love the Olympics and spent much of this past weekend glued to the TV watching the competition from Sochi. One of the newest events is the Slopestyle snowboard competition--amazing stuff, but that's a subject for another post. Upon being introduced to gold medalist Sage Kotsenburg on the small screen, I immediately thought, Hey, he's Clicker! Indeed, Sage was sporting a "no-problem, dude" grin, baggy 'boarder clothes, a very friendly personality, and a rabid, extreme sports focus.

Then I stopped and laughed at myself, realizing my mistake. Oh sure, there's some of the snowboard star in Clicker. But he's more than just a "hey-dude" (which I think is my own moniker for this archetype). He's an extremely intelligent super-geek. Since he's always having "gnarly crashes" on his motorcycle or skateboard or snowboard, he'd probably never make it to the Olympics--though Olympians certainly have their share of such misfortunes. And he's kind of an over-aged "hey-dude" at thirty-something.

But there's also something of all the computer wizards I've ever known in Clicker. Of the friendliest people who've crossed my path--and the most laid-back. And of the truest friends in my life. Like all fictional characters, Clicker's just one big amalgamation of this writer's experiences and imagination--and channeling--definitely a subject for another post.

A fictional character is both a symbol and a unique personality. A symbol for something slightly amorphous, like the word "red." But something that is clearly defined in the author's mind--and perhaps in her copious notes, those scribbles in a cheap wire-bound notebook, in my case.

Yet at the same time, Clicker may be my Clicker--but he's also your Clicker. Just as he lives in my mind, he also lives in yours, but as a slightly different version--like the parallel universe characters in sci-fi. That's the great thing about books as compared to movies or TV. You read about a character, and your own mind and imagination provide an interpretation for you that is wholly your own, no Hollywood casting director needed. (Sadly, this is why it's often disappointing to see the movie after you've read the book.) So if I've done my job right, there is room in my character description for everyone's Clicker.

Oh, by the way, when I told someone that I was "doing research for my book" by watching the Olympics, I was only half kidding. It's just possible that Clicker may do some snowboarding in Jude Hayes Mysteries, Book Two, They Pull Me Back In.

In the meantime, here's some Clicker color from Remover of Obstacles:

The toning of the chimes announced Clicker’s arrival and I got up to hold the door open for him as he tried to negotiate the entry on crutches. His hair was sticking up all over the place under the influence of some strange-colored hair gel and he smiled his trademark crooked smile. Clicker was always happy—apparently even after becoming a human cannonball in the desert. Earphones dangled from his ears, Indian sitar music at a dangerously high volume leaking out. Clicker loves all things Indian. I suspect it was the great tragedy of his life not to be born in Mumbai or Calcutta—and worse, to have pasty-white skin, freckles, and red hair. His style of dress tended toward an offbeat mixture of surfer dude and Indian batik.

“Dudette! Thanks. The crutches are still a little gnarly with doors ‘n’ stuff.”

“I can see that. How are you, Clicker?” I moved quickly to pull out a bar stool for him and Jasmine nodded approvingly at my solicitousness. She rose to give Clicker a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“You’re moving pretty well, Clicker.”

“Jasmine-Shakti! I will soon have this crutch thing DOWN!” He illustrated with a quick pirouette. The bruises on his arms seemed to be healing quickly, already toned down from an angry purple to a fading yellow.

She gave him a suspicious look and folded her arms. “You’re laying off the motorcycle and skateboard stuff for a few months, right?”

“Oh, definitely. No riding at least until I get that soft-cast thing that looks like a dirtriding boot.”

She closed her eyes and took a big, deep breath, presumably summoning ultimate forbearance.

“’Course, I’ll have to get somebody to start up the bike for me, ‘cause all my bikes are kickers. Don’t think I can turn ‘em over. And, like, the ‘boarding thing? Not sure of the wiseness of that, ya know? Doc said there could be balance problems, maybe.” Clicker was watching her out of the corner of his eye, feigning careful consideration of his future recreational plans.

Realizing belatedly that he was pulling her leg big time, Jasmine swiped at the side of his head hissing, “Dunce!” and strode regally around the counter.

Clicker sort of slid down his crutches to collapse lopsidedly onto the proffered stool. As he did so, the messed-up cartilage in his good leg made the odd clicking sound which had birthed his nickname. Clicker’s body boasted numerous reminders of his extreme sports mishaps. He was far more beat-up than usual this time, though, I thought darkly. Time to get to work on who meant him serious bodily harm—if not death. I sat down and took a sip of coffee, thinking.