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.