Star Wars and Fandom

Let's talk about fandom and expectation for a moment.

Since we have a swath of fanboys who think they own Star Wars, let me explain this concept of "audience privilege" that's become an issue, and why all those who have started calling the FMC "Mary Sue Rey" are not allowed in the real fandom.

I'm an author. I spend many hours, weeks, months--and hell years, at this point crafting a story. I am also a HUGE Star Wars fan. Always have been. Since I was 4. I have fanfic, yup. 

I had, through the 90s, read most of the now-non-canonical expanded universe (EU) after Return of the Jedi. Somewhere around 100 out of 150 books. (I stopped when one of Han and Leia's children force exploded.) I had mad love for Mara Jade, and I adored the protagonists, the Yuzaan Vong. I would have paid serious money to see those guys on screen.

Imagine my delight when I heard there were 3 new movies in the works. Oh, my yes! Yes! Anakin's turn to the Dark Side! I was so excited! Thrilled!

But the reality... oh the painful reality.

Jar-Jar Binks. A child Anakin. Virgin birth and Midichlorians. A very stoned Yoda. Intergalactic C-SPAN. Jedi who don't DO ANYTHING about a slave trade.

...and that was just Episode 1. We had two more of these to endure, including more Intergalactic C-SPAN and what for all the world was a FDS hygiene commercial.

Walking out of the Intergalactic C-SPAN--I mean, Episode 1-- I felt betrayed. I felt let down. As I sat watching the credits roll, I decided to turn my fandom down from from an 11, to about 8. I would remain true to the originals, but not this horrible travesty.

But my fandom went to a 3 when I received a gift for my birthday. My friend skipped down the drive way happy as a clam, pleased with herself. "Jenn! Look what I found! I know how much you love Star Wars, and I know you'll love these!"

Padmé Amidala Window Clings.

"I thought you'd love to put them on the back window of your car."

Not a chance in hell. Not in this life, not in any other life.

So, I had myself an introspection. I had, to that point, spent hundreds, if not thousands of hours, immersed in the SW EU. I had spent years writing stories about Luke, Leia, Han, and eventually their kids, Chewie, different partners for Luke. I watched and read everything I could on SW--even the Christmas Special, and the bizarre "Splinter of the Mind's Eye" book.

How had my dedication to this world, this fandom, chosen to repay me?

Jar-Jar Binks.
Virgin birth.
Midichlorians.
A very stoned Yoda.
Intergalactic C-SPAN.
Padmé Amidala Window Clings.

And I realized that there must be moderation in fandom. These stories, these characters were not mine. They weren't ever going to be the story *I* wanted. Not ever. And all my time and dedication and love spent would never be returned to me. No matter how much time, energy, and money (can't forget that!) I put towards this, it was never going to return any of it.

I was feeding a black hole.

It would continue to take and take. And I would watch, the accretion disc neither growing nor shrinking, simply pulling in every thing I would willingly give it. I thought that by feeding this monster, I could get it to love me.

But it was a monster, and all it did was eat. And it was devouring me.

This is true of ANY rabid fandom. If you keep feeding the monster in the black hole, you're stuck. You'll watch and feed, and be there forever. Hoping for some little sign that what you adore knows you're there, and sends you just a trickle of love.

It won't. Ever.

So I stopped talking about Star Wars. Stopped dead. Anyone asked me things, I didn't answer. I didn't read anymore of the books; I back away.

This was not MY story to tell.
It was never was, and never will be.

And so, I found other things to like and enjoy. Harry Potter. Star Trek. New book series, like Black Dagger Brotherhood, and other genres, like romance. Gasp! But I found that by spreading my love around, I was happier. While I still say "Fuck the Space Diner!" to Ep. 2, it's countered by "Rhage is mine. Go find your own vampire," and, "I really don't like The Prisoner of Azkaban."

And now. We have a new series.

I adored The Force Awakens with the gusto of a fangirl. It was wonderful story telling, new characters to love, new planets, fresh story telling.

Of course there were things I didn't like. I won't forgive them for deleting Mara Jade.

However this is not my story to tell.

And then came The Last Jedi. Oh, lemme tell you. The brilliance of the storytelling, the CGI, the dialogue! The use of thmes, real cinematography by someone who had studied it. The brilliant lack of sound in space for both Leia's survival and Holdo's suicide. My filmmaking nerd threw her head back and laughed and laughed in satisfaction.

Of course there were things I didn't like. Canto Bight and the casino? Unnecessary. Rose's character was shallow, a plot device. She could be used better.

But it's not my story to tell.

Repeat that. A million times if you have to. It's not my story to tell. I am there without expectations, to be entertained.

And I was. And it was good.

When I write a story, a book, I write the story as I believe it should be told. They are my characters and I control their destiny (we won't get into the psychology of character development). I am the author. You are the reader. I entertain you, you are entertained.

Will you experience disappointment if I kill off X? Duh, yes. Does that give you the right to go to my book at the retailer and essentially rip me a new asshole?

Hint: no.

But, Jenn--you killed X, and that shouldn't have been. You should have done Y or Z or perhaps even W. But he should never have died and for that you are a horrible writer and you suck and should be ashamed. I'm starting a petition to have you rewrite the story the way I want it!!

Okay, there. Right there. When did this become your story? Have you put in the time? The sleepless nights? The deleting of scenes? The torture of the story going off arc? The writer's fog? The days of blank pages taunting you?

No?

Not your story.

"Audience privilege" is not a thing. If you're not invited in on the project (i.e., they hand you a script and say 'welcome!'), you don't get a say.

That's where fandom gets dangerous. Really, really dangerous. The fanboys have actually created a petition to have Disney (ooh, is that an uncaring black hole I see before me?) to remove TLJ from canon. They will send death threats to people, they will bully and berate people [women] who enjoy it.

That is a step too far. Too far, gents.

(And, to be fair: MAJORITY male fans. Hence my choice of 'fanboys.')

Trekkies have a leg up on you. Why? They let go. They let the story happen. Come on, haven't you see Star Trek V: The Piece of Shit? And YET. ST: I, II, III, IV, VI, VII, VII, First Contact, Nemeshit--er Nemesis, The Reboot (fondly called Lens Flair the Movie), Into Darkness, Beyond, the TV shows...

Trekkies let it go. Trekkies have fun arguing about Picard vs. Kirk (Picard, btw, 100%). Trekkies are some of the most hard for fans you've ever seen, and they love it. All of the damn contradictions and opposing stories and 'what the hell--ah well. Enjoy!' moments.

Perhaps you think this is your story.

Feed the monster, boys.

This isn't going to go the way you think it is.

Snippet! "The Art of Living "

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Billy stood up. “What do you want, Shi? This is ridiculous.”

“I want you dead!” he snapped at Billy, whirling around. “You and that other bitch! But these people have other ideas for her, so I’m willing to compromise and make sure that you and James Dobbes are done in.”

Lilly stood up. “You are not doing anything to anyone.”

Shi stuck his finger in her face. “Sit down and shut up and you get to keep that pretty little head of yours.”

The other men were heading straight for Nathan, and I ducked down, covering my face. If they saw me, there was no way out of this. The shock on Nathan’s face was brief and then disappeared. I was afraid he thought I was being a coward, but I wasn’t. I was doing the only thing I could think of to get them all out of this. They marched up to him and grabbed him under his arms. They ignored me, and he went with them, fighting only a little.

Several of the lackeys started forcing everyone to one side, and we all started crawling toward the back of the seating area, trying to get out. I crawled along with the rest of the crowd, trying to get a read on what was going on around me. I saw all the journalists heading down one aisle, and I chose another to crawl through where there was no one. I glanced behind me, and I was the last one crawling out. I peered around on either side, and I was quite well-hidden in the chairs.

It was now or never.

Ninja note number—whatever. Always take the chance when it comes up.

I stopped crawling and curled in on myself. I brought my hands around to my face where I could see them. I took a deep breath, then I went through the little hand ritual Rebekah had set up for me: snap with each hand using the middle finger, then tap on the back of my left hand with my pointer and middle finger three times.

The odd tingle flared quickly all over, and then just as quickly disappeared. My hands were now covered in white gloves that led to the sleeves of the traditional ji the White Ninja used. That I used as the White Ninja. And holy moly, wasn’t this convenient? The clothes had simply melted away and were replaced, that easily.

Being a little witchy was really proving to be handy.

I stayed where I was and just waited. I had two ideas, which all depended on the lackeys and their reaction or lack thereof. The direction was picked pretty quickly when one of them came over and poked me in the back with a rifle.

“You gonna move, bitch?”

I shook my head and stayed where I was.

He poked me again. “Come on, move it. I don’t care if you shit yourself, you need to get going.”

I shook my head again, and I heard him turn around, probably to talk to someone else.

I tossed myself over onto my back and shot my legs out, catching the back of his knees and knocking him forward onto his face. The gun went off as he hit, which pissed me off because one, where was the safety on that thing? And two, that was more attention than I wanted at that point. Oh, well, moving on.

I tossed my legs up over my head and flipped into a crouch. The guy I had knocked down was trying to crane his neck around to see what had just happened to him. I put a finger to my lips. “Ssh.” I could hear the smirk in my voice. “Don’t tell.” I jabbed at his neck and knocked him out with a single push on a nerve. I was more than happy with that move; Master hadn’t been sure we had really mastered the spot. Clearly, I had, and I was now sure Billy had too.

I peered around through the chairs, marking the locations of the lackeys. Two had spotted their comrade go down and were heading over from the other side. I grabbed the gun from where the guy had dropped it and pulled out the cartridge, skidding it toward the other people at the exit where they corralled everyone, then dropped the empty gun on the ground. I looked back, and they were just about to see me hiding in the row of chairs. I shrugged and decided I could catch them unawares if I moved.

Welcome back, White Ninja.

I tossed myself forward, launching over the unconscious lackey, landing on my hands, and tucked and rolled back to my feet. The next lackey was standing in shock, staring at me. I cocked my head and shot my fist out and caught him in the stomach. He made an almost comic-book “oof” as I made contact. The other guy came up from the side and brought his gun around. I managed to launch into a round house and knocked the gun out of his hand, sending it flying.

I walked up to the stunned lackey. “Boo.” My fist shot out and hooked him in the jaw.

The Art of Living

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What a bang-up year this had been. 

I'd started training as a ninja, discovered I was a witch, found out I was pregnant, had the father walk off and basically tell me to screw off. I discovered a best friend, a new cousin, got a new job, managed another New York Times best selling novel. I put on a mask and became a superhero, got to fly with another one, and was currently writing hilarious news pieces about myself and my cousin as superheroes while hiding in plain sight. 

After all that, I thought that life would calm down. 

I was naive. And I was not prepared for what was coming. Sometimes being a superhero didn't always mean you had to wear a mask.

But after mastering the art of dying, it was time for me to start learning the art of living.

Snippet: "The Art of Dying"

The Art of Dying

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The hallway we were in curved around the oddly shaped building and just like Billy thought, it curved all the way around to the other docent door. I was about to pull the door open when I heard a few more gunshots way too close for comfort.

“I think we’ve got a problem.”

“Open it. That’s the only way we’re going to find out.”

I leaned against the door so it wouldn’t pop open and spill us out. I turned the knob and pulled slowly. I peered through the crack to find two gunmen standing there with their backs to us, tracking something above them.

I looked back at Billy and held up two fingers. He nodded, bracing himself. I counted down with my finger from five, and on zero, I yanked the door open. Billy launched out the door in flying kick. He slammed into the back of the gunman on the right, dropping him to the ground face first slamming, his chin on the floor. The other gunman was completely shocked by the sudden movement, and I took the opportunity. I launched out and crescent kicked the other one from his blind side and slammed him into the ground, hard.

They were both out, and now we had a group staring at us from across the gallery opening. I looked to the right and saw the door into the other gallery. The other exit would be in there, and I ducked in after motioning to Billy what I was doing.

He nodded, and I ran in. I spotted the door; it was locked and alarmed. I stared at it for just a moment and then decided the alarm didn’t matter. I kicked it open and the lights and trigged all the alarms.

The group standing in the gallery started streaming in, panicked. I just held the door open and motioned them out. “Head for Madison.” I directed as they streamed out into the street. “Go, go, run. Head for Madison.”

They were all running as fast as they could and were gone down the street. I ducked behind the wall to the gallery where I had left Billy to find him surrounded by a group of gunmen, all pointing their weapons at him.

Damn.

The room was loud with the alarms going off and the lights were distracting. I used that—I pulled out a few of the shiruken. I set my feet and then threw them. I managed to get two of them into gun barrels I was staring at, and then two of them ended up in the wrists of the gunmen who were angled away from me.

The rest of the gunmen turned to find me standing there. I crooked my head and smiled. They didn’t see Billy move and toss himself on the ground to sweep their legs out from under them, landing them in a pile. That distracted them again and I ran over and knocked out two more of them, while Billy went back to the two original gunmen and took them down. They had been too stunned to move, and he took them down in a heartbeat.

The Wraith was standing in front of the last group of guests, with the gunmen all moving slowly closer to her. They were very soon going to be too close for her to stop the bullets if they fired. Billy motioned me to the back of the line of gunmen and gave me the signal.

The signal. We had been working on these moves for nearly a month now, and I wanted to be nervous, but we didn’t have time for that. We both stepped forward and tucked into a roll, vaulting up into a handstand. At the same time, we both pushed up into a series of back hand springs that took us right into the gunmen.

I used the momentum to knock myself into two of them and slam them chest first into the floor. I used still more of the momentum to turn a roundhouse at the gunman on my right, shoving him into the one on his right. The gun went off and the first guy I kicked got shot in the knee by the one he had fallen into. I turned back just in time to hear the gun cock in my face. I dropped back into a bridge as the trigger was pulled, and shot my foot up and into the elbow of the guy with the gun. It snapped his arm up and launched the freshly fired gun into the air.

I continued the back-hand walk-over and popped up in front of another gunman who was stunned but bringing his gun up. I cocked my head and shot my fist out. I snapped his head back and his whole body snapped back with it, slamming him onto his back on the ground. I heard the air rush out of his lungs.

I turned around and saw that they were all down. It was just me and Billy and the Wraith standing in the middle of the floor. The cops were standing in the broken doors and even they were shocked at what had just happened.

Not nearly as much as Billy and I were.

The Wraith turned to the cops standing there. “Gentlemen. It’s all yours. I believe the Ninjas sent the other guests to Madison Ave.” She stepped up between us. “We’re done here.”

The Wraith grabbed each of our arms. “Hang on,” she mumbled.

“No, wait!” someone yelled from the door.

But she didn’t. We were up off the floor and up through the broken ceiling window and to the roof next door before we could even see who had yelled for the Wraith to wait. The flight was again disconcerting and it freaked me out to have my feet off the ground. Billy seemed to do better because when she landed, Billy grabbed the briefcase and nodded to her to get us going again. We were up again and over to the rock where she had first found us in the park.

“You’re good?” she asked.

“Wait!” came a yell from the right.

We all turned and saw Cindy running for us.

“She really wants to talk to you.” I looked pointedly at the Wraith.

“Not ready for that,” she said. “She’d be happy with you two.”

I looked at Billy. “Four weeks. Long enough for an interview?”

He nodded. “I think so. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Me neither.” I laughed.

“I’m going to go,” the Wraith said. “Hide the case behind the rock when you’re done changing. I’ll make sure that no one finds it, and that it gets back to your house.” She nodded and was gone up into the sky.

I heard Cindy swear as she ran up to us. “Couldn’t she stay?”

“She’s not ready for that. We shouldn’t have even stayed.”

“What do you need?” Billy asked. “They’re going to be looking for you soon.”

“Who are you?” she asked. “What are your names?”

Billy froze, and I laughed. I knew he hadn’t thought about that. “We’re ninjas. For the sake of simplicity in the tradition, we’re simply the White Ninja and Black Ninja.”

“Do you have real names?”

Billy put his fist on his hip. “Yes, but do you really think we’re sharing?”

“Why do you do this? Dress up in masks and costumes and save people?”

Taking over the narrative, because he knew Cindy might recognize my voice, Billy explained, “We’ve both suffered tragedies in our lives. Since we have the training and wherewithal to do this…”

“We thought we should try to spare others the same tragedies.” I kept my voice rough.

“Do you know who those attackers were in there?” she asked.

I looked at Billy, and he gave me the eyebrow shrug. He didn’t know if we should say anything yet either. Yamato had warned us off them, but now they were trying to attack us and hurt people. “We do know who they are, but we aren’t yet at liberty to say. We don’t want to go against the police or hinder their investigations, so it’s best we don’t say anything.”

“Is there any way to get in contact with you if the city needs saving?”

“Like a Ninja Signal?”

The Art of Dying

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No one starts out to be a superhero.
But there's my cousin—mask and costume—and I'm convinced she's certifiably insane.
Beth hit it big in Hollywood and created a baseball team so I could play. She started taking martial art lessons and she decided she was going to start ninja'ing around New York City. And that had nothing to do with us losing our mothers and her brother when we were young
See? Insane. I mean, who the hell wants to be a moving target?
Well, I'm not really one to judge. After all, I took those lessons too. I'm out there with her: hiding in shadows, avenging the less- fortunate, saving the damsels in distress--and bachelors in a bind--getting shot at, threatened with death, chased with swords and tossed into situations we had no business being in. 
Let's just say that we’re in trouble if phone booths ever go out of style.
 We kinda liked it. I guess we're both nuts But no one starts out to be a superhero. No one wants to be the last of a breed of ninjas.
And, no one really wants to learn the art of dying.

May 19th: The Art of Living

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What a bang-up year this had been. 

I'd started training as a ninja, discovered I was a witch, found out I was pregnant, had the father walk off and basically tell me to screw off. I discovered a best friend, a new cousin, got a new job, managed another New York Times best selling novel. I put on a mask and became a superhero, got to fly with another one, and was currently writing hilarious news pieces about myself and my cousin as superheroes while hiding in plain sight. 

After all that, I thought that life would calm down. 

I was naive. And I was not prepared for what was coming. Sometimes being a superhero didn't always mean you had to wear a mask.

But after mastering the art of dying, it was time for me to start learning the art of living.

March 21st: The Art of Dying

And finally, we arrive at the beginning of the superheroes. These are the stories that I have loved writing my whole life and I hope that you all enjoy them as well.

Introducing: 

The Art of Dying

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No one starts out to be A superhero.

But there's my cousin—mask and costume—and I'm convinced she's certifiably insane.

Beth hit it big in Hollywood and created a baseball team so I could play. She started taking martial art lessons and she decided she was going to start ninja'ing around New York City. And that had nothing to do with us losing our mothers and her brother when we were young

See? Insane. I mean, who the hell wants to be a moving target?

Well, I'm not really one to judge. After all, I took those lessons too. I'm out there with her: hiding in shadows, avenging the less- fortunate, saving the damsels in distress--and bachelors in a bind--getting shot at, threatened with death, chased with swords and tossed into situations we had no business being in. 

Let's just say that we’re in trouble if phone booths ever go out of style.

 We kinda liked it. I guess we're both nuts But no one starts out to be a superhero. No one wants to be the last of a breed of ninjas.

And, no one really wants to learn the art of dying.

Slip the Waves

Well, I certainly slacked off, didn't I? I guess that's what happens when you have stuff and things and kind of have a pseudo-life. Meh. I'd rather write.

So this year is going to be the year of releases. It's time to get these stories moving! First up, for the new year is Slip the Waves, an entry at the Hotel Paranormal. 

March will bring you The Art of Dying, a part of the large superhero universe, and more of the WitchWolf Chronicles will follow. Keep your eyes peeled! 

SLIP THE WAVES

AMAZON

Prescott Darling is a single father, to all outward appearances.

He gets up each morning, gets his children off to school. He drives to work, toils and negotiates, then comes home to pick up his little family from his mother's house. Dinner, homework, bed. It's been like this for years. He's tired of hearing she's not coming back. He's done with people trying to set him up on dates. He just wants to live this simple life.

Because Prescott Darling hides a secret from everyone. Even from the three little children he's raising. Their mother is alive, well. She watches them each day as they grow and thrive and play.

Until the sun sets, and she must slip the waves and disappear into her watery home once more...

A Hotel Paranormal story.

The Hotel Paranormal is THE place for supernatural beings looking to get away from it all. Beings like werewolves, vampires, elves, sprites, djinn and more check in from all over the world for business and for pleasure -- and sometimes for both.
www.thehotelparanormal.com