Why Fan Fiction Could Be Good For You

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During 2007 and 2011 I wrote over one hundred fan fiction short stories that I published on a Finnish writing forum. The stories I wrote were a way for me to stay a bit longer in the beloved world of Harry Potter after the books had been released, but it was also an opportunity to try writing alternative histories, throw the characters into new sorts of adventures or make them go through something I myself had experienced.

The active years I spent there helped me develop as a writer as I read several hundred, if not up to a thousand, good pieces of fan fiction and got feedback for my own stories as well. Also, I loved finding a community that shared the same passion for the fandom and for writing.

A bit over a month ago, I wrote about my wish for finding good writing company. I was feeling reluctant to return to the same writing forum and start writing fan fiction again as it felt like I had outgrown it, but after some thinking and browsing through the familiar forum I noticed an HP short story idea starting to form inside my mind. Something I thought would be worth publishing.

So, after an eight-year-long break, I decided to make a comeback. And it was nice to return.

Developing as a Writer

During the past few months of my fierce and stressful thesis-writing, I’ve had Yellow Tails resting on the shelf (quite literally, it’s on the highest shelf of my wardrobe). I didn’t want to have two big projects going on at the same time because I was certain I couldn’t give them both the high quality energy they deserved, so I opted for one of the two.

Nevertheless, I haven’t been able to keep my mind off fiction writing. A writer needs to keep on writing and therefore, instead of writing novels, I’ve been putting my creative energy into something where the stakes are a bit lower: fan fiction.

I’ve spent the past months reading some great works, both one-shot and longer, and I’ve practiced giving feedback to writers on their stories. I have also written and published a short story with four parts (1,000 words each), and at the moment, I’m working on another story that will have five parts. Small things – but things, nonetheless.

Ten years ago, when I was a newbie in fan fiction, I used to write fan fiction almost on a daily basis and as soon as I was done with a piece, I would usually publish it right away and eagerly wait for some feedback.

Today, however, I have become more tolerant with my work. I give it the time it needs after the story is done before I start editing it and read it through several times before publishing it. I focus more on the reader’s experience and try to make the story as easy to read as possible.

Things I don’t think I even considered ten years ago.

What I wasn’t expecting upon my returning is that, as time has gone by, I notice how much I’ve developed as a writer.

The Many Benefits of Fan Fiction

In the same way as I see my own progress, I’ve also noticed the many things how writing fan fiction can help probably anyone develop as a writer.

Back in the days writing fan fiction was only something I did for fun. Today, as I see writing almost as a science, I’m making a comeback to the writing forum with a clear aim and for a purpose: to become a better writer.

So, these are the pros with fan fiction I believe will improve my writing skills:

  1. Just like reading books helps one to develop as a writer, so does reading fan fiction. There are so many great works online! By reading all those short stories and novels, one can learn a great deal about writing. It also helps to realize what makes fan fiction good – and what does not, something one can probably translate to writing original stories as well.
  2. When the world and the characters are familiar, it is easier to develop your plotting skills and focus on creating an intriguing storyline. There isn’t the same kind of pressure in writing fan fiction as there is in writing something original: when half of it is already there, you can direct your focus on the things that need it the most.
  3. However, just because the world and the characters are familiar doesn’t mean you get to be sloppy with them. It’s a fine challenge to try writing about the world and the characters everybody already know as authentically as possible. The world needs to feel real and the character’s actions must seem realistic, in-character. This way, writing fan fiction helps a writer to find ways to think about the characters and the world on another level: what are the qualities of this character, how does he or she think or feel in this kind of situation? How does the world actually work, what would be a suitable explanation for this thing that is happening?(A good example is an HP fan fiction work called Manacled (K18 / NC-17!) that I’m reading at the moment: the characters and the world feel so authentic I’m amazed by the writer’s skills)
  4. At least on the writing forum I’m active at, there are several different writing challenges anyone can join. For instance, there’s a challenge where writers are invited to write fan fiction about forced marriages. Another challenge offers the opportunity for the writer to write a story where one uses their knowledge of a certain topic, e.g. Biology or Political Science, in the story. In this way, the writing forums offer new ideas to write about and an opportunity to try writing something completely different.
  5. One of the best things about writing fan fiction is that the stakes aren’t that high. The audience can be demanding but no one will banish you from the forums if you write something less intriguing. You are writing and publishing on that forum for one reason: to develop as a writer. Therefore, it is also an opportunity to try one’s wings on new genres or writing from an odd character’s point of view.(I’ve done this more now than before: the story I wrote and published in early April was written from an 11-year-old boy’s view, something I’ve never done before, and the story I’m now writing has some detailed sex scenes in it. I’m really walking on strange land here)

The only downside about fan fiction writing I can come up with is that it can become very addictive to write fan fiction only because it is easier than writing something of your own. After a while, writing something original can become too daunting, and that is a thing to be aware of.

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Have you written fan fiction / are you writing right now / could you consider writing?

Still Life Sunday: Meeting a Stranger

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29 Meeting a Stranger

I look at the elderly man standing next to me in the line. He is wearing a long, brown jacket that matches his thick beard of the same color. His eyes wander around the café we have walked into, resting on the flower arrangements that somehow don’t seem to fit in with the rest of the interior.

“Is it true you wrote most of your book here?” I ask, unable to control my curiosity.

I can see this man sitting at one of the tables, reaching his hand to a pile of notebooks to check some timeline or other detail from the history; the black coffee getting cold as it waits for its drinker’s attention. The wrinkles on his forehead bear the signs of deep concentration, of thoughts working hard on tricky plot lines that need to be aligned to build a cohesive storyline.

He nods and points to a table next to the railing. From there one can observe the life on the lower floors without being seen. I should have guessed: the favorite place of a writer.

“Not even once did I have to sit somewhere else”, the man says, his thoughts trailing somewhere back in time. “I almost think the workers in this café kept the table empty for me, so that whenever I came I could sit at that table.”

He looks forward to the counter where a young man is taking orders from a customer.

“But time has passed and none of them work here anymore. Or Frank does but he has become so old he does only one shift a week, and even that he does just for fun.”

I love listening to his calm voice, somewhat strained with age and thought. I’m actually supposed to be choosing what I want to eat and drink but I can’t focus on the colorful pieces of cake in the glass cabinet. Instead, I observe him with fondness, unable to believe that it was only a week ago I managed to gather my courage and talk to him.

I had been bumping into him for weeks. For years, I had been a fan of his work, of his words, of his way of creating magical entities that were turned into books. Never ever had I imagined I’d have the opportunity to talk to him or even see him in real life – but suddenly I had.

The first time I saw him was in the library. I knew it in that instant who he was and followed him while he browsed through the History section (of course).

The second time was in the traffic lights. He was on one side, I was standing on the other. It was a sunny day and light was in his eyes, but I observed him while the light was red, and, as the light turned green, observed his quick steps.

The third time, the time I finally walked up to him, was in the food market. He had been examining the oranges and I thought it was an opportunity good enough to say something. So I did. I presented myself, told him I was a fan of his books and then, without even panicking about it, said I would love to sit down with him for a coffee sometime and talk about writing.

“You’re a writer yourself, are you now?” the man had asked, raising one of his eyebrows in a friendly manner. I nodded and told him about the book I was writing, gave that elevator pitch I had been working on. It seemed to make an impression because the old man took out a small notebook from his brown jacket pocket, scribbled a date, a time and a place and ripped off the page, giving it to me.

And here we are. He seems to be deep in his own thoughts but I don’t mind the ticking of time, the minutes already wasted on silence instead of spending them exchanging thoughts on writing and on being a writer in this hectic, money-driven world.

But then, quite suddenly, he wakes up from his thoughts and grabs my hand with both of his hands and shakes it in a way that feels desperate but in a relieved way. He looks into my eyes, properly for the first time after the food market talk, and his eyes are filled with warm gratitude.

“I really appreciate this, I do”, he says. I don’t know what to say so I just stare at him, trying to keep myself calm and keep his gaze, let his hands hold my own, still shaking.

“Is there a problem, miss?” the café barista asks, looking at us nervously. His eyes dart to the old man and I realize he doesn’t recognize him, doesn’t know he is the great writer, the regular who made this café famous.

The situation probably looks strange to an outsider, too: why would a young woman and an old, rather shabby man go for a coffee? I hate to say it, but the old man’s brown beard and jacket make him look a little bit like a homeless person, so I’m not all that surprised. But – –

“No. Everything is fine”, I say with confidence, and then add, slightly nervously: “He’s my… mentor.”

I glance at the old man to see what he thinks of my words. He releases my hands – but the gratitude in his eyes does not. In that movement, I see his loneliness – the loneliness of being an old unmarried man, of being a writer, of the preference for isolation. And instead of bearing the weight of loneliness, the man only wishes to have someone to talk to, to pass on his wisdom to.

“I think I’ll take a piece of lemon meringue pie”, I say, looking at the barista who now tries to hide his embarrassment with a neutral expression. The old man looks at me and I nod to him.

“And he will take one as well.”

The man smiles and I smile back. We are both amused for our similar taste for sour in desserts.

Who knows who of us two needs the other one more?

Still Life Sunday: Unable to Connect

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28 Unable to Connect

The forest is dark but the sky is clear with stars. I stand in the snow, holding a phone in my hand. Behind me, the camp fire lights up the night and laughter from the people around the fire reaches my ears. I turn my face up to stare at the sky and the stars, then I look at the fire and after that, forced, my gaze turns down to the phone.

I hesitate to take off my gloves to dial the number.

My muscles feel heavy and tired after today’s hike but my mind races like a wild horse on an open field. Instead of the luxurious relaxing feeling of a good day’s work, I feel anxious and ashamed. The conversation from just moments before has left my body burning.

“What does your second child do nowadays?”

 “She’s finishing her Master’s Degree. You know, writing her thesis.”

 ”Oh, she’s come a long way! What is she writing about?”

 “Hmm, I’m not sure. I think it has something to do with communication?”

 “Does she plan on graduating this Spring?”

 “Um, I don’t know. Probably.”

 “What does she plan to do after that?”

 “I… I don’t know what she’s been planning. But then again, who knows what the kids think and do nowadays?”

I had always been sure I would be able to give equal affection, curiosity and discipline to all my three children. I had brushed away the talk about how the second child tends to get the least attention because the first child is the rebellious rule-breaker and the third the slightly spoiled because of her youth and take all the attention they can get.

I had been sure it was just talk.

And suddenly, here I was, in the middle of nothing, realizing how little I knew of my second child. How I had fallen into the stereotypical pattern and failed to give equal affection to all three of them.

After the conversation, there had been no more questions because everyone had realized I didn’t have any answers to give. In the silence that followed, I had reached out to my backpack, taken my phone and walked away from the group, saying I needed a moment for myself. Now, I look at the phone and finally, after several moments of hesitation, take off my gloves and press the home button, making the screen fill with light. I have 72% left of the battery, enough to make a call.

My body is filled with a mixture of cold and grey shame, a feeling of loss and wonder. I feel a strong need for compensating for all these years of failure, a need for fixing everything. I try to understand what has led to this moment in the woods, to this burning sense of shame in my body. Where did everything start to go wrong?

The screen goes dark. I press the home button again. Now the battery says 63%. It doesn’t like the cold. I don’t like the cold. In fact, I’d rather be at my second child’s door right now, ringing the door bell, asking if I can come in for a cup of tea and a friendly talk. Would she let me in? I really don’t know. But I could call her instead.

I could call her, but the battery on the phone keeps on announcing dropping percentage. Soon I won’t be able to call her because there won’t be enough power left to make one.

I could call her. I should, I really should. But what would I say?

I stand in the snow, thinking about calling her, searching for the right words to begin with. I almost find the courage to do it, but then the cold starts to creep into my fingers and toes and neck, and I shiver. I slip the phone into my jacket pocket and walk back to the people and the fire. I feel disappointment and anger with myself but can’t help but think

if there’s even a point in trying?

Even if I could call her or walk to her door, I wouldn’t know what to say. Because how do you pick up the conversation after ten years of hollow small-talk?