Guest Post by Mark McHarry and Dru Pagliassotti:

Dru Pagliassotti and I have launched a blog, Yaoi Research: http://www.yaoiresearch.com. Formal work about yaoi and boys’ love is finally beginning to appear but we saw a need for a central place to publish more informal content than that in a journal or book.

If you study, create, and/or enjoy yaoi, BL, and/or male/male romance and would like to contribute well-informed descriptive or analytical writing to our blog, please contact us: admin@yaoiresearch.com.

We’re hoping for posts about ongoing work, observations and opinions, reviews, commentary, analyses, and research notes and queries. Discussions of fanfic, artwork, original stories and novels, including slash and gay comics and fiction, are welcome, as are posts about context, creation, or consumption across historical periods, regions, and cultures.

Graduate students, professors, independent scholars, publishers, and published mangaka, dōjinshika, and novelists are especially encouraged to contribute. If you do, please take a look at our submission guidelines.

You don’t need to present original research or in-depth analysis, just interesting ideas that may stimulate thought. Although we request that posts be in English, if it is not your first language we will help you copyedit your contribution should you wish.

Best Wishes for the New Year / あけましておめでとう.

Time to post! But I’m afraid that my brain is full of nothing but teacherly thoughts and I apologize for this. Once again, I am dwelling upon the challenge of bringing folks to acceptance of the fact that we are all fans. As some readers of this blog may remember, I set myself the task of teaching about fandom for the first time last semester. An entire course…but not a graduate or even upper level course. So there were limits to the depth of theorizing that could be accomplished.

Briefly put, there were times when I felt quite certain that I had made a mistake. I had endeavoured to get students to reason through things, to see what they have in common with those “other” people, the fans, the weird ones. I’m still not confident that I pulled it off. Some came in as fans and left as fans. Others…not so much.

But some amazing things happened towards the end of last semester. When I asked them to create a fanwork for their final project, there was love suddenly pouring out of them. Not all, of course. There were still a few resistant ones, but most of them astonished me. One girl painted a large, elaborate image based on the television show V. If I ever needed proof that every text has a fan community around it…!   Some kids made their first fanvids. Others did animations. One kid brought me a painted skateboard covered in images from his favourite bands.

In short, I was amazed by the degree of creativity and passion these kids could bring to a project. And it seemed to confirm what people like Henry Jenkins have been writing about participatory culture. He/they have been arguing that people, particularly youth, are increasingly accustomed to living their creative lives through media. Media are the matter and the tools that surround us, and we use them in the same way that someone generations ago would pick up a stick and whittle something out of it.

On the whole, I must say it was a rewarding experience. Well, it had better be, because tomorrow I begin teaching the same course again…to three more sections of 40 students each. I know one thing I have learned: keep the fanwork assignment, and make it earlier in the semester so these young fanlings can share and enjoy each other’s works!

In the current issue of Transformative Works and Cultures, my friend Nele Noppe has a piece on Why we should talk about commodifying fan work. In her article, Noppe reviews much current English-language scholarship that considers the possibility of some kind of legal and legitimate “hybrid” fannish economy emerging, and concludes that, while such an economy may very well emerge at some point, for a variety of reasons, it’s not here yet. In particular, Noppe notes that

A final reason why a viable hybrid economy for fan work is unlikely to emerge soon is that many of the fans who would power it may not be prepared to imagine the possibilities, advantages, and disadvantages of such a system. Up to now, fans and fan scholars have rarely even speculated about the potential inherent in linking fan work to commodity culture. … The most important question here is not whether fans will at some point be given the option to commodify and monetize their works, but how the fan community in general will deal with new modes of fannish production emerging alongside the traditional gift economy.

It strikes me, however, that the issue here may not be a question of waiting for new modes of fannish production to emerge, but of recognizing the fact that, in many cases, they already have emerged.

Noppe mentions the example of the Japanese dôjinshi market several times in her piece, quite sensibly in light of the fact that the fannish/”amateur” dôjin production sphere is perhaps the pre-eminent example of a hybrid economy. In Japan, fan-created comic books and, in recent years, animation, video games, and other forms of media have not only been wildly successful in the semi-sequestered fannish economy, but have been picked up by professional companies for further production and wider distribution, going on to launch their creators into fully professional careers and spawning mega-hit transmedia franchises that have defined whole eras in the Japanese contents industry. Moreover, despite a lack of explicitly permissive laws, the line between professional and “amateur” or fannish production in Japanese media is often quite fuzzy: professional creators routinely sell fan works of their own professional media creations, or even actual professionally produced elements of their creation such as production stills, at dôjin (“like-minded”) markets, the largest of which is Comiket in Tokyo.

Although the Japanese contents industry undoubtedly possesses the most highly developed “hybrid” economy in the Laurence Lessig-derived sense that Noppe discusses, there are ample signs that the English-language contents industry is already starting to develop in a similar direction, particularly in the world of book publishing. Multiple professional authors working today in YA and SFF avowedly came out of fandom, whether putting their fan fiction-honed writing skills to work on wholly original works or “filing off the serial numbers” and selling works that were originally fannish as entirely “original” novels and stories. Moreover, while it seems that formerly professional authors were reluctant to discuss their roots in fan fiction, more and more authors (not coincidentally, overwhelmingly female) are not only willing to own their fannish roots, but to “cross streams” and jump back into fandom for exchanges such as Yuletide, among other forms of fannish activity.

At the same time, the rise of ebooks and of high-quality self-publishing operations such as Lulu have made it easier than ever for fans to make their content, whether original or fannish or a hybrid of the two (never, as the above discussion should make clear, very clearly separated in the first place), available to others for free, at cost, or for profit with very little extra effort. These developments are transforming not only fandom, but also the contents industry, leading not only to reactionary legislative efforts such as the Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA) in the U.S. Congress but also to true innovation in both the fannish and professional contents spheres, some of which Henry Jenkins has discussed in his continuing investigations of professional transmedia storytelling.

So, where is all this going? As a historian, I am professionally allergic to predicting the future, but inasmuch as these developments are happening right now, it seems clear that some kind of rapprochement is in order, not only between fannish and professional content creators, but also between fans and themselves. English-language fandom has historically been highly leery of anything that seems to violate the spirit of the “fannish gift economy,” and with good reason; the non-commercial principles by which fandom has operated are one of the things that set it apart from the mainstream of global cultural economies. But the twenty-first century, for good and for ill, is not the twentieth, and it seems clear that fandom is already in the process of evolving into a different configuration vis-a-vis professionalization and the contents industry. The sooner we recognize that it’s happening, the sooner we can begin to think about and consciously decide how we want to do fandom, and be fans, in light of that fact.

Guest Post By Patrice Persad

I will admit that (in most cases) I favor fanon over canon. In fact, sometimes the enthusiasm that I feel for a particular original work when all I know is the plot or characters’ names is because I was dragged into canon by an engrossing fanfiction piece or fanon. Of course, I appreciate the original creator or author’s story and character development, but, with fanfiction and other transformative fanworks, or fanon—whether they are from fledgling fans to acafans—the presented opportunities promote something that canon may have been miserly with: hope.

In fanworks, a character can earn redemption, detain (or even hoodwink) Death, or be the awe-struck recipient of other miracles that are just not within his/her grasp in canon. The merging of fanon and canon to showcase an original work’s themes and story in wholeness can be illustrated in a miniseries adaptation of one of my favorite classic literature pieces, Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist, or The Parish Boy’s Progress. (Ironically enough, the novel Oliver Twist is one of the cases in which I prefer the text, canon, instead of all the media adaptations.) Although I have not seen or read every version of the classic, The Public Broadcasting Service (PBS) program ExxonMobil Masterpiece Theatre (which is now, I believe, just called Masterpiece) in 1999 covered Dickens’ book in what I deem as the most comprehensive and best Oliver Twist media version [link: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/masterpiece/ olivertwist/index.html]. In this three-part series, Mr. Alan Bleasdale, who shares the writing credits with Mr. Dickens and who is a longtime Dickens aficionado, pens the backstory of Oliver’s deceased parents, Mr. Edwin Leeford and Agnes Fleming, and their illicit affair. One could say that their history is pieced together and based from circumstantial evidence, such as hints, facts, documents, and personal effects, that Dickens includes in the book. This backstory, or prequel, also stars two shadowy characters from the novel: a younger Edward Leeford (who later sports the alias Monks amongst folks in the underworld), Oliver’s half brother, and Mrs. Elizabeth Leeford, Edwin’s wife. (The full name of Edwin’s wife is never disclosed by Dickens, so this selection of “Elizabeth” is another fruit of fanon, Bleasdale’s fabrication. Mrs. Leeford is bodily absent from Dickens’ narrative, yet Bleasdale bestows upon her dialogue—a voice.)

Now let me go back to connecting fanon (or fanworks) with hope. Before viewing the actors’ portrayal and dramatization of Mr. Bleasdale’s screenplay, I had never expressed sympathy for Dickens’ Monks. To me, he was a bad seed. (Imagine my disgrace when I later heard Bleasdale’s Edwin echoing my exact sentiments about his son.) In canon, Monks does all that is within his power to erase Oliver’s existence/identity in an episode of enmity for the child and allegiance to his dying mother to gain his inheritance. He eventually dies from an epileptic fit in jail after being incarcerated for reverting to vices. In Bleasdale’s pre-canonical depiction, Edward is a sickly, reluctant boy who is bullied into the vindictive Mrs. Leeford’s schemes, which include murdering Edwin and attempting the murder of the young pregnant Agnes Fleming. Under Mr. Brownlow’s, the lawyer’s, insistence in the miniseries’ third installment, Edward breaks down, along with having a seizure, in front of an audience that includes Oliver Twist and confesses what Mrs. Leeford, his mother, did and how his father’s apathy for Edward hurt Edward the most. Bleasdale’s ending for Monks, in its kindness, grants Edward peace in the New World with a family of his own making. I curiously began to think that perhaps Monks indeed had a conscience. I began to think that perhaps he is not an evil man, or at least not the incarnation of a very nefarious historical figure. Through Dickens’ words, I am introduced to Monks, the dark, unrepentant creature who makes deals with criminals. I only learn of his life story and identity near the novel’s conclusion. In contrast, I encounter Edward as Edward, a human—one scorned by his father on the basis of a medical condition—in the series’ first installment. I meet Edward first and see him as Edward even as he is addressed as Monks by Fagin and his associates in London.

Bleasdale’s screenplay, to my delight, allows me to entertain the significance of the family bond. From just one line in the miniseries’ script, I envision the family bond as a symbol for salvation—a symbol of hope. Edward, for the first time in his life, is not shunned by a member of his birth family or belittled on account of his affliction. Even after exposure to Edward’s fit and the man’s confession of ill will, Oliver clasps Edward’s hands in his pair and remarks guilelessly, “I’m sorry, sir. I wish none of this had ever happened.” Now Bleasdale does not explore the fraternal relationship between Oliver and Edward, two orphans, as it is only merely featured (perhaps this might inspire some fanfiction?), but fanon arranges the following premise that does not exist or is not hinted at in canon: the compassionate acknowledgement of the humanity in a person—Edward—whose health condition influences society to hastily label him/her as unacceptable or, from Dickens’ text, a “villain.”

Fanon is a balcony where the readers or viewers can catch a glimpse of some sort of goodness—of something possibly humane—in any character; it gives us hope that no one can truly be evil at heart or that evil is not natal. The, however meager, missing scenes witnessed from this balcony are proof enough of a character’s remorse, heartbreak, and commiseration. Bleasdale’s chase scene of Bill Sikes sets up an unlikely exchange between Fagin and Bill Sikes; this exchange distinctly reveals how much Sikes loved Nancy, his murder victim and accomplice in some of his undertakings. In fact, Oliver Twist in all its forms is represented, enacted, sung, and/or choreographed in which people, both men and women (males and females), of all classes, stations, and ages do bad and good deeds. There are female characters who do bad and good deeds; there are male characters who do bad and good deeds. All men are not inherently “bad,” or wicked. All women are not inherently “bad,” or wicked. Performing one bad deed does not stop one from being human. Doling out one wrong deed does not strictly identify anyone as diabolically evil (perhaps with the tentative exception of Bill Sikes or Bleasdale’s Mrs. Leeford). This is what makes Dickens’ world, his story, timeless. The Nancys still die after refusing aid from the Mr. Brownlows and Rose Maylies. The Bill Sikeses still are murderers. But at least the Oliver Twists still remain kind-hearted and optimistic when careening into misfortunes and misadventures. In canon and fanon, I suppose that this is all I can ask for. No, it is all I can hope for.

Netflix has made me very happy over the past few years. They’ve offered me access to an amazing range of documentaries that I never would have had the energy to locate on my own, created the opportunity to watch about fifteen minutes of some very bad movies that I vaguely remember watching an overlapping ten minutes of on USA when I was a kid, and of course, they’ve given me something to during any otherwise-dead 22 minute block in my day. They’ve also made me more confident in sharing my fannish behavior with new friends. “What do you do in your spare time?” “Well, last night for example, I watched eight episodes of Glee.” Sure, some people still raise their eyebrows at such a response, but more often than not, they say, “You’re kidding! I watched eight episodes of The Vampire Diaries! How awesome are our lives?” Pretty awesome. Sure, marathoning the occasional show does not a fan-identified fan make, but it’s a step along the way to a broader understanding of the emotional intensities of investment in long-arc serial narratives. I also genuinely think that it helps people to understand just how high-quality many programs are: when you marathon a show, ideally, you get away from “that episode was pointless,” and move closer to “my curiosity about that development was satisfied a mere hour after it was ignited!”

This makes me happy. I’m not sure, however, what to make about a more recent Netflix development, namely, the “Holiday Favorites” section. Now, don’t get me wrong, for a long time, our viewing practices have been partially guided by the idea of “holiday favorites.” There’s 24 hours of A Christmas Story, family traditions, newspaper and magazine top 10 lists, etc. It only makes sense to extend this to individual episodes of television series. Special episodes are made to be re-watched as part of the season. However, I paused over a few of the choices on Netflix. For example, the My So-Called Life episode, “So-Called Angels” was recommended in the “holiday favorites” category. For the record, I love this episode, and think it is brilliant. However, I would hate for someone to watch it as a “holiday favorite,” because I think that the removal of context in this case would lead to an inevitable misunderstanding of the episode, and thus, the larger series narrative of which it is a part. One could say the same for this year’s controversial Christmas episode of Glee, which I have not yet watched, but which sounds like it should never, ever be consumed outside the larger, high-context series narrative of Glee.

Perhaps I sound tyrannical. Just two paragraphs up, I was praising the way in which Netflex is re-creating the surprising television moments of my childhood, like giving a chance to a movie with an incomprehensible premise, or trying out a documentary about an unfamiliar issue. But it’s different with television. Maybe I’ve been spoiled by my many marathons with 90s and 21st-Century shows, but I feel that “So-Called Angels” would give new viewers the wrong impression of My So-Called Life, because it’s a heavily serialized drama, whereas 30 Rock’s “Christmas Special,” which was playing on my flight on Wednesday, works just fine in isolation. Sure, it’s more enjoyable for the knowing viewer, because I have context for the character interactions, but there’s no risk of seriously missing the point with “Christmas Special.” There is much less at stake. The episode represents Liz Lemon’s misguided affective politics in a way that is consistent with their representation throughout the series, and one can either take or leave this easily-recognizable ambivalence. “So-Called Angels,” by contrast, represents several characters’ growth, and because savvy audiences take pleasure in their inability to be caught by sentimental traps, this growth is much harder to sell.

Whether or not My So-Called Life sells it is up for debate, but I would hate for the terms of the debate to be set by isolated experiences of “So-Called Angels.” My So-Called Life is an important show in the recent history of dramatic representations of queer life, and it would be a shame for an interested viewer to try to enter this history by way of this episode, which allows in an ungenerous interpretation for a purely sentimental reading. With all the criticism that the recent Glee episode has received (much of it by broadly-invested fans), I worry that, where My So-Called Life could offer an interesting counterpoint from the history of queer-friendly television, it is unlikely to do so under Netflix’s rubric.

There are other downsides to the Netflix rubric, of course, not least that it so quickly made itself indispensable in my daily life — -there is surely something sinister in anything that appears so helpful and desire-I-didn’t-even-know-I-had-fulfilling. But maybe the point is that here, like in so many other arenas, fandom has a slightly better option. Instead of “Holiday Favorites,” why not Yuletide? Like Netflix, Yuletide has a history of inviting new viewers into a new view of under-represented source material, but this time, it comes with a context. Not just the simple context of “I like to watch a lot of TV,” but the complex context of fandom, of fic-writing, and of desire-sharing. I love to read “Dear Yuletide Writer” entries on new friends’ journals, because they give me so much insight into what others most long to see in the shared source material that captures our imaginations. I love to see fans’ frustrations with television shows manifesting as desire surpassing resentment, although obviously the resentment is often earned and deserves to be registered. I love to see the incompleteness of imperfect stories taken on as a gift-giving challenge. “A Very Special Fic” can do a lot of things that an equally special episode cannot, not least because it’s addressed to someone who’s intimately familiar with where the new installment fits into, or challenges the narrative as it stands. Sure, there are lurkers on Yuletide fics outside of their own fandoms (I am one of them!) but there is more of an established ethics to lurking in this context than to lurking on Netflix. So, that’s where I’ll be looking to discover new holiday favorites. I look forward to it.