From the Fan Fiction Unbound Archive,
posted by conTessaofthecastle:
Daphne concentrated. She closed her eyes and repeated the incantation slowly, focusing her attention on the tingling sensation in her fingertips. “Actessar,” she murmured. Then again, “Actessar.” For a moment, she could feel her fingers twitching and she thought she might have mastered the space-shifting spell at last. But when she opened her eyes, she was still in the little glade where they slept last night. Astoria sat by the fire watching her.
Soph.
My cell phone wakes me at seven. Once I remember where I am, I notice that Tess is doing push-ups by the foot of her bed. I don’t care if she’s a jock, but I hope this doesn’t mean she has a body image problem. She shouldn’t, since her body is very nice, but plenty of girls do. I want to ask her about it, but she’s really working herself hard and I don’t want to interrupt. After push-ups, she turns onto her back and does sit-ups.
I mumble, “Good morning,” and go into the bathroom to shower.
We walk down to breakfast, and I work up the courage to ask Tess if she knows anything about admissions at Minerva College. She shakes her head. I think she must hate me for being flippant about military service last night. I can’t think what to say about it. Maybe Gordon will text me back today. He’s good at helping me pull my foot out of my mouth. I’m not wrong. The military does fight wars and kill people. How can that not be bad? I can’t believe it’s really a “great place for women.” Hasn’t Tess heard about all those sexual harassment problems? But Tess is certainly entitled to her opinion, not to mention her future.
A heavy snow comes down during breakfast, piling up on the sills outside the dining room’s picture windows. It’s beautiful. It almost never snows this much in New York, and when it does it quickly turns dirty until it disappears. After last night’s rubber chicken, even the cardboard-y waffles taste good if I douse them from the bottle marked “Real Maple Syrup from New Hampshire,” which we pass around. Joan soon tells us to finish up and clear our places so we can begin our first session.
Professor Forsythe announces that we are going to split into four groups, each led by a different adult: the Professor, Joan, Celestine, and Grace. Everyone will discuss what they write and where they want to go with it. Dialogue is encouraged—I guess the whole conference is about us being chosen for how our work is interconnected. We walk into a conference room with several large tables surrounded by chairs.
They put me in Professor Forsythe’s group, just what I hoped. I’m with Orly, Chris, Tess, Clover, Janaye, and Yin. I bet this is what Minerva will be like, with Professor Forsythe choosing me to join her seminars. I look around at the other girls and wonder if any of them will end up at Minerva. Tess isn’t interested, obviously, but I can see myself at college with some of the others. After her invitation-only poetry seminar, Professor Forsythe will edit my poem for a national journal. Then I’ll go with Clover to the student union for a nitro brew or hang out in the dorm lounge with Janaye.
I sit next to Orly and smile at her, but she is not making eye contact. Clover sits next to me, and I’m fine with that. I don’t want to sit next to Tess this morning. She sits on the other side of Professor Forsythe, and Chris sits down next to her. Figures. Tess pulls away, squirming when Chris whispers in her ear.
Once we’re seated, Professor Forsythe smiles and looks around the table. “Good morning again. This session is a chance for you to tell us about your writing and what you want to do with it at this workshop, and to hear each other’s reactions. I’ll start. I’m Helen Forsythe. I am an academic, so my writing is analytical prose. But I am no stranger to creative writing. I concentrate on comparative literature. This semester, I am hard at work on a history of structure and rhyme scheme in Western poetry from the twelfth to the nineteenth centuries. I teach English composition, including poetry and fiction writing, at Minerva College, which will host us for an event later this week.”
Wow. It sounds as if Professor Forsythe’s current project lines up almost squarely with what I want to do here. I am about to say that, to introduce my work, when she cuts me off. “Tess, why don’t you tell us about yourself and your writing?”
So Tess is first. Her eyes widen, and she darts a look toward Chris. “I’m Tess.” Her voice wavers. “I’m from Castleton, New Hampshire. I write fan fiction online. Most of it is based on a television show called The Witches’ Circle, which has two women as principal characters, Daphne and Astoria.” She pauses, catches my eye across the table, and says in a shaky voice, “I know some people think fan fiction is lame, but in creating different storylines, I am trying to use magic as a symbol of a different kind of femininity, one which is based on women’s skills, not their traditional roles.” Chris stares at Tess. Tess seems to know that because, even while keeping her eyes focused on the table in front of her, she shrinks farther away. “Also, I don’t always like what the show does with its plotlines. I change things to make the characters more powerful and less stereotyped. Umm…” Blushing, she ducks her head. “I guess for this workshop I want to write an ending to my current story that is pretty different from the season cliffhanger. I don’t think I’ve figured out what that is yet, but I’m leaning toward having one of the witches find out she has a new extra-magical power which she doesn’t quite understand how to use, and describing how she masters it.”
Tess’s speech makes me reconsider what I thought about her fan fiction. Maybe she doesn’t just repeat dialogue from TV witches. She is writing about inherent female power, not about girls trying to become empowered or serve their country. I like that—there’s so much feminist fiction out there that is about bringing women to the table and getting them into positions of authority, responsibility, and confidence. Tess is saying that they are already powerful, and how they understand and use their power is important. She’s also writing about the women using that power for themselves instead of serving men or children.
But Chris offers a different opinion. Cocking her head, she turns toward Tess as if she cannot believe what she is hearing. “I’m Chris. I’m from Dallas and, sorry, but fan fiction is pretty derivative. I think it’s a cop-out. If you are going to use characters already out there, you should be writing nonfiction. And if you’re going to write fiction, make it up yourself.” She rolls her eyes and looks at Janaye, who is seated at the foot of the table. Janaye nods.
I expect Professor Forsythe to counterbalance Chris, but she goes along with it. “Tess, your fan fiction is very interesting, but your colleague, Chris, has a point. Why do you write fan fiction?”
Tess blanches. She actually goes pale. Her eyes were wide before, but now they’re like saucers. Her mouth opens like a goldfish’s, but nothing comes out. Professor Forsythe asks us, “Would anyone like to say anything else about Tess’s work?”
I think this is unfair. Even though I thought the same thing last night and I barely know Tess, I don’t like Chris’s tone or that she’s trying to make points with the rest of us by picking on Tess.
“I would,” I say and am surprised by how worked up I am. “I think a little history and a little literature show that throwing shade at fan fiction is ridiculous. If you say it’s ‘derivative,’ you might as well criticize the Romans for taking the Greek gods, renaming them, and changing their stories. Myths and legends grew as they were changed, embellished, and turned into longer works with different structures and outcomes.”
I look at Chris when I say this. She glares back. I don’t stop. This is what my mother calls “soapboxing.” “I’m Soph, I’m from the City, and I write poetry. I want to be able to create structured poems like English and Italian sonnets. But getting back to fan fiction, do you think Shakespeare’s characters aren’t original? Because I think Julius Caesar and Antony and Cleopatra were ‘already out there,’ not to mention four Henrys, two Richards and a John—”
Professor Forsythe interrupts. Her face bears a tight smile, and she says, “Sophie, maybe someone else would like to weigh in on fan fiction,” again emphasizing “fan.” Ouch. How can she not remember my name? I said it about twenty seconds ago and I cleared her plate last night. I’m trying too hard to impress her with how much I know and how well I fit in.
Yin, who’s sitting next to Janaye with Chris, pipes up, “My name’s Yin. I’m from Buffalo. I don’t get why you say Shakespeare is fan fiction.” Yin emphasizes “fan” the same way Professor Forsythe did.
Oh, lord, between the ganging up and the literary obliviousness, I might as well be at my mother’s club on Park and 64th. This is the girl Professor Forsythe invited? “I’m saying fan fiction,” I imitate Professor Forsythe’s emphatic pronunciation, “is making fiction out of other characters. If you take a character from history or myth or another work and give that character a chance to grow and experience things that they didn’t before, well, that’s actually writing in a well-established tradition. I also think that if you criticize its validity, then you’re rejecting a lot of literature that I bet you don’t mean to reject. If I want to write sonnets like Shakespeare did, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
I look around the table. Tess stares down, frozen in place. Chris looks pissed, but some of the other girls are nodding at me. Professor Forsythe raises one eyebrow. Mimicking her was probably a mistake. Okay, definitely a mistake. My mother would kill me. Orly raises her hand, drawing Professor Forsythe’s attention.
“I think Soph has a good point. I would add satire and musicals to her list. If writers were limited to wholly original characters, we’d lose all kinds of shows. Rent is based on La Bohème, which is an Italian opera based on a French book. So it is derivative too.
“I’m saying this because I am interested in how characters in stories change and also how they change across stories. So, I have done some research about how stories evolve and continue. I just started reading the original Wizard of Oz, to see how the story differs from the book Wicked, which uses the same characters but turns the Wicked Witch into someone sympathetic and likable.”
Professor Forsythe smiles at Orly.
I can’t keep my mouth shut. “And getting back to Shakespeare, West Side Story was based on Romeo and Juliet, which Shakespeare lifted from an earlier English poet, Arthur Brooks. Brooks didn’t think it up either. The story was already a hundred years old and had been adapted twice in other languages. Is that derivative?” I emphasize the last word. I nod at Orly, who looks at me and then away. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chris smirk, turn to Yin and Janaye, and whisper something. Yin nods but Janaye frowns. I catch Tess’s eye. I hope she understands I’m sympathetic.
Tess begins to say something, but Professor Forsythe wants to move on. It’s maddening. Maybe she’s not even worth impressing.
“All right, great discussion. Chris, why don’t you go next.”
Chris is now wide-eyed; she deserves to feel nervous. But then she says, with confidence, “I plan to be a journalist. I’m particularly interested in covering women’s issues and the relationships among groups of women in positions of relative power.” When Chris says “women,” she glares at Orly. Orly stares blankly back. What’s that about?
I’m still so wound up that I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Do you consider yourself to be a feminist, Chris?” I do. I believe in calling out misogyny and I am against those old binary definitions. Every woman has to be, given our obvious history of oppression.
Chris turns her glare to me. “I am a feminist and I hope we all are at this conference. Women have to stand together for their own safety and against anything that undermines it.” Her eyes flick back to Orly. I can’t tell what’s going on between them. Maybe I should be grateful. Even though Tess and I have virtually nothing in common, at least she’s polite, which is what I was supposed to be at this conference. I’d better shut up right now or I’m going to blow this whole thing.
Orly looks at Chris as if she’s worried. Then she shifts in her seat and asks a question. “What about spirituality, though, and the broadened concept of femininity? Isn’t that power in itself?” I’m starting to like Orly. She’s smart.
Professor Forsythe breaks in. “Let’s try to go light on politics. We want to focus on what type of writing you do and how you want to develop it. Chris, would you care to tell us where you want to go with your work?”
Chris responds, “I think you’re asking the wrong question, frankly. As a journalist, my work is based on what goes on in the world. I want to go where the news is. I want to find it, expose it, analyze it, and relate it to women’s power and safety.”
Professor Forsythe nods, but withholds comment. I am surprised when Orly asks a pointed question. “Chris, do you write about women relative only to other women or are you more inclusive?”
Chris appears dumbfounded, then knits her brows as if the question angers her. “I don’t know why you are asking me about women,” she says pointedly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Orly’s jaw tighten. Professor Forsythe is about to say something when Chris says, “But I follow stories. Whatever comes up is what I have to react to.” She sounds defensive, and still angry.
Professor Forsythe tries to open up the conversation again. “I wonder if anyone else might like to comment. This conversation is for the whole group, not only a few.” I recognize that Chris hasn’t answered the question, and I bet Orly does too. I’m through with my soapbox, though. I need to stop digging myself a bigger hole. Tess’s eyes shift from Orly to Chris, then linger on Orly, but she doesn’t say anything.
The “discussion” continues. Everyone else tries to be polite. Yin describes her blog, which is about language and identity. She uses elements of free verse but also short nonfiction pieces. I’m intrigued and ask for the link. Professor Forsythe doesn’t seem to notice my attempt to make friends. Orly and Chris spend the rest of the session staring each other down. I feel as if I’m in the middle of a weird argument without knowing what the sides are or who started it. It’s only the second day. Sometimes girls make me tired.
* * *
During the break, Mom texts me.
[From Mother to Soph] Darling, don’t forget, presentation interviews in a month. See if anyone there has already had theirs.
She ends it with a little crown emoji. She and Mrs. Peckett act as if everyone wants to walk through a ballroom in their white dress on the arm of some stupid guy. Puh-lease.
[From Soph to Mother] Not that type of crowd, Mom.
[From Mother to Soph] Have you introduced yourself to Mrs. Forsythe?
Predictable Mom, but not a question I need right now.
[From Soph to Mother] Yes. Last night.
I don’t tell her it isn’t going very well.
My mom responds with a smiling emoji. I’m tempted to send back the rolling eyes one.
Tess.
I hate going first in those group things. I hate that I know exactly what I mean and exactly what I want to say in my head, but I’m never sure when it’s okay to say it out loud. And when I go first I can’t figure out the rules before I have to talk. But I’m surprised when Soph stands up for me. I wonder if she already knows what’s going on between Chris and Orly. She’s really passionate when she talks. It’s hard not to watch her get all excited.
My mind wanders to the interview question I left in my knapsack. Describe a recent incident where you took the lead. Part of me thinks Soph is brave. And part of me thinks that in New York, people must be able to say whatever they want and no one ever gives them trouble. That’s not what happens in Castleton. I guess it really is a different world.
We finally go around the whole room, and everyone else talks about their work. Nobody else gets criticized as harshly as I did—everyone is a little uncomfortable. Most people write fiction or poetry. Orly says she is working on a memoir about growing up in the South. She talks about her childhood as though it happened a long time ago, almost to a different person. Chris doesn’t say anything to her, but everyone else nods.
Soph is working on a poem about trying to find love but not knowing where to find it. She wants to write English-style sonnets, but the rhyme scheme is too hard, so she’s only done an Italian-style one so far. Not that the poem is written in Italian, but the rhyme scheme is different: couplets for Italian, something more complicated for English. She says she’s attracted to the challenge of reducing emotion and experience into structured, rhythmic expressions and that she is drawn to the sonnet forms. It all sounds pretty complicated to me, and I wonder again if I’m in over my head. These girls were chosen from all over the country because they’re such good writers. When no one comments, Professor Forsythe asks Soph what she hopes to accomplish this week. Soph gives her a big smile—weren’t they just arguing about my fan fiction? She says she’s having trouble going beyond couplets, and that she hopes Professor Forsythe will help her.
Chris flares her nostrils, but Yin seems intrigued. I don’t quite get most of these girls. Soph is very serious when she talks about her writing; and the way she stood up for fan fiction was really nice. She isn’t just a spoiled city kid—she’s here to work hard on her writing, as I am. But she has no problem sticking up for people who aren’t the same as she is and she really isn’t shy about confronting opinions she disagrees with. I wish I knew how she learned that. I find myself paying close attention to Soph. She is clearly a leader. The other girls listen to her, and even Professor Forsythe was respectful when Soph stuck her neck out about fan fiction.
At the break, Soph makes a point of trying to talk to Professor Forsythe. She says she’s interested in applying to Minerva College next fall. “You have one of the strongest writing programs in the country,” she explains, “and I want to learn from you.”
Professor Forsythe doesn’t seem any more impressed with Soph than she did with me. “Why don’t you focus on this week, Sophie,” she says. I wince as she messes up Soph’s name again. “There’s plenty to learn before you apply to colleges.” She turns away and asks Yin to help her distribute handouts for the second half of the session. I can tell Soph is upset even though she doesn’t say anything else.
I go over to her and ask, “Is it that important to you to go to Minerva?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Why, are you applying there too?”
“Me?” I laugh. “No, I’m a senior. Anyway, Minerva is much too fancy for me. My family wouldn’t send me there.” I don’t say my family could never in a million years afford to send me there to waste four years writing stories. “I’ve been there for school field trips, and we used to drive up for their Winter Carnival every year. They always build these ice sculptures. There’s a big bonfire in the middle of the quad. I think it was last weekend, but the sculptures might still be up when we visit later this week.” One of the planned activities of the conference is a campus tour and a faculty reception at the Minerva College English department next weekend.
I pull up pictures of the sculptures on my phone to show Soph, and she’s fascinated. She asks about the campus. I say, “I’m surprised you’re interested in Minerva. It’s pretty, but it’s also pretty isolated.”
“So what?” she says, as Professor Forsythe calls us all back to our seats. “Minerva is one of the oldest schools around. It has tons of traditions.” That seems odd coming from her. The one thing I wouldn’t call Soph is traditional.
Daddy always says that he learned to live with lots of different kinds of people in the military and that, despite their differences, they were all the same underneath; the guy from Alabama wanted to make it home safely the same way my dad did. That makes sense to me. I take a breath and hope that maybe Soph and I can be friends.
* * *
From Soph Alcazar’s Writing Journal,
February 11, 2018
Unfairness blossoms here at every turn.
I try to impress, but my stomach churns.