boldly going where no smut had before
Jul. 17th, 2015 12:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
veronica_rich"Brent is SOOOO hot!!"
Such was the reply that introduced me to Rose my sophomore year in college. One of the women on my dorm floor who watched TNG with me told me about her, upon learning Data was my favorite character. "She likes him, too," said Kay. "Send her an intramail and tell her I mentioned her."
Campus intramail was a fairly new addition to our technology; to use it, I had to book time in the computer lab in the lobby of our five-story dormitory. (My roommate was one of the few students who had her own personal computer, which was roughly the same size and weight of a Vega, and she guarded it jealously if I ever suggested perhaps I could use it for five minutes in exchange for some favor.) Communicating this way was sort of impersonal, so I wasn't sure how to approach someone I'd never met by email ... so I settled for probably the most formal introduction anyone in the history of fandom has ever come up with. (Something like "Hello, I like Data. Do you like Data too? I like Star Trek." Ad nauseam. Like that Wizard-of-Oz-loving kid in line to see Santa in "A Christmas Story.")
Keeping to the kind of character that would make us friends for at least 23 more years, Rose's reply was only four words and immediately to the point. Bonding over the frankly unquestionable attraction of Brent Spiner has undoubtedly brought together more women than garden clubs.
After I met her in person, we started hanging out each late night in the basement lounge of her dorm hall, where we could catch up on reruns of TNG and talk about them in peace. It emerged that not only did we both like Data, we were pretty fond too of the Data/Tasha pairing, seizing on every winking clue and opportunity to shove them together in the show's canon and in our discussions.
One day, Rose handed me a packet of papers. "You can borrow these," she instructed, "but I want them back. So only for a little while; make copies if you want them." Inside were 'zines full of material by other fans mailed to dedicated fangirls who had each taken on the task of becoming a sort of central editor sifting through submissions and printing them in cheap stapled or bound booklets and selling each for a few dollars to offset paper, printing, and mailing costs. There were letters debating plot points and character from what seemed almost all women (or girls, depending on age), science concepts in both TNG and TOS; short parody stories and poems; filk lyrics set to well known songs as well as original pieces ("Banned from Argo," anyone?); and ... other stories.
I started reading one that was about Data and Tasha. It seemed to be an original story, and I was about halfway through when I got to the sex scene. WHOA, I thought. What is THIS. Fanfiction, Rose explained to me - written by fans who wanted a little more out of their canon than the Federal Communications Commission and Paramount were willing to show even on late Saturday night CBS.
At first I was uncomfortable with the idea of it, invariably picturing the actors doing these ... things, with each other. I squinted as I watched first-season TNG reruns that week, trying to picture the characters doing those things and trying to decide if I could live with that. After a few days, I gradually came to terms with it, read a few more stories, and realized I was watching the show just as I had before, albeit while formulating some new ideas in case I wanted to try writing some of that fanfiction myself. After all, I'd spent some formative teenage years trying to write bad original romances (seriously - I found one in storage earlier this year from when I was about 14 that makes 50 Shades of Grey look like Rowling); how different was this, except that it had settings ready-made and seemed to be more fun?
Fanfiction, I thought, was a genius concept. But was it something every fan was doing?
Such was the reply that introduced me to Rose my sophomore year in college. One of the women on my dorm floor who watched TNG with me told me about her, upon learning Data was my favorite character. "She likes him, too," said Kay. "Send her an intramail and tell her I mentioned her."
Campus intramail was a fairly new addition to our technology; to use it, I had to book time in the computer lab in the lobby of our five-story dormitory. (My roommate was one of the few students who had her own personal computer, which was roughly the same size and weight of a Vega, and she guarded it jealously if I ever suggested perhaps I could use it for five minutes in exchange for some favor.) Communicating this way was sort of impersonal, so I wasn't sure how to approach someone I'd never met by email ... so I settled for probably the most formal introduction anyone in the history of fandom has ever come up with. (Something like "Hello, I like Data. Do you like Data too? I like Star Trek." Ad nauseam. Like that Wizard-of-Oz-loving kid in line to see Santa in "A Christmas Story.")
Keeping to the kind of character that would make us friends for at least 23 more years, Rose's reply was only four words and immediately to the point. Bonding over the frankly unquestionable attraction of Brent Spiner has undoubtedly brought together more women than garden clubs.
After I met her in person, we started hanging out each late night in the basement lounge of her dorm hall, where we could catch up on reruns of TNG and talk about them in peace. It emerged that not only did we both like Data, we were pretty fond too of the Data/Tasha pairing, seizing on every winking clue and opportunity to shove them together in the show's canon and in our discussions.
One day, Rose handed me a packet of papers. "You can borrow these," she instructed, "but I want them back. So only for a little while; make copies if you want them." Inside were 'zines full of material by other fans mailed to dedicated fangirls who had each taken on the task of becoming a sort of central editor sifting through submissions and printing them in cheap stapled or bound booklets and selling each for a few dollars to offset paper, printing, and mailing costs. There were letters debating plot points and character from what seemed almost all women (or girls, depending on age), science concepts in both TNG and TOS; short parody stories and poems; filk lyrics set to well known songs as well as original pieces ("Banned from Argo," anyone?); and ... other stories.
I started reading one that was about Data and Tasha. It seemed to be an original story, and I was about halfway through when I got to the sex scene. WHOA, I thought. What is THIS. Fanfiction, Rose explained to me - written by fans who wanted a little more out of their canon than the Federal Communications Commission and Paramount were willing to show even on late Saturday night CBS.
At first I was uncomfortable with the idea of it, invariably picturing the actors doing these ... things, with each other. I squinted as I watched first-season TNG reruns that week, trying to picture the characters doing those things and trying to decide if I could live with that. After a few days, I gradually came to terms with it, read a few more stories, and realized I was watching the show just as I had before, albeit while formulating some new ideas in case I wanted to try writing some of that fanfiction myself. After all, I'd spent some formative teenage years trying to write bad original romances (seriously - I found one in storage earlier this year from when I was about 14 that makes 50 Shades of Grey look like Rowling); how different was this, except that it had settings ready-made and seemed to be more fun?
Fanfiction, I thought, was a genius concept. But was it something every fan was doing?
