A recent poll on the io9 website asked: Which Science-Fiction Book Series Do You Secretly Wish You Could Take Over? I have to admit, I was a little tickled by the idea. What fan hasn’t imagined getting that call? “BC–Larry Niven’s just decided to move to Hawaii to become a skin-diving instructor, and we need you to take over Known Space for him!” (“Well, I’m flattered!”) It’s a little like fantasizing about what it would be like to get called up on stage to play with your favorite band.
On the other hand…
The io9 poll is coming from a place of very real disappointment. (Which is the inevitable response whenever Dune is mentioned, these days.) There is a very real sadness that comes with the knowledge that there will never again be another book from your favorite author or your favorite series. But that’s not what caused me to feel a distinct chill in my veins almost immediately after my initial delight.
It is possible (so I’ve been told) to love what you do for a living, if you’re lucky or clever enough. For many others, however, work is that thing miserable thing we are required do in between bouts of heavy drinking. And, for some people, there is an eventual realization that they’ve fallen into a trap: They find a job doing something that they used to love, only to find that love poisoned by the addition of professional responsibilities.
I’ve been professionally involved with the computers for over ten years now, and I’ve seen this happen to a lot of people. I’ve seen bright-eyed hobbyists wither and burn out as they slowly realize that working with machines is nowhere near as fun when caught between a business’s unreasonable demands on one side, and the inevitable organizational requirement to spend as few resources as possible, on the other. What do you do when your job is to make miracles happen, only to be rewarded with even more impossible missions?
I imagine this happens in other fields. I’ve certainly met plenty of graphic designers who wind up designing catalogs, who therefore spend the bulk of their days printing out posters for their bands on the large-format plotter, and trying to convince themselves not to take that flying leap off the roof garden.
Of course, I’ve read plenty of interviews or personal essays from writers who love their jobs, but I don’t know if that’s a common attitude in that profession. What I do know is this: As a fan, I derive enjoyment from reading my favorite series, and I doubt I would much care to have the responsibility for writing them. Leave aside the question of talent for a minute. Even if I had the ability to do well, taking over someone else’s franchise seems like a pretty thankless job.
Back in 2005, thousands of fans’ hearts turned a slight shade of green upon learning that Russell T Davies would be reviving Doctor Who. At that point, any one of us would have gladly switched places with him. Now? Probably not so much. He’s said that he still loves the show, but from the most recent episodes he’s written, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he’s a little burnt out on it. What supports this theory, in my mind at least, is how genuinely happy he seems when he says that he is looking forward to being able to watch the show again as a mere fan.
And that seems right, to me. Producing and writing a television show is hard work, and Who fans are notoriously bitchy on top of that. Even if Dune or Pern fanatics are more low-key, it’s impossible to avoid disappointing somebody. Worse, unlike fiction written purely for love (like fan fiction), you can’t simply drop it when you decide it’s not working, you can’t quit when it’s not fun anymore, and you spitefully (yet cathartically) kill a series that doesn’t actually belong to you.
If you write a story based on someone else’s work, they’ve got every right to tell you to knock it off–but, they can’t come in and demand fiddly little changes. Unless someone is paying you to write that story. And if other fans don’t dig your Captain Scotty of the USS Walter Mondale, novel, well, to hell with them. Unless you’re doing publicity, and the nail you while your trying to market your book.
But imagining what it would be like to take the reins of an existing franchise is harmless enough, I suppose (even if we’d never enjoy the reality of such a task). In it’s own way, that’s part of the fun of reading books that take place in a well-defined, attractive, imaginary universe. That’s what most of us do anyway, in our own imaginations. We tell ourselves stories that the original writers didn’t write, and we do it secretly, in our own brains. Unless we write fanfic, which is as honest an expression of love as there is for a fan, and is also highly fraught with ethical questions and bad spelling.
Still, everyone loves a good story–whether they’re reading it, or writing it.
