fannish imprinting and the art of the wallow
I've been a fan for a long time - I exhibited fannish behavior long before I found anything that could be called fandom. (A feral 12yo fan! Raised by wolves mundanes, unfamiliar with the language of her people!) And then I found fandom, and found myself a couple of fandoms, and things moved on from there. So maybe imprinting is the wrong word, because it took me a while. The fandom where things clicked and I'd watch stuff and go yes moan yes oh god more like a cheap porno was X-Files. XF hit just about all my buttons - heck, it introduced me to buttons I didn't know I had, which is what I mean by imprinting. And obviously there have been other shows (and movies, and sometimes books, but - well, see below) that cause the same ka-ching effect, especially once I knew what I liked and could go looking for it.
And what I like is, of course, suffering, inner turmoil, and an obsession with acting on one's convictions and beliefs. It's so beautiful. *sigh* But it doesn't work as well for me in fiction, sadly. I don't belong to the school of thought that feels a picture is necessarily worth a thousand words, but your thousand words might not butter my muffin. And it rarely stops at a thousand words, either. You can give me fifteen pages about the way it feels, in minute detail, and they're probably not going to give me what I get from three seconds of closed eyes and lashes throwing long shadows across cheekbones, lips pressed together for a momentary acknowledgment of pain and then everything starts up again and it's time to wrestle with duty, or demons, or both, to do what must be done. And me, I just wallow in it. The buildup, the careful attention to detail, every little sign that says things are about to go very, very wrong here.
This post brought to you courtesy of Victoria's Secret I & II and Paper Hearts. Now I'm going to go watch that bit in Passion where Giles comes home and walks up the stairs. ooh.
And what I like is, of course, suffering, inner turmoil, and an obsession with acting on one's convictions and beliefs. It's so beautiful. *sigh* But it doesn't work as well for me in fiction, sadly. I don't belong to the school of thought that feels a picture is necessarily worth a thousand words, but your thousand words might not butter my muffin. And it rarely stops at a thousand words, either. You can give me fifteen pages about the way it feels, in minute detail, and they're probably not going to give me what I get from three seconds of closed eyes and lashes throwing long shadows across cheekbones, lips pressed together for a momentary acknowledgment of pain and then everything starts up again and it's time to wrestle with duty, or demons, or both, to do what must be done. And me, I just wallow in it. The buildup, the careful attention to detail, every little sign that says things are about to go very, very wrong here.
This post brought to you courtesy of Victoria's Secret I & II and Paper Hearts. Now I'm going to go watch that bit in Passion where Giles comes home and walks up the stairs. ooh.