I can't stand "fan fiction."

It's a controversial stance to take, and I've caught a lot of shit for it, but let me explain this opinion a bit before the crusades rush in.

I understand and appreciate some aspects of fan fiction's necessity, such as giving writers a chance to experiment with plot or character tools while operating within a comfortable paradigm.  These writers take something built and reimagine it.  If the original work is a set of blocks, their assembly will differ from the final product printed on the box in remarkably noticeable and enjoyable ways.  The best fan fiction, I'd say, hinges on being a collaboration with the original artist.  It complements and enriches the overall story by presenting a fresh take, even if wildly different from the original author's intent.  It typically aims to boost the reach of the original work in some form.

And then, there is the bitch who was awarded for stealing my work under the guise of writing "fan fiction."

This is still my reservation with publishing online - I'm not looking to get robbed again.  Fan fiction is one thing for J.K. Rowling, whose canon has inspired many of her fans to offer their takes on Harry Potter, but it's quite a bit different when you're a sixteen year old nobody posting online.  Twelve years later, and I'm still terrified of plagiarism masked as "fan fiction."

I wrote a story that revolved around four girls, each of them getting their own separate voices.  The series had over forty chapters to it.  People offered praise and helpful feedback about my stories.  I gained confidence as my views and followers went up.  It felt really good to have people enjoy my writing.

One day, I received a message from a fan alerting me that a particularly zealous fan of mine had won an award from the site.  I was excited for her.  We'd interacted positively, we were in some of the same groups on the site, and I loved her poetry.  That excitement drained when I read her lines, some of them directly lifted from my chapters without a syllable altered.  What the hell was happening?

Opening my messages again, I asked him for advice as to handling this.  He suggested I go to the admins about it, which I did.  I pointed them to the chapters of mine from which she pulled characters, descriptions, and quotes.  They told me they would get back to me after contacting her.  It took everything to rein in my high school girl brain and keep from contacting her myself, telling her in no uncertain terms to get her own shit.  It's one thing to be inspired, but to take my words, verbatim, and pass them off as if you thought of them is contemptible.  I didn't care about the award - I wanted credit for my role in her poem.

The girl told them it was "fan fiction."  Essentially, they shrugged and sent me on my merry way.  She was told to recategorize the work as "fan fiction", but not required to link back to me or my work.  Wasn't it important to show folks the comfortable paradigm she was operating within if it was truly fan fiction?  Having your work stolen is not a compliment, it's not endearing, and it's not something you can draw a whole lot of pride from.  It's hard enough to release your art, but to have that happen when you do?  It's an incredibly deep cut.

I hate "fan fiction" used to defend plain plagiarism.  It shouldn't truncate the scope of the original work, but she positively halted mine.  The words stolen from me to shore up the quality of her poem received no truth to their origin.  I promptly removed all of my work from the site.  I haven't published online since.  Blogging is my way of dipping a toe into the water and convincing myself to get all the way in (probably a bad metaphor choice as I still don't know how to swim.)

Don't refer to intellectual theft as "fan fiction."  You're making fan fiction writers look bad.

Visiting Burger King on Mondays, Pt. 2

After my experience with the body shaming asshole the week previous, I'm not sure what compelled me to return to Burger King on Monday.  The allure of the Whopper is too strong, apparently.  Mayonnaise, cheese, tomatoes, onions, imitation smoke flavor... I give no fucks about the health content of it.  It tastes good.  That's my sole qualifier for a "good" lunch.

I was delighted to walk in to an empty dining room.  I had to reserve doing my best Julie Andrews impression, spinning fancifully about the space with imagined petticoats.  Any table?  All of them are clean and available?  This is was an orgasm of a lunch.  I was entirely too happy for such a minor coincidence, but as noted in the previous installation, I'll take all the wins I can get on a Monday.

I was conservative, choosing a two-top and sitting on the bench side.  I waited for my number to be called and dozed off into my phone.  A few people trickled in, but I kept hearing "to go" as the preferred service method, so my happiness remained.

"For here," a deep voice answered.  My eyes shot up.  C'mon, dude.  Let me have this entire Burger King my way.  Let me burger queen and reign over this particular location for a hot second.  I grabbed my food after they summoned me, and returned to my spot. I unwrapped my burger and spread my fries, preparing them for a salt shower.

The man plopped down at the table next to mine, on the bench side.  I about fucking gagged when his stench plumed off him, sitting down with a gruff grumble.  The aroma contained cigarettes, cologne lacquered on with the intent of hiding the lack of a recent shower, and vodka.  It was so overwhelming that I actually waited to start on my burger until I could adjust to the smell.  I considered moving, but I thought it would be too rude.

Then again, was he not rude as fuck for seeing a dining room that was empty besides one damn person and sitting next to that person?  I mean, just from a pure logical standpoint, did you really think that was gonna work out?  Yes, please violate my space as a means of trying to attract me.  Next time, make eyes at me from across the room.  Much easier to turn you down if I don't have to engage with you beyond that.

I really dove into my phone, subtly scooting to the far edge of the table to create extra space.  Chuckling at some posts from friends, I noticed he'd try to look over at my screen every time I seemed amused.  It was annoying as shit.  I finally shot him a dirty look, but he seemed oblivious.

"You're real cute," he said, offering a crooked smile.

I'm learning a bit of American Sign Language as part of being a preschool teacher, so I signed: thank you, horse, the letter 'J', the letter 'B', happy, and listen in response.  I'm running out of ways to evade men.  I thought a wedding ring was a good enough symbol of my universal "nah, bruh", but evidently not.

He looked disappointed.  "You're deaf?"

"Mmm hmmm," I responded, going back to my phone.  I tried not to cringe at the fact that I'd just answered a question he spoke, but then again, he didn't seem to catch on anyway.  He shimmied over to the far side of his table too.  I ate quickly, hoping he wouldn't see that I was on foot and follow me back to work.

All this for a sandwich.

Visiting Burger King on Mondays, Pt. 1

The hardest decision of a typical working day for me is choosing where I'll have lunch; when the nature of your work is consistent routine and you're merely an assistant in the maintenance of said routine, you're stuck being excited to make one decision for the day.  There are too many good options within a reasonable distance of my job, to the point that the grocery store a few blocks away has a beautiful lounge in it to encourage folks to eat there instead of the other twenty or so restaurants nearby.

I was hungry as hell last Monday.  I could've had a meal from each nearby spot and still looked for more after wiping the last morsel from my lips.  There are sit down places, but since I was walking, I needed somewhere fast.  So, basically, it was McDonald's or Burger King.  I wanted coffee, so McDonald's, but I wanted to be full after paying for a meal, so Burger King won.  The Whopper is too beautiful a sandwich to pass up.

Ordered, waited, and sat down at a table alone.  There was a man in a suit a few spots away from me, and I wondered what his day was like to be dressed so nicely and eating in at Burger King by his lonesome.  I pulled out my phone to check my email while I picked at my fries.  I was in a zone when a man, presence preceded by the funk of a horrifically masculine cologne-like aroma and unjustified bravado, slowed down as he passed me.  He looked a bit older than me, short black hair spiked up in a way that meant to conceal its thin constitution, and a tight black shirt designed to show off his pecs.  His physique made me question his desire for anything that required his fetching a seat at Burger King.

The change in his tempo alerted me. My eyes shot up from my screen in guarded suspicion, a silent "the fuck are you looking at?"  Don't hit on me, don't ask me shit, don't talk to me.  I'm on break. No one is paying me for my kindness at the moment.

He sneers.  "You ain't gonna eat all that."

Let's pause, because for a moment, I did at the table.  Every single time someone has shamed me for being thin, I've died a bit.  I am not skinny because I work out too much, I skip meals, or am dealing with an eating disorder.  I have an insane metabolism, acid reflux, and stomach issues beyond that which I haven't figured out enough to get around (read: I don't dig doctors). Ta-da!  You've gotten "my secret."  I don't know why that's earned so many "I hate you's", nor do I understand the envy of being in pain and sick all the damn time simply because "skinny" is a side effect.  That's my thin.  It is "I'm going to eat this, and if all goes well, it won't feel like I'm getting stabbed as I digest it" thin.  It would be much cooler to be, "I eat well, work out a reasonable amount, and can eat a Whopper a reasonable number times a year" healthy.

Healthy, not thin. Whatever my body would look like when I'm not in bed immediately after getting home from work because I ate the wrong thing at lunch.

Where did envy fit into the picture of this buff guy talking out the side of his neck at me? Did it? I wasn't missing his humor - the man seemed genuinely irritated at the fact that my size two self was sitting at Burger King with a Whopper in front of me. After he spoke, he had a cavalier look in his eye, continuing his slow stride by my table.  He looked strangely pleased with himself, which infuriated me.  What claim did he have to this space, to critique my body, and what I am able to do?  What made him decide that this was a necessary comment?  If the only thing he wanted was to put someone down for the day, his receding hairline and contoured gym tits would have to find another victim.  I walked seven blocks for this burger, and I was going to goddamn enjoy it.  I didn't deserve his shit today.

I politely responded: "Fuck you."

The "f" in "fuck" lasted an eternity.  He knew what was going to be said long before he heard it.  He looked surprised, but continued on.  I supposed he was looking for a shrinking violet.  Nope.  I smiled at him as I crumpled the wrapper on my tray, a doubling down on my earlier expressed sentiments.

I got told I couldn't finish the burger other people told me I needed to eat. Body shaming is fucking stupid.

the holtzclaw survivors.

Former Oklahoma City police officer Daniel Holtzclaw was sentenced to two hundred and sixty-three motherfucking years in prison.  I feel it necessary to emphasize every single syllable of his conviction, grammar be damned.  My breath caught in my throat as I read a report of the verdict and court events, and still every time I see it, it's a fresh wave of emotion.

I will never make any attempt to conceal my status as a survivor of sexual assault and rape; the shame of that status is not mine to bear.  Seeing news articles around the subject recall certain sentiments and personal memories.  While I'm able to get a good handle on flare-ups in the majority of situations, I can imagine a good portion of survivors can not.

After I told my story at the Vagina Monologues, I remember my campus mailbox filling with cards of support and confession from fellow survivors.  Most of them weren't signed.  Their stories flash through my head every time someone writes off survivors' testimony.  I still wonder how they're doing, years later.  Are they wading through this current cultural fascination with sexual deviance, sanity intact?  What does this and other discussions sound like to them?  What are the implications of the social conjecture surrounding the accusations of celebrities being sexual aggressors, especially in situations that will not or can not be tried in court?

If they're stuck silent, if they're considering pressing charges, if they are waiting for a judge's sentence, or, like me, if they have had their perpetrator sentenced to jail time, still, there's no point in the process of absolute safety, not even a maximum sentence. I thought I had it, but a few years ago, a parole hearing tested me more than I could have anticipated.  That negative little voice will always have something to offer, whether a discouraging scream or a subtle, derailing whisper.  Let intuition ring louder, celebrating the fact that you've made it this far and that it's okay to trust again.

Even as I consider the silent confessions I know, I am implicit in forcing them to deal with the topic and surrounding rhetoric.  I can't help wanting to scream this conviction from the rooftops.  It is devastating to be distrusted with information so sensitive, but vindication, permanent avoidance of your perpetrator, and justice are all excellent pieces of beginning to find the pieces of your sanity after surviving chaos.

I don't know how those women felt when the verdict was read.  I was twelve years old at the sentencing hearing, and I remember a strong priority for finally finishing one of the most heinous reasons to be missing seventh grade before the judge's speech.  I didn't understand the gravity of the event when it happened.

May some of that gravity be lifted from those women with this conviction.

in reality.

I didn't realize how bad my depression had gotten until I revisited my defunct blog to see that my last draft was an unfinished suicide letter.  I haven't read it, but the title was an instant reminder.  I don't say that for sympathy, but rather, a reminder to myself that, fuck, it was almost the end.

2015 was a resolutely shitty year.  I feel like I watched myself live it instead of actually being in my body for any part of it.  For me, depression is the act of cowering under a blanket of bullshit woven by some salient incidents and false narratives.  It wasn't the first time darkness has gotten too heavy a grip on my shoulder, and I'm sure it won't be the last.  I hope I can contain the fire before the entire forest is razed should we ever meet again.

Today, I am verdant sprouts upon scorched earth.  I am fog clearing, lifted by saccharine zephyrs and piercing light.  As the phoenix, I will rise, and let the embers fall off my wings as I ascend.

Oddly, this insight was gained by virtue of starting my taxes.  I made more money in 2014 than I did in 2015, yet I only worked for eight months in 2014.  I looked at those two figures, thousands of dollars apart, and my first thought was, "it's time to get real.  This isn't working."  No more bullshit blanket.

I'm sure most writing advice sites don't advocate for introducing yourself to potential readers as a sometimes depressed, broke, rape survivor with stars in her eyes after New Year's Eve, but in the interest of being real, I am.