I have a sick fascination with fan fiction, those often epic-novels written by ardent fans of movies, television shows, books, boy bands, video games and, strangely, real people. It’s not simply that I’m interested in the intense fandom exhibited by the creators of the work, but also that I wonder what separates the writers from the average student I might have in a writing workshop. There must be something that makes someone decide that they’d rather dream up ways for the Oompa Loompas to get their revenge on that bastard Wonka to share with fellow Magic: The Gathering fans vs. creating entirely fresh characters and worlds.

Fanfic isn’t exactly a new phenomenon: Sherlock Holmes starred in some of the earliest examples (off-line, obviously) and there are those who’d argue derivative works are in the same class. Now, of course, just like any decent form of art, there are different kinds of fan fiction, though the one that seems to get the most attention is slash, which involves, essentially, Kirk and Spock and a sudden realization that the hungry touch of man flesh (or, well, Vulcan flesh) is what both have long desired. Not all fan fiction is slash fiction, but I find slash by far the most amusing and confounding, particularly when I read about how the relationships are clearly in the subtext of the work, and when the characters are played by William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy. Or children. I'm less inclined to find fan fiction stories about real people harmless -- like, you know, stories about the actors from Boy Meets World meeting up in real life for hot sex with their fans. The characters? Fine. The actors? That's just weird. And troubling. And disturbing. And a little hot. Well, I mean, if I wasn't married and didn't have easy access to Cinemax.

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I have a sick fascination with fan fiction. Part of this is genetic, I'm sure, since my brother is one of the foremost opponents of fan fiction, largely based on issues of copyright and, I think, something having to do with reading a fan fiction story about Dick Van Dyke and his son Barry, both stars of a show my brother produced for many years, having a hurt/comfort scene together. I'd explain what a hurt/comfort scene is, but, well, I don't really know.

Autumn of the Patriarchs: Great American critic Edmund WilsonEach Sunday, I commit a crime in the name of personal literacy: I steal the New York Times Sunday Book Review from Starbucks. I’m not even discreet about it. I order my drink and whatever mound of trans-fat appeals to me from the pastry section and then I wander over to the newspaper stand and yank apart the New York Times until I find the Book Review. I then read the first couple of reviews in full view of the asexual – yet provocatively pierced – barista while I wait for the he/she to make my drink. No one says a word to me – not the employees of Starbucks, who’ve seen me do this every Sunday for the last six years nor my fellow patrons, many of whom I see so frequently in service of this crime that we now nod to each other like co-workers – because, clearly, no one cares about the book reviews. Now, if I filched the Sunday sports page, I can only imagine an Ox-Bow Incident ending.

If the workers and patrons of a typical suburban Starbucks don’t sound like a scientifically sound focus group, they do at least comprise a metaphorical one as it relates to the dwindling space and attention given to book reviews nationwide. Their tacit approval of my crime is emblematic of just how little readers in general care about what was once a staple of the Sunday paper and, for authors, the best way for them to get news of their latest work before the most likely buying audience.

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One of the more curious aspects of American culture is the way oppressed groups co-opt the words once used to denigrate them, turning them into accepted language within their own culture. Desensitization is a powerful coping tool, though what never ceases to amaze is how those same groups recoil in rage when the pejoratives they’ve come to accept as common parlance are hurled back at them as invective or simple-minded ignorance. A few months ago, my wife’s grandfather – a born-again Christian – asked me if I was able to “Jew down” a car salesman in order to get the particularly good deal I’d received.

I was both saddened and offended, though not all that surprised, since I think I’ve probably said the same term in a self-mocking fashion numerous times over the years, which I thought provided me some ownership over the pain; some desensitization. Words carry weight, even if they don’t break bones, and for that I suppose I should be grateful, since I’m capable of writing words but am not much of a street fighter. It’s when words and actions marry that it’s hard to make a distinction between intent and result. 

Which leads me to the curious case of Tom Wayne and William Leathem, owners of Prospero’s Books in Kansas City, who hosted a book burning – or, in their words an “act of art” – to rid themselves of 20,000 used books they couldn’t sell and which, they say, no one would even take from them for free. 

Tom Wayne amassed thousands of books in a warehouse during the 10 years he has run his used book store, Prospero's Books. His collection ranges from best sellers like Tom Clancy's "The Hunt for Red October" and Tom Wolfe's "Bonfire of the Vanities," to obscure titles like a bound report from the Fourth Pan-American Conference held in Buenos Aires in 1910. But wanting to thin out his collection, he found he couldn't even give away books to libraries or thrift shops, which said they were full. So on Sunday, Wayne began burning his books protest what he sees as society's diminishing support for the printed word. "This is the funeral pyre for thought in America today," Wayne told spectators outside his bookstore as he lit the first batch of books. The fire blazed for about 50 minutes before the Kansas City Fire Department put it out because Wayne didn't have a permit to burn them. Wayne said next time he will get a permit. He said he envisions monthly bonfires until his supply - estimated at 20,000 books - is exhausted.

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