Fandom At The Crossroads:

Celebration, Shame
and Fan/Producer Relationships
 Fandom At The Crossroads:
Celebration, Shame
and Fan/Producer Relationships

By

Lynn Zubernis and Katherine Larsen

 Fandom At The Crossroads:
Celebration, Shame and Fan/Producer Relationships,
by Lynn Zubernis and Katherine Larsen

This book first published 2012

Cambridge Scholars Publishing

12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Copyright © 2012 by Lynn Zubernis and Katherine Larsen

All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN (10): 1-4438-3530-7, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-3530-5

 TABLE OF CONTENTS

List of Illustrations .................................................................................... vii

Acknowledgements .................................................................................... ix

Introduction ................................................................................................. 1

Chapter One............................................................................................... 16
Lost in Space: Participatory Fandom and the Negotiation of Fan Spaces

Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 36

Taking Sides: Business or Pleasure?

Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 57

I’m Too Sexy For My Stereotype

Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 82

Fandom as Change Agent: Transformative Whats?

Chapter Five ............................................................................................ 116

Only Love Can Break Your Heart: Fandom Wank and Policing
the Safe Space

Chapter Six .............................................................................................. 143

And The (Fourth) Walls Come Tumbling Down

Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 175

The Reciprocal Relationship: How Much is Too Much?

Bibliography ............................................................................................ 230

Index........................................................................................................ 243
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. I-1: The somewhat attractive Jensen Ackles

Fig. I-2: The somewhat attractive Jared Padalecki
Fig. I-3: icons (investment)
Fig. 1-1: Padalecki confers with Ackles onstage at a con
Fig. 1-2: Jensen Ackles entertains the fans
Fig. 1-3: Packed house: The space between audience and performer
Fig. 1-4: Breakfast with the boys: Jared and Jensen do stand-up
Fig. 1-5: Squee! The boys are back in town.
Fig. 1-6: Leaving an impression: Padalecki signs a fan’s shirt
Fig. 1-7: The trappings of celebrity: Ackles and his arsenal of sharpies
Fig. 1-8: Plastic Winchester Theater’s Sam and Dean
Fig. 2-1: Boundary violations: Padalecki with dogs Harley and Sadie
Fig. 2-2: In the closet: Sam and Dean’s “Personals”
Fig. 2-3: Oh no, stalkers!
Fig. 2-4: You’re writing a book about what??
Fig. 2-5: Jensen and Jared give up and pose for a photo op without Lynn
Fig. 3-1: icons (shame)
Fig. 3-2: icons (shame)
Fig. 3-3: The disturbingly attractive Ackles
Fig. 3-4: icons (shame)
Fig. 3-5: icons (shame)
Fig. 3-6: icons (shame)
Fig. 3-7: icons (objectify)
Fig. 3-8: icons (projection)
Fig. 3-9: icons (shame)
Fig. 3-10: icons (shame)
Fig. 3-11: fandom secret anonymous post
Fig. 3-12: fandom secret anonymous post
Fig. 4-1: icons (slash)
Fig. 4-2: icons (therapy)
Fig. 4-3: icons (therapy)
Fig. 4-4: fandom secret anonymous post
Fig. 4-5: fandom secret anonymous post
Fig. 4-6: fandom secret anonymous post
Fig. 5-1: icons (wank)
viii List of Illustrations

Fig. 5-2: icons (J2)

Fig. 5-3: icons (RPS)
Fig. 5-4: icons (tinhats)
Fig. 6-1: Breaking the first rule of fandom
Fig. 6-2: icons (subtext)
Fig. 6-3: Never dare Jim Beaver to do anything
Fig. 6-4: The creator speaks: Eric Kripke fronts his creations
Fig. 6-5: icons (fourth wall)
Fig. 6-6: icons (fourth wall)
Fig. 6-7: comic shame
Fig. 7-1: Padalecki and Ackles have each other’s backs
Fig. 7-2: “I see you, you see me” – sort of.
Fig. 7-3: Paparazzi! Ackles turns the tables
Fig. 7-4: Signs of affection: Fan gifts in a con green room
Fig. 7-5: We’re all in this together: Fan quilt hangs in production office
Fig. 7-6: Ackles is a Sam fan too
Fig. 7-7: Real life subtext
Fig. 7-8: Real life brothers
Fig. 7-9: Fandom is fun
Fig. 7-10: Misha Collins attempts angelic
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to our colleagues at George Washington University and West

Chester University, for their support and input over the five years of
researching this book. Thanks also to our families, who remained
supportive even under sometimes trying circumstances. Special thanks to
Matt Hills for his thoughtful and comprehensive critique of the final
manuscript and invaluable suggestions.

We’re grateful to the two photographers who contributed so much to

Fandom at the Crossroads, Elizabeth Sisson and Christopher Schmelke.
Their talent speaks for itself in these pages. We are also indebted to Adam
Malin, Gary Berman and Stephanie Pettit of Creation Entertainment for
their invaluable help in facilitating interviews and understanding the
intricacies of conventions, and to Betsy Morris, David Mackay, Elizabeth
Yoffe, Tony Zierra, Susie Hinton, Bhavna and Night Shyamalan for the
diverse perspectives about fans, creators and blurred boundaries.

This book could not have been written without the generous, insightful and
candid contributions of countless Supernatural fans, whom we have come
to know online and in person. Over the past six years, they sat down with
us for dozens of interviews. They also welcomed us into their homes,
shared convention hotel rooms, stood beside us in autograph lines, and
joined us for squeeful episode viewings, slightly inebriated con karaokes,
and treks all over the Vancouver countryside in search of filming
locations. They have been there with encouragement and support, fellow
fans and now friends.

Equally important to the creation of this book are the contributions of the
creative side who bring Supernatural to life each week. The vast majority
of our interviewees took time out of hectic shooting schedules to sit down
with us in person, and to answer our sometimes unusual questions. We’re
grateful to Eric Kripke, Sera Gamble, Serge Ladouceur, Jerry Wanek,
Chris Cooper, Robin Stooshnov, Carmelita Fowler, Lee-Ann Elaschuk,
Mary-Ann Liu, Jason Fischer and Clif Kosterman for sharing their
contributions to the making of Supernatural. Many of the actors and
musicians associated with Supernatural shared their thoughts as well –
x Acknowledgements

thanks to Misha Collins, Jim Beaver, Richard Speight Jr., Matt Cohen,
Chad Lindberg, Gabe Tigerman, Todd Stashwick, Samantha Smith, C.
Malik Whitfield, Samantha Ferris, Fred Lehne, Steve Carlson, Jason
Manns, Brian Buckley and Danneel Ackles. Special thanks to Jensen
Ackles and Jared Padalecki for their candor, thoughtful insights and sense
of humor.

We couldn’t have done it without all of you!

All celebrity interviews were personal interviews conducted between 2007

and 2011 unless otherwise noted. Fan comments included were personal
interviews or online public posts collected between 2007 and 2011 unless
otherwise noted.

Icons included as illustrations are all publicly posted LiveJournal avatars

collected between 2007 and 2011. Fandomsecrets are all publicly posted
on LiveJournal between 2007 and 2011.

Photographs are by authors except as noted below. All photographs taken

for this book and used with permission.

Fig. I-1: Elizabeth Sisson Fig. 3-3: Christopher Schmelke

Fig. I-2: Elizabeth Sisson Fig. 6-1: Elizabeth Sisson
Fig. 1-1: Elizabeth Sisson Fig. 6-4: Elizabeth Sisson
Fig. 1-2: Elizabeth Sisson Fig. 7-1: Christopher Schmelke
Fig. 1-3: Elizabeth Sisson Fig. 7-2: Elizabeth Sisson
Fig. 1-4: Elizabeth Sisson Fig. 7-3: Christopher Schmelke
Fig. 1-5: Elizabeth Sisson Fig. 7-4: Elizabeth Sisson
Fig. 1-6: Elizabeth Sisson Fig. 7-6: Elizabeth Sisson
Fig. 1-7: Elizabeth Sisson Fig. 7-7: Christopher Schmelke
Fig. 1-8: Elizabeth Sisson Fig. 7-8: Christopher Schmelke
Fig. 2-3: Christopher Schmelke Fig. 7-9: Christopher Schmelke
Fig. 2-4: Christopher Schmelke Fig. 7-10: Christopher Schmelke
Fig. 2-5: Christopher Schmelke Back cover: Christopher Schmelke
 INTRODUCTION

Halfway through a celebrity Q&A at a Supernatural fan convention in

Los Angeles, an attending fan broke the first rule of fandom (“Tell no one
about fandom!”) by asking what the actors onstage thought of fanfiction.
A groan rolled through the mostly female crowd, followed by an awkward
moment of silence as the actors groped for an appropriately diplomatic
answer. The actors (Travis Wester and A.J. Buckley) seemed more
amused than traumatized by the question; not so some of the gathered
fandom. The dozen or so fangirls we joined for dinner that night were still
talking about “the incident” several hours later, and the debate was heated.
One woman asserted that questions from fans need to be moderated, lest
the fan ask something “weird,” going so far as to say that “an authority
figure needs to step in.” Presumably the authority figures in question
would be the co-owners of Creation Entertainment (the company staging
the event), who are both men in their fifties. The notion that a room full of
adult women couldn’t be trusted to ask their own questions without being
vetted by two male “authority figures” was disconcerting, but it wasn’t
entirely surprising. It reflects some pervasive assumptions about fans—
assumptions from which fans themselves often operate.
Much has been written over the last three decades about fans, often in
an attempt to rehabilitate the image of the fan, to validate fan practices, to
celebrate and defend fandom, to declare certain battles won. But for all
the declarations about the positive force of fandom, a pervasive sense of
shame permeates both fan spaces and academic approaches to the subject.
There is shame about being a fan at all, shame over the extremity of
“some” fans, shame over “certain” fan practices, over having those
practices revealed to the rest of the world, or to the fannish objects
themselves, as the fan at the convention discovered. There is also shame
about studying something as “frivolous” as fandom—or worse yet, taking
frivolous pleasure ourselves, “sitting too close” instead of remaining
suitably detached observers.
We should know. We’ve been sitting too close to our television sets
once a week for the past seven years. When it comes to Supernatural,
we’re anything but detached.
Supernatural (known within the fandom as “Show” or “SPN”)
premiered on September 13, 2005, on what was then The WB network.
2 Introduction

Creator Eric Kripke was inspired by Kerouac’s On The Road, sending his
heroes Sam and Dean driving across an explicitly American landscape in a
big black ’67 Impala to investigate the urban legends that had fascinated
Kripke since childhood. The show was expected to appeal to the coveted
18-49 male demographic. However, the casting of Jared Padalecki and
Jensen Ackles as the show’s male leads made it clear that the network was
hoping to attract viewers with more than gun battles and gore. A last
minute decision to make Sam and Dean brothers opened up the possibility
for a closer relationship than a Luke and Han style friendship would have
allowed, and turned the term “bromance” literal. The obvious chemistry
between the actors, widely commented on by everyone involved with the
show and anyone who has ever interviewed Ackles and Padalecki in
person, also contributed to the series’ evolution. Initially produced as
monster-of-the-week episodes crafted to scare, Supernatural found its
stride when it combined urban legends with a powerful and nuanced
relationship drama, exploring the intense, complicated, decidedly angsty
bond between the brothers.
While Supernatural has flown under the radar until recently, the series
attracted a passionate fan base from the beginning. When Henry Jenkins
put out a query on his blog in 2007 asking what show his readers thought
he should be watching, the vast majority recommended Supernatural.
Jenkins easily succumbed, writing “I more or less ended up inhaling
Season One, watching the episodes in sequence and thus seeing the
characters’ inner lives come bubbling up again and again.” Jenkins
described the show as acting as a “cultural attractor,” tapping into the
zeitgeist of the moment (2007a). In a world concerned with the largely
invisible threat of terrorism, Jenkins notes, fighting unseen evil resonates
with viewers, allowing Supernatural to draw on our current generalized
anxiety while also tapping into our more primal fears about what might be
lurking under our beds, in our closets—or, most frightening of all, in our
own minds.
Supernatural also tells a story of familial ties, love and loyalty. The
Winchesters, father John and sons Dean and Sam, are a different sort of
nuclear family. Essentially homeless nomads after the death of their
mother, the boys grew up in motel rooms, criss-crossing the United States
with their demon hunter father. They are far from stereotypical, yet they
are what we all recognize as family. They argue, they disagree, they break
apart, they come back together. But most of all they love, often to the
point of literal self-sacrifice. In a political climate filled with the rhetoric
of family values, Supernatural seems to affirm what family means while
confirming that families can flourish in non-traditional ways.
 Fandom At The Crossroads 3

In order for a media text to be a successful cultural attractor, there must

also be a way in for fans, with meaningful ways to participate. Supernatural
provides a canon open enough to invite speculation, discussion, critical
evaluation, and transformative works, while at the same time sustaining a
remarkably consistent mythology which has now stretched over seven
seasons. Episodes continue to provide glimpses of the boys’ backstory,
sometimes in flashbacks to Sam and Dean’s childhood, sometimes through
time travel, sometimes even with a glimpse of the boys’ idiosyncratic
versions of heaven—enough to captivate, but never to satisfy. The show
provides an intense emotional pull as well with the deep, codependent,
self-sacrificing, borderline pathological relationship between Sam and
Dean. Since Sam and Dean are brothers, the characters are given a pass for
displays of emotion outside the cultural norms for masculinity. Thus,
Supernatural offers fans a sort of pick-your-own love relationship between
the boys, allowing fans to invest in their passionate love, either
platonically or otherwise. As Jenkins writes, “We want to see men emote
for each other, and the family ties allow for a narrative that can play with
this instead of justifying it” (2007a).
The show is also a testament to the immediacy of fandom in the age of
the internet. The first Live Journal site dedicated to Supernatural predated
the airing of the pilot by two months, after buzz from Comic Con got fans
talking. The first dedicated website went up several days after. The first
fanfiction community on Live Journal was created two days before the
airing of the pilot, and the first fanfiction was posted within hours of the
show’s debut. As we’ll see later, actors and producers are often there,
side by side with the fans, tweeting from the set or even during the airing
of particular episodes. Fan practices are incorporated into the show itself
and canon and “fanon” live side by side. Indeed the fandom surrounding
Supernatural can be seen as an excellent example of “convergence culture,
where old and new media collide, where grassroots and corporate media
intersect, where the power of the media producer and the power of the
media consumer interact in unpredictable ways” (Jenkins 2006, 2).
This explains what brings fans to the show. How we came to the
show, and how we’ve negotiated the multiple roles we’ve occupied both in
fandom and as academics investigating fandom, is a story at once parallel
to and deeply entwined with our analysis of the fandom. Both of us have
long fannish histories. We met via another fandom (Velvet Goldmine) and
have shared many of the same fannish interests ever since. We did not
come naturally to Supernatural, however, nor did we arrive there at the
same time. Rather, we were lured there by a mutual friend who thought the
show would be something that would appeal to us. She gifted us with DVD
4 Introduction

Fig. I-1. The somewhat attractive Jensen Ackles

 Fandom At The Crossroads 5

Fig. I-2. The somewhat attractive Jared Padalecki

6 Introduction

sets, reminded us to watch on Thursday nights, and provided well- crafted

near-essays on the quality of the acting, writing and production. She
played dirty by sending us photos of the show’s (somewhat attractive) lead
actors. After some initial hesitation and false starts, she prevailed—we
were both sucked headlong into the series.
We live in different states and don’t get the chance to be in the same
place at the same time all that often. When we could finally arrange a “fan
weekend,” we mainlined the entire first season of Supernatural on DVD in
what we’d later categorize as a “lost day”. We sat down to watch early one
morning, and stayed there all day and into the night, stopping periodically
to ogle screencaps and close-ups and mutter appreciative curses. We slept
for a few hours and then got up with the sun to start right back in. At 6 pm
the next day, we stared at each other and Lynn asked blearily, “Did we
ever even eat anything this weekend?” The answer—alarmingly—was no.
Clearly our investment was anything but casual.
By early 2008, we were completely immersed in the Supernatural
fandom, but still lacking a satisfactory explanation of our own experience.
We were frustrated by media coverage that seemed to misrepresent and
pathologize fans, and by academic theorizing which seemed to give lip
service to writing as an aca-fan but to continually shy away from
confessing the actual fan side of the equation. Why, we wondered, are
fans—ourselves included—still so ashamed to admit it? The tenacity of
this uncomfortable emotion seems particularly unexpected at a time when
the economic power of fans has become an accepted (and much-courted)
force. An article by Lance Neuhauser in MediaBizBloggers posed the
provocative question, “Want to know the value of a ‘fan’?” The answer to
that, according to a study by Vitrue on the LQ Digital IQ Index, is $3.60.
This value increases, however, with what Neuhauser calls the consumer’s
“return on interaction”—the impetus to share experiences and knowledge.
Consumers have changed the way they communicate, with a study on the
value of Twitter followers concluding that “social media fans are two-
thirds more likely to recommend a brand they’ve friended to a friend, or to
buy the products themselves.” The economic force of fandom alone should
garner it a more favorable place in the culture. And yet the image of the
fan remains persistently “othered” (2010).
The growing field of fan studies, into which we plunged with as much
enthusiasm and shame as we did into fandom itself, seems open to a more
immersed and emotionally focused exploration. The first wave of fan
studies assumed a dichotomy of power, following de Certeau’s (1984)
description of powerful producers on one side and disempowered consumers
on the other. Second and third wave theorists moved away from an
 Fandom At The Crossroads 7

assumed dichotomy, but continued to focus on questions of class and

subversion (Fiske 1992; Thornton 1995). More recently, theorists have
explored the role of fandom in constructing fans’ identity, and the social
and cultural significance of identity performance in distribution of power
(Sandvoss 2005; Hellekson and Busse 2006; Hills 2002) and have
introduced a focus on the individual and the subjective previously
neglected in cultural studies, including prioritizing the emotional aspects
of fanning (Lancaster 2001).
Those emotional aspects of fanning also, of course, apply to those of us
who fit the definition of aca-fans. In Convergence Culture, Jenkins
stresses the need to examine fandom from an emotional perspective, from
a standpoint of immersion instead of distance:
These aspects of popular culture are difficult to understand from a stance
of contemplative distance. To understand how popular culture works on
our emotions, we have to pull it close, get intimate with it, let it work its
magic on us, and then write about our own engagement…capturing their
own subjective responses to popular text and using them as a point of entry
into understanding larger cultural processes and aesthetic issues.
Unfortunately, various forms of distanciation have been built into the
theoretical traditions and aesthetic categories through which we study
popular culture (2006, 10).

Our decision to write from a position of immersion within Supernatural

fandom is intended, undoubtedly with varying degrees of success, to
reduce that distance. In doing so, we attempt to respond to the suggestion
of Hills (2002) and others that what we write about fandom should be
accessible to fans, written in a language that doesn’t require an advanced
degree or years of specific study to comprehend, yet without the subtle
condescension that comes from underestimating fandom’s collective
intelligence and expertise. We also try to retain those emotional aspects of
fandom that have been neglected in fan theory. After all, none of us
became fans because it wasn’t fun! Throughout the text, we incorporate a
sampling of icons, used as both avatars for online posts in various fan
spaces and as a form of creative expression. Icons are a unique language,
providing everything from social criticism to biting snark to uninhibited
emotional reactions, also known as “squee.” Our strong investment in
Supernatural fandom is clearly not the exception, as many SPN fan icons
proclaim.
8 Introduction

Fig. I-3

What also remains largely unexplored in the field of fan studies is the
application of psychological theory which goes beyond the often
pathologizing lens of psychoanalytic analysis to examine both individual
and communal psychological aspects of fanning. Both Sandvoss and Hills
call for such approaches to fandom, with Hills contending that it “seems
impossible to take fandom seriously without taking fan psychology
seriously” (Hills 2002, 22). We agree—not surprisingly, since one of us is
a clinical psychologist and the other teaches from a background of literary
criticism and analytical approaches to fame and celebrity. Deeply
immersed in the Supernatural fandom ourselves, we wanted to explore
fandom from the inside, looking at fannish motivation, emotion, satisfaction,
and conflict. But we wanted to go further. Taking Jenkins’ idea of
convergence culture and the reciprocal relationship between fans and the
creative side as a starting point, we wanted to cross another barrier.
Having already attempted to straddle the line between academic and fan,
we set out to cross an even more thickly drawn line—that between fan and
creator. Juggling all three roles landed us in more uncomfortable positions
than we were prepared for, but also brought to light, in an immediate and
personal way, the tensions inherent in being a fan and in studying fandom.
 Fandom At The Crossroads 9

Chapter One: Lost in Space—Participatory Fandom

and the Negotiation of Fan Spaces
We begin by exploring the diverse ways in which fans participate in
fandom, and the variety of fan spaces they inhabit. The most dominant
constructions of fandom paint a picture of monolithic spaces in which all
fans are engaging in the same behaviors. Harry Potter fans all dress up
and stand in line for midnight showings, Star Wars fans all pack light
sabers. In reality, the modes of fannish engagement are as diverse as the
people who come to fandom. The definition of fandom has thus been hard
to pin down. How can we ascribe meaning to a concept so varied and
fragmented, which seems to mean something different to every individual
who defines themselves as a fan? Aca-fans have categorized fans
according to their degree of participation, at times leaving the less
participatory fans out of the taxonomy completely. Fans differ widely in
the types of participation they seek out and the fan spaces to which they
are drawn.
The concept of niche-seeking is relevant to most human behavior,
fandom included. We all strive to find those places—physical, psychological,
social and emotional—where we feel most accepted and least different.
Thus, some fans are drawn to role playing games (RPGs) and others to
post fanart on Tumblr or fanvids on Youtube. Some fans feel an acute
sense of being “at home” when they discover the fanfiction community for
the first time on the private space of their own laptop, and others when
they travel across the country to attend their first fan convention. Each fan
space has its own customs, norms and expectations for participation.
Different spaces meet different needs and attract different types of fans,
offering validation, inclusion, artistic inspiration, escape, freedom of
expression, or whatever an individual fan is (subconsciously at least)
seeking. And, as we will see in later chapters, fan spaces differ widely in
terms of openness, their boundaries ranging from relatively permeable to
ironclad.
When a particular fan space is perceived as quite different from the
non-fannish culture in which it is embedded, there is a high degree of
protectiveness, with fans policing the boundaries diligently. An
internalized sense of shame produced by the perception of difference is
often the motivation for such protectiveness. Fans speak of finding a “safe
space,” but disagree on what the parameters are which would create such a
place.
10 Introduction

Chapter Two: Taking Sides—Business or Pleasure?

As we analyze fannish spaces on a continuum of open through tightly
closed systems, we examine the reality of the fan closet and the forces that
keep fans there. Cornel Sandvoss (2005) and others contend that fandom is
now a common and ordinary aspect of everyday life in the industrialized
world. Similarly, Matt Hills credits both his academic and fan lives to the
“encouragement, indulgence and tacit legitimation offered by my family”
(2002, 87). This comfort with fandom, however, may well be rooted in
certain aspects of individual experience, including gender (male) and type
of fandom (in Sandvoss’s case, mostly a sports fan). Tell your colleagues
that you just flew across the country to go to a Supernatural fan
convention and you’re likely to be confronted with blank stares and
awkward questions. You went where? For what?
Us: “Supernatural.”
Them: “Like the paranormal?”
Us: “Uh, no – it’s a television show. On the CW.”
More blank stares inevitably followed. Our responses ran the gamut
from defensive intellectualizing (“The writing is great!”) to denial (“It’s
not about the hot actors!”) to saying nothing at all, which is both the
easiest and most common choice. Given the cultural bias against emotion
and pleasure, it is small wonder that academics should be reluctant to
admit to the same behaviors they study. But as Tulloch (2000) notes, there
are significant theoretical and methodological implications attached to
how scholars research fandom—whether they are fans themselves, or
study fandom as something that others engage in. As Hills bluntly points
out, “Fans don’t like academics and vice versa”(2002, 3).Thus, fans have
been reluctant to allow a deep level of access to academics, limiting
analysis to interviews and observations whose inherent power imbalance
restricts the expression of affect in favor of the “good subject” of rational
discourse. Fans’ defensiveness leaves their guard up, resulting in self-
censorship that compromises understanding.
Fans are not the only ones reticent to self-disclose in a public forum.
Doty (2000) and Hills (2002) have questioned whether decades of hiding
fan culture theorists’ personal and cultural investment in their subjects
have served to “squeeze much of the life out of it in many senses” (Doty
2000, 11), and call for more explicitly auto-ethnographic work. At the
same time, both Hills and Doty acknowledge the danger of slipping into
being “overly confessional” or appearing “embarrassingly egotistical or
gee-whiz celebratory”—yet these affective states are inherent in fandom.
Aca-fans attempt to occupy a space which is uncomfortably split between
 Fandom At The Crossroads 11

fan space and the perceived legitimacy of academic space. Perhaps more
jarringly, aca-fans tend to be uncomfortable on both sides of the fence.
Fans eye us suspiciously, reluctant to be put under a microscope and
unwilling to consider us true fans. Academics are equally suspicious,
questioning the legitimacy of studying something as frivolous as popular
culture. The discomfort has often made aca-fans reluctant to disclose their
fannish selves when theorizing fandom, downplaying the emotional,
sexual and psychological investment and emphasizing the intellectual and
rational. Aca-fans are doubly ashamed—not only are we defensive about
studying fandom, but now we might have to acknowledge fan pilgrimages
to Supernatural shooting locations or camping out at 3 am for Comic Con
seats?
Our own strategy (occasionally embarrassing, confessional or gee-whiz
celebratory) has been to immerse ourselves head over heels into our
chosen fandom. The layered and nuanced understanding of the inner
workings of a particular fandom and the fandom’s relationship to the
societal structures that support and challenge it can only, it seems, be
discovered from the inside.

Chapter Three: I’m Too Sexy For My Stereotype

The pursuit of pleasure seems inextricably intertwined with the sense
of shame, whether it’s the evolutionary pleasure of sex or the pleasure
sought in “frivolous amusement,” the definition of which shifts with
cultural exigency (attendance at theatrical productions and reading novels
were both formerly discouraged after all). Some would go one step further
and argue that the two share a second important characteristic as well—
namely that we should be ashamed of ourselves for experiencing either
one.
The influence of shame in negotiating fannish identity and the selection
of fan spaces, as well as its impact in constraining how aca-fans study
fandom, may have been underestimated in a field which likes to proclaim
this “the age of the geek, baby!” In this chapter, we examine this
ubiquitous and uncomfortable emotion and its role in how fans have been
portrayed by both mainstream media and academic theorists. We also look
at the persistence of shame and its influence on identity and psychological
health, especially for women. Fandom, for many female fans, is compelling
for its invitation to self-expression, including sexual expression. At the same
time, the negative connotations of “fangirl” persist, leaving fans caught
between the pull of a new authorized discourse and the fear of alienating
subscribers to the current one. We explore here the cultural proscriptions
12 Introduction

on female sexuality which contribute to fan shame, from post-war

wrestling fans and 1960s Beatlemania, to Radway’s (1984) analysis of
romance-reading fans and their grumbling husbands and sons, to Jenkins’
(1992) and Bacon-Smith’s (1992) Star Trek slash writers. We draw on our
rich store of fan interviews and fanworks to examine the persistence of
shame in contemporary Supernatural fandom, and its influence on the
creation of boundaries, norms and censure. The “first rule of fandom” is,
after all, “tell no one about fandom.” Fans continue to debate the risks and
benefits of its existence.

Chapter Four: Fandom as Change Agent—

Transformative Whats?
One of the reasons for fans’ protectiveness of their “safe space” is that
it is just that—a space that offers the protection and privacy needed for
genuine self-expression. In this chapter, we examine the therapeutic
potential of fandom, comparing it to the safe space of the therapy room.
Fandom has long been characterized as subversive on a societal level,
challenging gender and relational norms and existing power structures. We
suggest that fandom is often transformative on an individual level as well.
To explore fandom’s potential for more individual transformation,
however, it is necessary to narrow one’s lens and explore beneath the
surface of individual fans’ motivations. This presents a significant
challenge when viewing fandom from the outside. Fans, however, discuss
those inner fantasies and desires with other fans on a regular basis,
allowing this sort of analysis from within. We examine here the impact of
the community on the individual fan, as well as the production of
fanworks not merely as a form of self-projection and reflection, but as a
type of therapeutic expression, carried out within that supportive
community. Specifically, we discuss three well-researched routes to
psychological change—narrative therapy, expressive writing, and group
counseling—and locate similar modes of change through various types of
participation in fandom. In the process, we challenge internalized shame
in the same way fans are, explicating a more positive model of fandom.

Chapter Five: Only Love Can Break Your Heart—

Fandom Wank and Policing the Safe Space
In this chapter, we examine the flip side of the supportive fandom
community. As the field of fan studies has developed, there have been
several large-scale shifts in how fandom is viewed. Early researchers
 Fandom At The Crossroads 13

reacted to the pervasive negative view of fans by defending fan practices

as transformative and culturally subversive, seeking to rehabilitate the
image of the fan. That rehabilitation has not met with much success in the
mainstream media or culture, but has been widespread in academic
theorizing on fandom. In the early studies that shaped the field (Bacon-
Smith 1992; Jenkins 1992), academics were reluctant to recognize
hierarchies in fandom, characterizing fandom as a place where diversity of
opinion was uniformly welcomed; however, “wank” is also an integral
part of fandom. The popularity of online communities such as Fandom
Wank and ONTD (Oh No They Didn’t!), the existence of ‘hate memes,’
and the subtle and not-so-subtle relational bullying attest to fandom’s
passionate disagreements.
Recognizing fandom’s potential for individual transformation, we turn
in this chapter to the risks inherent in seeking and finding a safe space
while still struggling with internalized shame. In their efforts to maintain
the privacy necessary to a sense of safety, fans diligently police their fan
spaces—and other fans. We examine the impact of anonymity in online
fan spaces, the use of bullying and aggression to both jockey for position
and enforce norms, and the psychological motivations behind these
behaviors. The intense emotional investment and therapeutic potential of
fandom also creates a strong need to maintain its integrity, and to attack
threats both from the outside and from within.

Chapter Six: And The (Fourth) Walls Come Tumbling

Down
Perhaps surprisingly, one of the threats to the perceived privacy and
safety of fan spaces comes from the other side of the boundary—the
creative side who are the objects of fannish affection. Both aca-fans and
mainstream media have recognized the increasingly reciprocal relationship
between fans and producers, facilitated by internet technologies and social
media. The assumption is that both sides benefit. However, fans do not
always welcome the breaking of the First Rule of Fandom, whether it’s
incursion from the creative side or fans themselves doing the rule
breaking.
In this chapter, we examine the destruction of the fourth wall in
Supernatural’s recent seasons, which has intensified the sense of fan
shame by allowing those outside the safe space of fandom a glimpse
inside. Early theories of fandom were predicated on the necessity of
distance between fan and fannish object, with that distance allowing the
continued projection of fantasy that sustained the fan’s adoration. Fans
14 Introduction

thus controlled the narrative text through incorporation of elements that fit
with the individual’s self-projection. The hapless fan who asked the
Forbidden Question we witnessed at the convention revealed the lengths to
which fans will go to preserve secrecy, in order to keep the boundaries
between fan, creator and fannish object strictly delineated, something
Thompson (1995) describes as “mediated quasi-interaction.” The created
distance facilitates an audience members’ ability to shape a relationship
with both the text’s authors and the fannish objects themselves. While the
fan interacts intensely with a particular text, the text does not talk back.
Or does it?
The relationship between fans and the creative side, as well as the
human representations of the fannish objects themselves, are increasingly
reciprocal. As media texts are more widely disseminated and fans’
constructions become more visible, the division between the creative side
and audience is changing. With face-to-face interaction at conventions, the
hierarchical boundaries separating fans and fannish objects begin to break
down. Even more strikingly, the advent of Twitter, Facebook, and instant
feedback ensures that the relationship between fans and creators is no
longer unidirectional. The fourth wall has essentially crumbled, and the
reciprocal relationship that Jenkins first hypothesized more than a decade
ago in Convergence Culture is a reality.
Supernatural has become the media poster child for fourth wall
breaking over the past four years, its writers repeatedly demonstrating
their knowledge of fandom and portraying the show’s fans in “meta”
episodes. The stars of the television series have also delighted in
solidifying the reciprocal relationship with fans, utilizing Facebook and
Twitter to interact with fans and to publicize their own projects.
Supernatural is now the most popular subject of fan conventions, so
fan/celebrity interaction occurs in face-to-face venues as well, further
breaking the First Rule (and at times just about every rule) of fandom. In
this chapter, we analyze the multiple ways in which Supernatural has
taken the reciprocal relationship with fans to a new level—and fans’
reactions.

Chapter Seven: The Reciprocal Relationship—

How Much is Too Much?
One of the most common manifestations of internalized fan shame is
the projection of fans’ fears onto their fannish objects. Thus, fans
continually worry that the actors, writers, directors and producers are
mocking, criticizing, or otherwise pathologizing them. Although the
 Fandom At The Crossroads 15

relationship between fans and the creative side is indeed increasingly

reciprocal, nevertheless the lines of communication are often indirect,
filtered through third parties and prone to misinterpretation. In this
chapter, we explore the reality of producers’ thoughts on fans by doing
something that is rarely done either in fandom or in fan studies. We ask
them.
Over the course of several years of research we interviewed the
showrunners, writers, and actors who make the show, to hear their
thoughts on fans and fan practices. We visited the set and the production
offices, where almost everyone who helps bring Supernatural to life—the
art director, Impala wrangler, locations manager, director of photography,
production assistants— shared their take on fans. We asked about things
not usually covered in Entertainment Weekly—fanfiction, vidding,
conventions, cosplay, slash. And we not only asked, we answered. As
curious as fans are about what their fannish objects are thinking, the
creative side is equally curious about fans. Just as fans negotiate the
boundaries between various fan spaces, the creative side—actors in
particular—negotiate their own boundaries with fans and make careful
decisions about their constructed personas. In the course of our
discussions over the past four years, we inevitably broke some boundaries
too.
 CHAPTER ONE

LOST IN SPACE:
PARTICIPATORY FANDOM
AND THE NEGOTIATION OF FAN SPACES

Fans have often been categorized in terms of their modes of

participation, with that participation usually defined in terms of production.
Most taxonomies of fandom have not defined the consumption of a fanned
object or even the gathering of information about that object as participatory.
We may value (transgressive) appropriation and transformation over
“mere” consumption because, among other things, it provides us with
texts, thus overlooking what are perceived to be more “passive” forms of
engagement. However, a significant number of fans would define their
participation in terms of active consumption of information about their
fanned objects and the people who contribute to its creation (musicians,
actors, writers, directors, players). In reality this kind of interaction with
the text involves obtaining a wide ranging knowledge of the fanned object
and requires a significant amount of time and effort and a specific set of
technical skills. In this chapter, we use this broader definition of
“participation” and then examine the varied spaces in which these
practices take place, along with the differing expectations of privacy
inherent in each. These expectations of privacy in turn mirror the
propensity for shame and the subsequent desire for validation.
The definition of fandom has been hard to pin down, perhaps because
we tend to speak of fandom as a singular entity. A fandom surrounds
Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Twilight or the Boston Red Sox. But fandom
is hardly monolithic, and the internet has only facilitated and accelerated
the fragmentation of fandom into sometimes harmonious, sometimes
fractious groups that engage in a wide array of fan practices. Fans actively
consume information about their fannish “texts”; they construct wikis,
write fan fiction and create fan videos and fan art; they participate in role
playing games (RPG’s); they find each other on Tumblr; they attend fan
conventions; and increasingly they interact directly with actors, directors,
writers and others from the industry side via Facebook, Twitter and blogs
 Lost in Space: Participatory Fandom and the Negotiation of Fan Spaces 17

Fans rarely engage in just one practice. Artists are also writers or
readers or vidders. Writers might also participate on RPG sites, or they
may provide commentary and analysis of episodes in forums such as
Television Without Pity and the message boards at IMDB. Fans often
migrate from one fan space to another as their participation in fandom
grows or changes. Supernatural fan Mary Dominiak compared the
various practices she engages in and the fan spaces she inhabits:
I feel part of a couple of Supernatural communities. The first one was
TVGuide.com, initially with people who were commenting on the same
show-related blogs I visited…..I expanded to Supernatural.tv and Live
Journal, and there was a definite thrill in seeing more and more people
reading the things I write, both blogs and fanfiction. My correspondence
with other fans has gone beyond the show, particularly with fans I’ve met
in person at conventions or just by arranging real-world meetings. The
(online) fannish Supernatural communities are similar in many ways to
“face to face” communities structured around a common interest. The
major difference is that the fan community is actually much more diverse
than any of my face to face ones, encompassing a wide range of ages (as
young as 13 and as old as 65) and a multiplicity of nationalities, literally all
around the world.

Mary’s description of her engagement with her fandom closely mirrors

the range of skills and competencies that Abercrombie and Longhurst
(1998) delineated (technical, analytical and interpretive). She went from
being a consumer of “show related blogs” (technical skills) to a participant
in various communities, eventually beginning a blog of her own (analytical
skills), to writing fanfiction (interpretive skills). Her negotiation of fan
spaces is also illustrative of the ways in which these skills and practices
overlap.
Because fans participate in a variety of ways, they must constantly
negotiate and renegotiate boundaries, stepping back and forth between
public and private spaces. Some fan practices are mainstream enough to
make public spaces comfortable, while others are not.
18 Chapter One

Chart 1-1

Skill Fan Space Fan Practices Participation

Technical public spaces, Gathering

may have ties of information
(embody an to corporate through Consumptive
appreciation of entities reading
how the textual (production magazines,
effect is created. companies, websites,
For television this advertisers,
includes evaluation special interest
of acting, groups,
conveyance of academics)
feeling, production
values, script,
camera work)

Analytic Semi-public Fan forum Productive

spaces, but discussions, (often
(analysis of the text with the blogging. predicated on
from within the expectation technical)
parameters of the that they are
text itself.) fans-only
spaces

Interpretive Private, fans Creation of Productive

only spaces fan works (fan (often
(Interpretation of fiction, predicated on
texts from without videos, art, either technical
the text by music), or analytical
comparing them to participation skills, or a
something else.) in RPG’s. combination of
both)
 Lost in Space: Participatory Fandom and the Negotiation of Fan Spaces 19

Fan Practices, Fan Spaces and the Expectation of Privacy

Fan spaces online occupy a middle ground, commonly perceived as
private and yet in reality public and generally available to anyone with a
computer. Not only can they be accessed by anyone, they are often
vulnerable to outside influence, making true “fans only spaces” difficult to
find. Fans, as we’ll explore in later chapters, search for safe spaces in
which to express themselves openly, but the threat of censorship hangs
over most fan spaces in one way or another – whether this be incursion
from the owners of the properties, from advertisers on the site, or from
special interest groups who object to content. At times this incursion even
comes from the fans themselves.
Well known sites such as FanFiction.net have offered a central space
for writers from multiple fandoms. Created in 1998, FF.net remains the
largest archive of fanfiction on the internet. However, there were and
continue to be objections to the perceived public nature of the site, a
concern given the still shameful practice to which it is devoted. The site
itself attempted to validate the writing of fanfiction and reduce the threat
of criticism by adopting policies that function as censorship. Real Person
Fiction (RPF) and NC17 ratings were banned from the site in 2002, thus
curtailing the interpretive skills and self- expression of fans who wish to
write in either of these genres. Such censorship works to remove one of
the primary contributors to shame by simply taking out the sex.
The Organization for Transformative Works (OTW)’s Archive Of Our
Own, (known within fandom as AO3), in contrast, seeks to be inclusive
and non-restrictive in its policies and explicitly excludes any outside
interest groups who attempt to influence content. The Archive of Our
Own:
. . . offers a noncommercial and nonprofit central hosting place for
fanfiction and (long-term) other transformative fanworks: i.e. it is free to
use and does not make any money. It is multifannish and built on open-
source archiving software designed and built by and for fans. It is hosted
on servers owned by the OTW and therefore not vulnerable to a
commercial hosting company deciding they don't like our fanworks.

AO3’s twin goals, freeing writers from corporate interests and the
threat of imposition of social rules inconsistent with fandom, make it
attractive to fans who seek a “safe” space. However, fans have been slow
to accept AO3, perhaps because it has been seen as an academic space
that , no matter how open their policies, automatically carries with it an
“official” imprimatur that may put some fans off. As we’ll see later, the
20 Chapter One

incursion of academic spaces into fan spaces is not always welcomed.

AO3 put back the sex, but the perception of judgment may remain—this
time the fear of being “studied.”
Live Journal and Dreamwidth present alternative spaces for fans,
offering more privacy and a greater sense of community. Dreamwidth in
particular feels safe for fans, as it is supported only by user fees, without
ad revenue. Live Journal defines itself as “a global community of friends
who share your unique passions and interests,” a clear invitation to fandom
to come on in and make yourself at home. However, LJ has not been as
safe as fans would like to believe. Supported by ad revenue, LJ is
vulnerable to outside censorship. The Live Journal purge of content and
journals deemed inappropriate or obscene and the resulting fan protest,
known within fandom as “StrikeThrough” in 2007, and the Fanfiction.net
“RedBootton kerfluffle” in 2010 are examples of such censorship.
Some fans solve the problem of community by maintaining a journal at
Dreamwidth and cross posting their fanworks in Live Journal. As we’ll
explore in Chapter Three, online fan spaces, despite some outside
interference, nevertheless offer a greater sense of safety and privacy,
which encourage self-expression. But even within the most protected
spaces there is the possibility of incursion, and sometimes this threat is
from other fans. Despite their shared love of a particular television show,
band, or team, fans do not always easily co-mingle. For instance, the first
piece of Supernatural fanfiction posted in Live Journal appeared within
twenty-four hours of the airing of the pilot. It was “Wincest”, a type of
fiction that posits a romantic relationship between the two main characters
of the show, brothers Sam and Dean Winchester (Winchester + incest =
Wincest). This immediately sparked a response from those who
vehemently opposed this budding genre, and alternate communities were
formed before the second episode of the show had aired, including a now-
defunct “Anti-Wincest” community. Since then communities have formed
for Sam girls and Dean girls, those who want to see Dean hurt or Sam
limp, those who want to indulge in male pregnancy fic (MPreg), those
who want to see one or both of the boys suddenly sprout wings, or tails, or
have congress with angels. Alternative Universe (AU) fanfiction is
popular, putting the characters or the actors who portray them into
different situations that have nothing to do with either show canon or
personal reality. Jared is a troubled student and Jensen his conflicted
teacher, Dean is an executive at a large corporation and Sam is an
unappreciated IT person (no wait – that’s not fan fiction, that’s an episode
of Supernatural!). These separate communities offer discreet spaces for
all of these pieces of fandom to co-exist if not co-mingle.