Fan-Girl and Proud

Confessions of a (para)socialite

There’s a common phrase which says that we exist as mosaics of everyone we’ve ever loved. In my case, ‘everyone’ transcends the bounds of reality and onto film screens and bookshelves, straight into the Land of Make Believe, from where, even at 21, I still haven’t managed to depart. Yes, I consume media, but media consumes me in return. I guess you could say that I’ve never enjoyed it to a normal extent. My devotion comes from within and manifests without: where some look to entertainment solely for entertainment’s sake, I instead see the opportunity for self-reinvention. Rather than choosing the road not taken, I will almost always opt to follow in the faulty footsteps of my favourite fictional characters. 

I’d say that while I excel beyond mere moderate enjoyment (albeit lacking the enthusiasm required to reach ‘stan’ status), I’ve always been relatively discreet about this part of my life. It’s no surprise as to why: when you’re a woman who enjoys movies, television shows, bands, and/or book series, you automatically and will forever be known as a fan-girl — never just a fan. This gendered additive comes equipped with hefty stereotypes, suggesting not only that ‘hysterical’ behaviour is expected of female fans, but also that their preferred media is both unintellectual and unimportant. Just for once, I would like to enjoy Twilight without some Letterboxd pro user insisting that The Lighthouse should be regarded as the pinnacle of Robert Pattinson’s career. 

As far as I was always concerned, fandom had no place beyond my computer screen and imagination. My friends and I didn’t discuss the topic until months into knowing one another. It was only at my mention of the word “ship” — not in reference to a maritime mode of transportation but to my favourite fictional couple — that they rightfully recognised me as one of their own: a fellow habourer of edits and ePubs. One of my friends ran a relatively successful fan account equipped with her own watermark. Another had cultivated years’ worth of friendship via a group chat of mutual fans on X. All of us were well-versed in troped alternate universes, knew the distinction between “canon” and “fanon,” and had passed our adolescence shamelessly enraptured by the Internet’s best-kept secret. There was (and still is) an empowerment in fandom’s privacy: from the safe confines of your bedroom, exchanging ideas with those just as whimsically wired, you can be as unapologetically ludicrous as possible. 

Consider a twelve-year-old who wants to be an author when she grows up. She can test the waters by writing about her two favourite characters without crossing the threshold into the competitive, political realm of the publishing industry. She may grow up to be the next New York Times best-selling author, whose own works may even inspire another twelve-year-old to make their start just as she once did. The cycle continues, reaffirming that anything is possible and fandom reigns omnipotent. 

So, if you’re anything like me, the unconventional “tall child” byproduct of unsupervised perusals on Tumblr and Ao3, I challenge you to embrace it. Spare yourself the preemptive embarrassment of Harry Potter and Disney adults, and realise that you hail from a long line of story-telling aficionados. If Dante can take a walk through hell with Virgil, then who’s to say that you won’t get adopted by One Direction? And while your life is not guaranteed the safety cushion of fade-to-black cuts and rolling credits, sure to work itself out with scripted resolutions to last season’s cliffhangers, that’s precisely why real life is just as adventurous and magical. Even if fanfiction isn’t for you, consider its principle: borrow characters (or, in this case, their characteristics), and make your own story. If your favourite fictional confidants can tumble down rabbit holes and trek down yellow-brick roads, you can take a risk or two — even if you’re unsure what your rising action will amount to or what stage in the Hero’s Journey you’ve reached. 

I dyed my hair pink in the name of Lady Bird McPherson and bought a fur-lined coat for Penny Lane. I’ve chalked up my facial expressions to my ten Fleabag rewatches and attribute my music taste to John Hughes films. I’m even a student journalist (and consequently writing this very article) because Rory Gilmore was Editor of the Yale Daily News. But I did not choose to attend St Andrews because I read The Secret History — that decision I attribute more to my failed attempts at shifting to Hogwarts. 

Illustration by Calum Mayor