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.