I've been reading lots of the discussion of Dumbledore's outing with interest. Not, per se, in his being gay or not (it fits in perfectly well to the background, but doesn't really add or subtract much to the plot, which is presumably it wasn't in the book), but in the reaction to it, which was much more interesting.

The most fascinating part of the conversation has been over whether JK has the right to go around telling us things that weren't in the books, and whether she should be doing so at all... There seems to be a feeling that writers are there to produce books, and outside of that should be neither seen nor heard. This hasn't just been obvious in recent discussions, but also over the epilogue to Deathly Hallows, and the other bits and pieces of information released about what happened between the ending of the story proper and the epilogue. People seem to be actually aghast that she would have all of this extra information in her head, or that she would have things worked out that weren't in the final book. This seems to stem from some kind of gross lack of understanding about both the writing process and fiction itself.

At some point in the past JK had an idea for a story. She then spent over ten years thinking about that story, the characters involved in it, the world they inhabited, and which chunks of it should be written down in order to produce the best book she could. There will be all sorts of drafts, notes, and ideas that came up along the way - some of which were cut because they weren't right, some of which there wasn't space for, some of which were discarded because better ideas occurred to her, and some of which actually made it into the hands of her agent, then her editor, and then were printed in book form and made it into the sticky hands of the readers. The idea that some of these chunks are any more real than others seems to be evidence, to me, of some kind of psychosis. As with all fiction, it's all made up.

If all you're interested in is the book then that's fine, but I've seen people claiming that Dumbledore isn't gay unless her statement about him goes from her, to her agent, her editor, her publisher, is put onto bits of paper and then sold to them in the form of a book. How, exactly, this process conveys some kind of holy aura of truth upon the statement is quite beyond me, and while I understand that some things will always feel realer to people than others, making blanket statements about the 'truth' of fiction seems barking mad to me.

Personally, I've grown up with the idea of multiple conflicting narratives. I've read Star Trek novelisations, seen the TV series, watched the movies and read the comics. They aren't the same, they contradict each other, and I can happily enjoy them all without having to have them all fit together perfectly. Further down that line we have things like the Marvel or DC universes, which are hideously inconsistent and contradictory - and again, it just doesn't matter. I've seen explanations for the numerous different kinds of cybermen in Dr Who, and how they all came into being - and it's a great game to play, trying to tie all these things together, but the second you take it seriously, and start making pronouncements about how X is real and Y is clearly not you've lost sight of what you're actually talking about - which is fiction and thus _made up_. None of it is actually any more real than any other bit.

I also, to be honest, feel the same way about fanfiction. It's just as real as any other kind of fiction, and just because it's not written by the person who first wrote about character X or Y doesn't change that in the slightest. True, fan-fiction writers may frequently lack the skills of the professionals, but that's got nothing to do with their writing being fan-fiction. Alan Moore, one of my favourite writers, has made most of his career from other people's characters and worlds, and that's just fine with me.

The post-it was lying on the desk, next to the activation switch.

The words "Don't do it" were clearly printed in the centre, the anonymous results of some random printer.

He didn't.

====

The note was lying on the desk, by the configuration unit.

Carefully written in neat handwriting were the words "Think about it - the consequences could be terrible.  Is this really what you want?"

She thought about it and decided that it really wasn't.

====

As she came into the room she instantly caught sight of the booklet, incongruously placed next to the portal.  Picking it up she flicked through a few pages and found a picture of her brother.  On the next page was a picture of her younger sister.  The next had a picture of her first lover, the next her first dog, the next a group photo from her school days.  Under each the single word "Gone".  Reaching the back of the booklet she found a page with no photo - nothing but the text "None of them will ever have existed".

She half dropped the book, half flung it from her and backed out of the room, tears streaming from her eyes.

====

As he walked past the display system towards the slightly glowing pad it popped into life.  Startled, he ducked away from it, eyes wide like a frightened rabbit and then stopped as the hated face flickered onto the screen, familiar newsreel unspooling for a moment before it was replaced by something less familiar.  News reports that never were, documentaries of things that never happened, reports from escalating wars each ending in a worse situation than the one before, cold wars merging back into hot ones as the world fell slowly apart.

And then finally, white text on a black background.

"It's more complex than you think"

He hesitated and then backed away, dispirited.
====

The rifle swung slightly over his shoulder as he quietly eased the door shut.  He stepped up onto the control podium and set the controls before walking towards the opalescent archway. 

He never saw the hand reach out of empty space, never heard the soft typing sound over the rising hum of the initiator coils, never knew that his destination was being changed, and more than likely never knew what hit him.

====

He dropped in to the rec-space on his way out of the office, same as usual.  Crashed down on the sofa and the look in his eyes killed the conversation before it left my throat.  I can spot a bad day at 50 paces and this one looked unpleasantly familiar.

"Had one that couldn't take a hint?"
"Yup."
"You get those sometimes.  Nothing to be done about it."
"I know."
"You try.  And then you try again.  And you keep looping back and trying different things.  But sometimes people just won't listen, and there's only so many of us out there.  You can't catch them all."
"I know."
"It's not your fault."
"I know."

He sighed and pulled himself upright and headed for the door, muttering as he walked away.

"I'll see you tomorrow."
"Take the day off."
"I'll see you.  Tomorrow."

And I can understand that.  You balance the ones you talk out of it against the ones you kill.  And when you have to make that choice there's nothing you look forward to more than the next one you can save from themselves.