Once you release a story, do you own it anymore?
I think of stories such as Star Wars and long-running animated TV series in Japan. These fandoms have a massive following behind them, and, the way I see it, those followings come at a price.
I remember reading an article on Wired a while back, where the writer refers to Star Wars as a religion, and it got me thinking. These stories have attained a following dedicated enough to act on its own and assemble en masse. As a novelist, it’s inspiring to see the dedication people are capable of displaying for a fictional story. They don’t simply consume the story, but they engage with it as well, allowing mega franchises to establish in their wake, such as Star Wars, Harry Potter, and Lord of the Rings in the west and Gundam, Pokemon, and the Fate series in the east.
However, a huge following presents some problems. For example, as you may notice when reading the countless articles about the new Star Wars trilogy (or even the prequel trilogy for that matter), there can be a huge discrepancy in discussions about how the plot should have played out. A larger following results in a larger diversity of people and preferences. Pleasing all of your followers essentially becomes impossible.
Of course, the author or director of a story doesn’t have to listen to their criticism. There’s no right or wrong way to write a story. He/she knows the story better than they do, of course. And he/she is well aware of what’s coming up in the next few episodes or sequels. If the following gets mad at a cliffhanger, he/she could ignore them and carry on, knowing their irritation will eventually be satisfied and that the plot will eventually make sense.
The only problem with that logic is that, most of the time, authors and directors are creating the story for their followers. The author isn’t simply satisfied if he/she enjoys their novel. He/she wants others to enjoy it as well. Thus, he/she feels compelled to listen to the mob’s woes.
Which is indeed fine; as the saying goes, “the customer is always right.” But a healthy amount of skepticism must be applied as well. Again, the author knows what’s coming up. The events later down the storyline could quell the dissatisfaction. Appeasing the followers now could ruin the surprise for later, and thus, the other part of the following who were fine with the suspense; in fact, they probably loved it.
But in a series with a split following, suddenly flipping the plot around to please one half could upset the other half. Once again, the author cannot please all of their followers. Eventually, he/she must choose a half and stick with it. Which is the hardest decision an author must make when writing a story (in my opinion). Because it’s not as simple as flipping a coin, then appeasing to them now. If the author decides to flip later and appease the other half, there is the risk of shattering or contradicting the story’s entire image or theme.
Confusing the concept for a story can be devastating to people’s ability to latch onto the series as a whole. It’s a bit of an exaggerated example, but imagine if Star Wars shifted its focus from WWII-style space warfare to realistic interpretations of space warfare. Those who enjoyed the originals would be alienated and those who enjoy the new take would latch on harder.
This dilemma plays with a fundamental force of human psychology: the adversity to change. The following got comfortable with the initial pattern. Any change to that pattern could upset them and leave them reminiscing about the “good ol’ days.” This is why long running TV series may seem like they never change. Or drag out. It is because their directors want to keep true to that initial pattern they started with. If they change the story’s direction, they risk upsetting those who had fallen for the old pattern.
But at the same time (again) keeping to the same pattern can become boring. To try and counteract this problem in the short term, some series try to introduce novel story elements or situations, but keep the general concept same. In Japanese animation, the Pretty Cure children’s series by Toei Animation studio is a great example. Each season features young girls trying to maintain their responsibilities as students and as magical girls, and then ends with a movie with them coincidentally meeting all the girls from the previous seasons and fighting a hard-fought battle against a godly enemy. Each new season features new characters, but the model still gets stale after seeing several of them. The same could be said of Pokemon, or every mecha anime out there (although there is quite a variety in the mecha space).
After all is said and done, it makes the task of writing a long-standing series very daunting to me. For several years, I have written and rewritten outlines for series I could possibly pursue, but in the end, often left with the feeling that I must wait a few more years for my ideas to mature, or until I’ve had more “real-world experience.” I can imagine that some advice professionals may give is to “follow your gut feeling.”
And for the most part, that advice is true, since the success of a story may depend entirely on the author’s motivation. But even as I follow such advice to the truest ability I can, there’s always that little voice in the back of my head, questioning whether my gut feeling is “right” or not; whether it is the best decision for the story. As such, this is why directors have advisors, and authors have editors.
So in the end, once you release a story, should you let it go? If a subgroup latches onto it, do you let them become the drivers of the story’s direction? Is that a good idea, given how diverse your following can be? And if you do, are you really the owner of the story anymore?
These are questions I cannot currently answer, but I’m glad you’ve taken the time to ponder with me.