1. Introduction
[1.1] The activities of fandom have a long history of pathologization. From the erotomanic derangement of celebrity-obsessed fangirls to the mob violence of football hooligans, popular images of fanaticism gone too far have driven a range of historical moral panics. Jensen (1992) traces the underlying logics behind these perceptions, suggesting that they are based largely on a social and cultural devaluation of the objects of the fans' obsessions. The only real difference, she argues, between a music fan's intense interest in The Beatles and a literature scholar's intense interest in James Joyce is that one is more socially accepted than the other. This difference in social acceptance has roots in class hierarchies and high/low culture divides, but it is arguably also rooted in heteronormativity. Halberstam (2011) examines the interrelatedness of these social dynamics in his theorization of a "queer art of failure," which rejects heteronormative markers of success in favor of that which is "frivolous, promiscuous, and irrelevant" (14). Under this lens, it is the frivolity, promiscuity, and irrelevance of many fandom activities that characterize them as excessive and pathological rather than normative expressions of interest—in a word, queer.
[1.2] Jensen's (1992) argument echoes shifts in disability studies from a pathology paradigm toward a neurodiversity paradigm. As articulated by Singer in a 1997 undergraduate thesis (later published in Singer [2016]), the concept of neurodiversity reframes conditions such as autism, ADHD, dyslexia, and Tourette's syndrome from disorders of normal functioning to natural variations in human neurology. Like Jensen's understanding of fandom as variation on normal behavior, neurodiversity seeks to depathologize differences in neurology. These goals further resonate with the work of queer theorists, who seek to depathologize sexual and gender variance and resist the compulsory systems driving this pathologization. The resonances between queer theory and neurodiversity as critical perspectives, as well as the significant overlap in those who identify as queer and neurodivergent, have led to the emergence of neuroqueer as a distinct theoretical formulation (note 1). Neuroqueer, arising out of the autistic blogosphere and entering academia in the late 2010s, joins together the threads of queer theory and neurodiversity to examine how queerness and neurodivergence are interrelated, mutually constituted, and governed by similar compulsory systems (Walker 2021). The pathologization of neurodivergence and queerness, neuroqueer scholars argue, is produced by mutually reinforcing systems of hetero- and neuronormativity, which are ultimately driven by the same underlying social and cultural forces.
[1.3] Using neuroqueer as a framework, I posit that the pathologization of (certain kinds of) fan engagement is driven by the same interlocking systems of hetero- and neuronormativity. Specifically, I focus on fan fiction as a neuroqueer mode of fan engagement. As stated, fandom's position in the high/low culture divide is partly rooted in heteronormativity. Scott (2019) details how transformative fan practices, historically produced by women, continue to be marginalized in relation to the enunciative fan practices favored by men. While male fanboy auteurs find success through professionalization, fan fiction writers seem to prefer Halberstam's (2011) queer failure—frivolous in its lack of capacity for profit, promiscuous in its self-indulgent and often sexually gratifying nature, and irrelevant in its marginalized position among writing practices. Although some notable exceptions exist, such as the commercial publication of the female-authored Twilight fan fiction Fifty Shades of Grey, scholars like Kristina Busse (in Gray et al. 2017) note that this commercialization of fan writing is only possible when the work is removed from its original fan context. Even when concerns about copyright are circumvented, the highly specific and often personal nature of fan fiction frequently renders it unpublishable in a commercial sphere.
[1.4] Given the comparably heavy attention to questions of gender and sexuality in fandom, neuroqueer offers an opportunity for a productive engagement with neurodiversity. Jenkins points out that engagement in fandom is often less about an interest in a specific fan community and more of "a discursive logic that knits together interests across textual and generic boundaries" (Hellekson and Busse 2014, 36). I argue that this discursive logic is a fundamentally neuroqueer one. In order to illustrate this, I draw from an autoethnographic account of my own neuroqueer experience with fan fiction, tracing the discursive logics that have driven my engagement with texts. Fan fiction—reading it, writing it, rhetorically inventing it—has been a significant aspect of my own neuroqueer embodiment for most of my life, and by critically examining these experiences, I hope to illuminate the theoretical possibilities neuroqueer might bring to the study of fandom and fan fiction as an interpretive practice.
2. Neuroqueer
[2.1] As a theoretical framework, neuroqueer offers a critique of mutually constitutive systems of hetero- and neuronormativity. Drawing on the extensive scholarly tradition of queer theory, neuroqueer was developed for the purpose of "examining how socially-imposed neuronormativity and socially-imposed heteronormativity were entwined with one another, and how the queering of either of those two forms of normativity entwined with and blended into the queering of the other one" (Walker 2021, 113). This framework not only attends to the mutuality of neurodivergence and queerness with respect to identity but also to the historical and ongoing ways in which neuronormativity and heteronormativity are imposed on neuroqueer subjects simultaneously. In this initial formulation, neuroqueer echoes McRuer's (2006) crip theory, which likewise considers compulsory able-bodiedness and heterosexuality to be intertwined, mutually reinforcing systems. Crip theory, however, has historically focused on physical disability with limited attention to mental or neurological differences. As Walker (2021) argues, while many neurodivergent people are disabled—often by the social conditions of their environment rather than any functional impairment—neurodivergence itself is not a disability (note 2). Thus, while disability studies offers a starting point for theorizing neurodivergence, its theories may at times be insufficient. Yergeau (2018) argues that neuroqueer fills this gap, acknowledging the inherent relationality between body and mind while emphasizing the need for explicit attention to neurodiversity. Where cripping interrogates the ableist logics governing nonnormative bodies, neuroqueering draws on queer interpretive and critical practices to interrogate the neuronormative logics governing divergent minds.
[2.2] An important distinction is worth making here: While Yergeau, Walker, and others primarily center autism in their theorization of neuroqueer, autism is not the only kind of neurological queerness. Neuroqueer has been used as a theoretical lens to examine a range of other conditions, including ADHD (Bui 2019), borderline personality disorder (Johnson 2021), and dyslexia and dyspraxia (Watson 2024). Further, as with queer, the term might signify a refusal to be categorized by diagnostic labels at all. Much as queer rejects the essentialism of rigid identity categories, neuroqueer rejects the essentialism of rigid diagnostic categories (Walker 2021). At the same time, just as queer theory does not fully do away with identity labels like gay or bisexual, neuroqueer theory recognizes the potential utility in identifying oneself as autistic, ADHD, borderline, or any other diagnosis. As Walker (2021) puts it, "When not pathologized or stigmatized, such categories can serve a variety of important purposes—including helping people to better understand themselves, to understand and communicate about their access needs and their experiences, and to connect with and work in solidarity with others who have similar neurocognitive tendencies and needs" (122). Yergeau's work in particular is intimately informed by their specific experiences as an autistic person, as is Walker's—and as is my own. The neurocognitive tendencies I describe in relation to my fan fiction practices are decidedly neuroqueer, but they are also specifically autistic.
[2.3] In its initial formulation, neuroqueer was intended not as a social identity category but as a series of embodied practices. Walker (2021) lays out these practices in his foundational essay "Neuroqueer: An Introduction." Neuroqueer practices largely center on the intersection of neurodivergent and queer identity/ies, recognition of these intersections, and intentional expression or performance of these identities in ways that diverge from normative standards. The production of literature, art, scholarship, and other cultural artifacts, as well as critical responses to these artifacts, through a neuroqueer lens also falls under the definition of neuroqueer practice, as does transformative political work aimed at making space for further neuroqueer practices. Walker's comments on this introduction clarify that "anyone who engages in any of those practices can call themselves neuroqueer anytime they damn well want to" (117, emphasis in original). Addressing those who have argued otherwise, he adds, "Anyone trying to police other people's self-identities is just another tedious cop, and a cop is pretty much the most un-queer, non-liberatory thing a person can be" (117). Neuroqueer, Walker insists, is first and foremost a liberatory framework so that even a person designated entirely heterosexual, cisgender, and neurotypical can choose to engage in the work of liberating themself from hetero- and neuronormativity if they feel so inclined.
[2.4] Fandom, as a space centered on critical transformative practices, lends itself well to this liberatory orientation. However, despite clear resonances between fannish engagement and neuroqueer practices, neurodivergence has received little attention in fan studies scholarship. Silberman (2015) notes the significance of fandom in the communal history of autism and its neurodivergent cousins and indeed the significance of neurodivergent people to the history of fandom, yet this history has not been extensively documented in fan studies. I argue that reading fan practices as neuroqueer enables a greater attention to this neurodivergence, even in the absence of specific diagnostic labels. As Walker (2021) notes, anyone can choose to liberate themselves from hetero- and neuronormativity, and indeed, engaging in transformative fan practices is one way of doing so.
3. Neuroqueering fan fiction
[3.1] As a writing practice, fan fiction is heavily informed by its social context. Busse examines this phenomenon using the example of "Arcana" (Gray et al. 2017), an early 2000s Harry Potter/CSI crossover that she argues is nearly impossible to understand or appreciate without its surrounding context. Located within two distinct fan communities, as well as a longer history of fan writing that produced tropes like the crossover, this story exemplifies fan fiction's inherently intertextual nature. At the same time, fan fiction is deeply personal in a way that other types of writing are not. Busse notes that in fan fiction communities, "a story may try to perfectly please one person rather than offering a mere moderate appeal to many" (Gray et al. 2017, 56). This more restricted focus might place fan fiction in the realm of the asocial or perhaps what Yergeau (2018) terms "queerly social." There is an element of social engagement to the writing of fan writers, as evidenced by the tendency of fans to share their work within communities; however, this social engagement is often highly specific, restricted, and in defiance of conventional norms.
[3.2] The queer sociality of fan fiction often veers into the erotic as well. In an inversion of Sedgwick (1985), Busse (2005) describes the "homosocial—even homoerotic—bond 'between women' where reader and author are making love over the naked bodies of attractive men" (121). Lothian (2018) likewise invokes Muñoz (2009) to draw a parallel between the "networked public sexual fantasy" of online fan fiction communities and the "cruising" cultures of in-person public sex among gay men (171). While members of fan fiction communities do not seek out in-person sexual activity with one another as a matter of course, their sharing of erotic materials and sexual fantasy has led some scholars to propose an understanding of fandom as "queer female space" (Lothian et al. 2007). The designation of female is a tricky one—fan studies scholars and fans themselves are increasingly aware of the presence of trans and genderqueer fans in addition to cisgender women (Duggan 2022). Still, the queer aspect of fan spaces and practices is evident.
[3.3] Beyond its queerness in an erotic sense, fan fiction is also queer in its interpretive orientation toward its source text. Grossman (2013) opens the foreword to Fic: Why Fanfiction Is Taking Over the World by likening fan fiction to readers seizing the means of textual production, calling back to Jenkins's idea of textual poachers (Hellekson and Busse 2014). This revolutionary view of fan fiction, while rife with limitations, has deep resonances for queer fans. As Lothian details in an analysis of queer fantasy, fan fiction offers queer fans "possibilities for imagining their media sources otherwise" (Gray et al. 2017, 249). Nyela and Young (2023) examine some of these possibilities in Doctor Who fandom, theorizing retroactive queering as a reading practice in which "the queer subtext that was already present in each media text is brought to the fore" (172). This practice, they argue, is as much about asserting power over textual production as it is about "playing" with the text. Fan fiction, which represents "an almost absurd stretching of the source material in order to imagine a queer potentiality" (173), highlights the centrality of play to fan writing, evoking the frivolity of Halberstam's (2011) queer art of failure.
[3.4] Of course, more recent fan studies scholarship has highlighted the problems with viewing fan practices as uncomplicatedly revolutionary. Pande (2018) argues at length that the progressive attitudes of fandom have largely been limited to gender and sexuality, with discussions of race and racism minimized. Even fandom's disruption of gender and sexual norms is not without exceptions, as Hunting (2012) notes in an analysis of the (re)production of homonormativity in fan fiction for Queer as Folk. It is important to note that fan fiction's potential for revolutionary action does not always translate to the realization of that potential. It is here that I argue for a distinction between the practices of fan communities and Jenkins's "discursive logic" that underlies those practices (Hellekson and Busse 2014). The discursive logic of interpretation is an inherently queer one—a rejection of the normative position of a passive reader in favor of a deeply invested transformative fan.
[3.5] Viewing fan fiction as an interpretive orientation places it not only in the realm of the queer, but of the neuroqueer. Fans adopt an explicitly nonnormative orientation to their source texts that disrupts both sociosexual and neurological norms. Yergeau (2023) outlines a mode of neuroqueer composition based on perseveration or "persistence beyond a desired point" (38). Where a normative engagement with a text might involve a single reading, after which the reader takes some time to digest the text's message and then moves on with hir life, fandom is predicated on a very different pattern of engagement. Fans frequently return to their favorite texts to reread, explicate, and discuss, building their communities on seemingly endless perseveration. The neuroqueerness of this process lies in its relationship with neuroqueer forms of rhetorical invention, particularly echophenomena like echolalia (the repetition of words and phrases), echographia (the repetition of written text), and echopraxia (the repetition of body movements). Some of the more classical presentations of echophenomena might be the repetitive flapping of hands or the echoing of syllables at the end of a conversation partner's sentences. However, Coppa argues for understanding fan fiction less as a text and more as an embodied performance (Hellekson and Busse 2014), which I argue functions as its own kind of echoing. Fan fiction thus relies on a neuroqueer mode of composition that disrupts norms of engagement in both reading and writing.
[3.6] The sociosexual dimensions of transformative fandom might also be read neuroqueerly. Yergeau (2018) argues that certain autistic erotic acts "might be read asexually or demisexually, as interbodily attractions that do not take others or even entities as their objects of desire" (199). In this instance, the prefix demi- does not necessarily take its literal meaning—those who claim demisexual identities "do not relate their gray-a/sexualities as halved or lesser, but rather outline their sexual orientations as muddled, transient, and nonbinary" (187). Extending this argument to fan fiction, we might think of erotic fantasy involving fictional characters in contrived scenarios as a demisexual practice. Rather than a halved or lesser sexuality, this use of fictional characters as objects of fantasy might be read as a queerly social, autistic sexuality. Further, the erotic engagements with other fans noted by Busse (2005) and Lothian (2018) might also be read demisexually, with "muddled, transient, and nonbinary" erotic attachment developing among individuals in the absence of true sexual attraction.
[3.7] The notion of demigenderness is also implicated in slash fandom specifically. Like demisexuality, demigender identities point to an experience of gender that is not merely halved or lesser, but complexly and queerly embodied. While early understandings of sexual and gender dynamics in fandom have been complicated by more recent scholarship (see Stanfill [2021]), the fact remains that male/male slash predominates even in communities that are overwhelmingly female. In an oft-cited analysis of early Star Trek fandom, Russ attempts to explain this phenomenon by arguing that despite being modeled after explicitly male characters, the Kirk and Spock of K/S slash fiction are gendered more androgynously (Hellekson and Busse 2014); they embody masculinity and femininity in complex, shifting ways, often in response to the needs of one another or the story's plot. Penley, however, disputes this interpretation, arguing that the Kirk and Spock of both television and slash fiction are "clearly meant to be male" (Hellekson and Busse 2014, 177). She characterizes slash writers as "so alienated from their own bodies that they can write erotic fantasies only in relation to a nonfemale body" (177). Viewing this alienation through a neuroqueer framework might position the slash writer as a demifemale figure, whose alienation from her own femaleness prompts an identification with the nonfemale. The objects of that identification likewise become figured as demimale, idealized men whose relationship to masculinity is in some way partial or shifting. More recent scholarship that acknowledges the rising prevalence of transgender and genderqueer fans among the ranks of these (demi)women seems to lend credence to this idea (Duggan 2022).
[3.8] Understanding fan fiction as a neuroqueer practice prompts an inquiry into the cognitive dimensions of this practice. While fan fiction is often a community enterprise, it is also intensely personal; many fan writers will readily admit that the majority of their ideas never make it onto the page. It is thus worth considering fan fiction as an embodied interpretive practice beyond the finished texts its authors produce. In service of this inquiry, I look toward a neuroqueer methodology based in the autistic practice of oversharing.
4. An autie-ethnography of fan fiction
[4.1] The importance of autistic self-authorship in the study of autism cannot be overstated. The term autie-ethnography emphasizes the value of autistic life writing in disability studies, suggesting that the practice of life writing itself might be considered a critical method for understanding autistic experience (Rose 2008) (note 3). Similarly, in fan studies, the subject of researcher positionality has been a significant consideration with the prevalence of acafans, who occupy roles as both researchers and participants of fan communities. In their own fan studies autie-ethnography, Mussies (2020) "plead[s] for a type of fan studies research from the angle that everyone has different perceptions in mind and…nobody can accurately interpret our actions and feelings without us expressing them ourselves" (¶ 3.1). It is from this angle that I now turn to a brief history of my own autistic fannish engagement.
[4.2] I discovered fan fiction in 2006, when I was around ten years old. Or, I suppose it's more accurate to say that I discovered FanFiction.net in 2006, because my first thought upon seeing the site advertised was, "There's a word for that?!" I had been engaging in the interpretive practices of fan fiction since long before I had ever thought to write it down and share it with others. Characters from stories like VeggieTales and The Lion King 1½ had taken up residence in my mind throughout childhood, and I acted out scenes between them whenever I was alone—which, for an academically precocious child with few social skills, was unfortunately pretty often.
[4.3] By the time I found the world of online fan fic, my interests had matured somewhat. The first time I put pen to paper was to record what I declared was THE TRUTH about my favorite television drama characters, whose arc I had begun to strongly disagree with. As I got older, and as I began to encounter more gifted kids whose weirdness matched my own, I started to make some friends—and I introduced those friends to fan fiction. Soon, my interpretive world grew to include not only characters from media but from real life as well. My school friends merged effortlessly alongside the vampires of Twilight (2005) and the witches and wizards of Harry Potter, and we delighted in texting each other about the antics they all got up to when we were apart. I filled pages of notebooks with stories composed in longhand during my free moments throughout the school day. One of my most harrowing memories of eighth grade is having one notebook confiscated and watching my math teacher (the basketball coach) flip through the pages at his desk while our class waited to go to lunch. Thankfully, he declined to comment on what he'd read and returned it to me at the end of the period.
[4.4] Even after finding myself in community with other fans, I remained distinctly aware that there was something about my engagement with media that separated me from what was normal. My fan fiction writing was kept in a separate notebook from all of my school writing, even the rare creative piece we were permitted to write. Having one of my teachers read through that notebook filled me with dread, as I wondered what he would think of what he saw—if he would even understand it. On the occasions when I did write fan fiction for class, I felt I was doing it in a sneaky way, like I needed to hide the fact that it was fan fiction in order for it to be taken seriously. Once, in high school, an Honors English class required us to keep a notebook. There weren't many rules about what could or couldn't go into it, so I finally decided to use it for the writing I was going to be doing anyway—fan fiction. Still, I wasn't sure how I felt about my teacher reading my fan fiction, especially since the stories I was writing at this point tended to be slash (albeit not overtly sexual). The story that I chose to write was thus an AU (alternate universe) with most of the serial numbers filed off, to use a fandom term for removing fandom-specific language from a story to make it acceptable for commercial publication. If the person reading it didn't recognize the names Dean and Castiel, they wouldn't have any reason to suspect it was anything other than a regular short story.
[4.5] Even as my notebooks filled up, and as I gradually worked to digitize those pages into publishable documents, the majority of my fannish engagement still happened inside my head. I continued to act out scenes between my favorite characters, often incorporating elements of what was happening around me into the story. Not every imagined scenario of mine has ever been reproduced as a fully written story, and even fewer have ever been finished. Often, though, these are the stories which feel most meaningful to my fan experience. One story that was especially meaningful to me as a fan writer, and which was never reflected as extensively in print, features an original character from the Twilight universe. Tasha was a half-vampire hybrid who I had originally imagined to be the child of Jasper; however, in thinking about the logistics of Jasper, a vampire notably lacking in self-control around humans, siring a child with one, I decided to amend this backstory to make her Jasper's cousin. She would seek out the Cullens out of a desire to know her family, and then, upon meeting the werewolves of the local Quileute tribe, she would be imprinted upon by Leah, the only female werewolf in the pack. Imprinting is a controversial trope in the Twilight series in which a (typically male) werewolf develops an intense fixation on a (typically female) human, or vampire/human hybrid. As a female werewolf, Leah is unable to bear children herself; my theory, however, was that if she imprinted on a fertile hybrid, she would have someone who could carry her children. I also considered the fact that perhaps, if they got to know each other, Leah and Tasha might find that their connection was more than practical.
[4.6] Despite this extensive imagining, I only ever published three chapters of this story, none of which featured Leah. I never managed to explore the complexities of imprinting, fertility, monstrous femininity, or lesbian identity through actually writing Twilight fan fiction. (I also didn't realize I was queer for another two years.) Still, this story occupied a significant amount of mental space while I was working on it, and it brought a great deal of enjoyment to me even if it never produced a finished product. And when Tasha was no longer a part of my life, other characters and stories took her place, many of which likewise remained purely imaginative.
[4.7] About a month before my twenty-third birthday, I received professional validation of something I had suspected for a long time: I am autistic. This diagnosis introduced a new interpretive lens to all of my past experiences. My advanced reading ability was now hyperlexia. My tendency to quote Tumblr posts in everyday life was echolalia. My fandoms themselves were perseverations or special interests, depending on whether you were talking to a psychologist or another autistic person. Most everything associated with fannish practices fell under the diagnostic category of restrictive and repetitive behaviors. Yergeau (2018) describes how their own diagnosis served as a similar kind of reinterpretation, storying them into autism by narrating every behavior, trait, and personality quirk as a symptom. Of course, some autistic traits are indeed symptomatic—my own inability to turn my brain off long enough to fall asleep at a reasonable hour can be highly disabling unless managed with medication. However, as Walker (2021) notes, "Framing autism as a pathology fosters a societal mindset in which autistic modes of embodiment, expression, and communication are stigmatized as pathological symptoms rather than accommodated" (48). Fandom, as an autistic mode of embodiment, expression, and communication, need not be pathologized by being viewed through this diagnostic lens.
[4.8] Over the years, I've tried many times to theorize my own engagement with fandom. Fan fiction is one way of describing it, though as I've suggested, a great deal of my fan writing does not ultimately produce a finished text. I would liken it more to a reading (or rereading) practice, or perhaps to the embodied dramatic performance Francesca Coppa discusses in Hellekson and Busse (2014). It is also, however, a neurocognitive process, an interpretive schema I have used not only for looking at texts, but the world at large. As a child, I saw a therapist out of anxiety over these nagging thoughts and how I felt they were disrupting my ability to engage with real life. As an adolescent, I considered viewing them through other lenses, such as that of the multiple or plural community on Tumblr, which suggested that the characters I played with in my mind were actually alternate identities adopted as part of a system (note 4). As a young adult, I began to realize that no matter what terms I used to describe this process, it was ultimately a positive influence on my mental health. Far from being a pathological burden on my psyche, my fan-ficcing has been a key component of my identity development and continues to be a source of comfort and enjoyment in my daily life.
[4.9] Despite the seemingly obvious connections between my fan identity and my autistic neurology, the fact that I remained undiagnosed for so much of my life is a clear indication that behaviors like reading and writing fan fiction do not read as neurodivergent to most people. Perhaps it is because these behaviors are so markedly feminine and queer, while autism is traditionally thought to be masculine and desexualized; perhaps it is simply that they are less disruptive than certain other autistic symptoms. Regardless of the reason, as I have come to understand myself as an autistic person, particularly under the framework of autism as a form of neurological queerness, I cannot help but view this aspect of my identity as inseparable from my identity as a fan fiction writer.
5. Fan fiction as neuroqueer practice
[5.1] If fan fiction is a neurocognitive process, it is, I argue, a fundamentally neuroqueer one. In considering perseveration as a neuroqueer mode of composition, Yergeau (2023) seeks to disrupt the pathologizing implication of the definition "persistence beyond a desired point." They invite us to question what "beyond a desired point" really means—desired by whom, and why? Certainly some mental perseverations are distressing to the person fixating on them, as with Yergeau's example of "when you can't stop mentally tallying how many times you've checked your stove and fear you might have burned down your entire neighborhood" (39). But others, such as the repetitive imagining of scenes involving one's favorite characters, might only seem pathological to an outside observer and may in fact be entirely desirable to the one perseverating.
[5.2] As a child, I began therapy partly out of concern that my perseverations were interrupting my ability to engage with everyday life. After traveling to the beach with my mother to celebrate my tenth birthday, however, I discovered that I was more than capable of participating in the real world when I was sufficiently motivated to do so. My tendency to escape into fantasy wasn't something I was forced into beyond my control; it was in many ways a conscious choice, a coping mechanism I had adopted for when the real world got to be too much. Yergeau (2023) describes this tendency as a kind of neuroqueer retrofit. Much as physical retrofits make modifications to the built environment in an attempt to accommodate disabled bodies, neuroqueer retrofits seek to do the same for disabled minds. The cognitive and sensory demands of playing with others at recess, for instance, were a lot for my young autistic mind to handle. Retreating to a corner and repetitively bouncing a basketball while narrating conversations between characters from Harry Potter was a way for me to make the chaotic environment of the playground much more bearable.
[5.3] Fan fiction in a sense relies on a performative framework of perseveration. Coppa examines this framework as evidence of fan fiction's theatrical nature—she notes that "in literary terms, fan fiction's repetition is strange; in theatre, stories are retold all the time" (Hellekson and Busse 2014, 229). Much like theater, fan fiction as a genre is rife with retellings, reimaginings, and reproductions. Fans rewrite their favorite stories with new endings, their favorite characters into new settings, and occasionally even write themselves into the action as well. Even before this writing and rewriting occurs, though, I argue that a process of rereading happens first. This rereading does not always involve a direct revisiting of the source text. Instead, it is an internal cognitive process, a perseverative engagement with the text's ideas, characters, and themes. Yergeau (2018) argues for viewing perseverative acts like echolalia as rhetorical acts despite their apparent lack of communicative purpose. I argue that the rereading processes of fan fiction writers are similarly rhetorical echophenomena. Some of these stories might end up being written down and shared, while others may function as their own kind of rhetoric, a perseverative loop that resists a normative "entelechy of finishedness" which relies on a fixed endpoint (Yergeau 2018, 76).
[5.4] The story of Tasha, which I wrote primarily through perseverative engagement, was an example of a repeated embodied performance. I not only imagined Tasha as a character: I embodied her, wearing a black tank top that reminded me of her in order to put myself into the right headspace. I also engaged in other echophenomena, as I spent much of my writing time outside on the trampoline, jumping up and down in a repetitive motion that functioned as full-body self-stimulation. With my vestibular sense engaged, I was free to let my mind enter Tasha's world, imagining whichever parts of her story were most compelling to me at the moment. Crucially, this never included the ending. I never imagined a fixed endpoint to the story, only a continuing perseverative loop that could begin and end wherever I felt was right—or whenever I felt too tired to continue jumping. Further, in placing Tasha's story within the Twilight universe, I also refused to allow that story to end. My perseveration on its characters and themes resisted the normative expectation of reading a story from start to finish and moving on with one's life, opting instead for a neuroqueer fixation that follows its own temporal rhythms.
[5.5] In the history of autism, echophenomena as self-focused, seemingly arhetorical acts have inspired more sinister interpretations. Yergeau (2018) traces psychoanalytic constructions of autistic behavior as autoerotic, masturbatory, and sexually perverse. While these pathologizing discourses are largely rejected by the autistic community, I want to take a moment to consider those echophenomena that are autoerotic in nature. Obligatory "not all fan fiction" disclaimer aside, it is clear that much fan fiction centers on erotic engagements between fictional characters. And while my neuroqueer retrofits to third-grade recess were far from sexual in nature, the onset of puberty meant that my bedtime perseverations in response to teenage insomnia began to veer more in that direction.
[5.6] Arguably, the sexual dimensions of fan fiction could be read as demisexual, or even asexual—a hormonally driven sexual desire with no (real) human subject of attraction. The characters involved in these sexual fantasies are fictional constructs, after all, even if their sexual exploits become embodied through perseverative performance. And while some fans do prefer to imagine themselves as part of the sexual fantasy through a self-insert, I have never been particularly interested in this practice. My involvement is more of a voyeuristic one, or perhaps that of a director rather than an actor. Bogaert (2012) describes the phenomenon of autochorissexualism, or "identity-less sexuality," among self-identified asexual people; a number of respondents reported experiencing sexual fantasies only involving fictional characters. The disconnect from one's own identity may be part of the appeal of erotic fan fiction for asexual or demisexual readers.
[5.7] In resisting the stigma of autoeroticism when it comes to echophenomena, including the perseverative performance of fan fiction, it is worth considering the possibilities of pleasure in that which is not specifically sexual. Despite the troubling implications of labeling all echophenomena as inherently masturbatory, it is certainly the case that these repetitive actions are often a source of pleasure. Yergeau (2018) describes a "queer pleasure in echoing," citing autistic blogger Julia Bascom's description of—what else?—her perseveration on Glee. Referring not to writing or reading pornographic fan fiction, but simply to enjoying her special interest, Bascom (2011) writes, "The experience is so rich. It's textured, vibrant, and layered. It exudes joy. It is a hug machine for my brain. It makes my heart pump faster and my mouth twitch back into a smile every few minutes. I feel like I'm sparkling. Every inch of me is totally engaged in and powered up by the obsession. Things are clear."
[5.8] Nearly twenty years after discovering that I was not alone in writing fan fiction, I have discovered that there are many other ways in which I am not alone. Autism can feel isolating—Yergeau (2018) suggests that autistic rhetorics may have unique idiosyncrasies to the point where each autistic person embodies their own idiolect that is incomprehensible to others. At the same time, however, they argue that these rhetorics share an intertextuality through which autistic relationality is possible. The intertextual relationship between Bascom's (2011) account of autistic joy and my own experience in the Glee fandom is one instance of such relationality. I hope that through the (over)sharing of some of these experiences, this fan studies autie-ethnography might open up additional conversations about neuroqueer in fandom, as well as opportunities for autistic relationality in fan contexts.
6. Conclusion
[6.1] Sexually and socially, the interpretive (re)writing and (re)reading practices of fan fiction are decidedly neuroqueer. The repeated performance of interactions between fictional characters, borrowed from popular media and appropriated for one's own purposes, exemplifies Yergeau's (2018) "ultimate asocial beings…humanizing objects and objectifying humans" (27). Fictional characters are at once humanized objects and objectified humans, inspiring a level of affective investment far beyond what could be considered typical while at the same time functioning as objects of (demi)sexual fantasy. Yet, far from being pathological, these neuroqueer practices are widely experienced as pleasurable, even orgasmic. They function as anything from a coping mechanism to a means of intentional neuroqueering, refusing the normative demands of the social world in favor of a queer (a)sociality that is unashamedly self-focused, frivolous, promiscuous, and irrelevant.
[6.2] Recent fan studies scholarship has argued for a broadening of the definition of fan beyond the intensely invested figures of the field's origins. Gray et al. (2017) argue that especially in the convergence culture of our contemporary moment, nearly everyone might be regarded as a fan of something. Consequently, they note that there are fans and fan cultures who were never subject to pathologization—the fans of highbrow arts that Jensen (1992) contrasts with the lowbrow fangirls and hooligans. There are, additionally, fan cultures whose past pathologization has faded along with their embrace by mainstream culture. Gray et al. (2017) cite the fan-run debrief Talking Dead and HBO sitcom The Big Bang Theory as examples of fan cultures gone mainstream. Crucially, however, Talking Dead has been cited as commodified fan engagement that is heavily masculinized, in sharp contrast to the still-derided transformative practices of many female fans (Scott 2019). Further, in addition to promoting a very narrow view of fans as straight, white, male nerds, The Big Bang Theory's Sheldon frequently reinforces ableist stereotypes by making autistic behaviors the butt of the joke. Clearly, Gray et al. (2017) are correct in the assertion that "while instances of demeaning representations of fans have become less common, certain fan cultures remain subject to representational othering" (8).
[6.3] While the field of fan studies may benefit from the broadening of definitions, I argue that attention to those fan practices that have yet to achieve mainstream recognition is still sorely needed. I refer to Coppa's (2014) definition of "the creators and participators for whom fandom was a way of life" (74). It is true that by some definition, everyone is a fan of something. However, the early work of fan studies focused on those truly dedicated fans who were most deeply invested in their communities—and often most heavily pathologized. Even within fan communities, intrafandom policing attempts to exclude those fans who take their interest "too far" (Busse 2013). This excessive behavior might be perceived as too girly, too childish, or too sexual, all pathologies also ascribed to neuroqueerness. In focusing on those neuroqueer fan practices that continue to resist norms of engagement, I respond to Mills and Sterne's (2017) call for dismediation as a means of rethinking media studies. Dismediation encourages thinking about "disability as a constituting dimension of media, and media as a constituting dimension of disability" (366); similarly, I argue for neuroqueerness as a constituting dimension of fandom, and vice versa. By reading fan practices neuroqueerly, I draw attention to the hetero- and neuronormative logics that continue to represent certain kinds of fan practices as pathological while forwarding fandom as a way of life as a means of disrupting those norms.
[6.4] Autistic and neuroqueer fans have always been a significant part of fandom yet have received comparably little attention in fan studies scholarship. By tracing the theoretical resonances of current neuroqueer scholarship with my own fandom experience, as well as by demonstrating the use of autie-ethnography in fan studies, I hope to illuminate one potential way of filling this gap. Importantly, while autie-ethnography is an especially useful method for examining internal neurocognitive processes, it is limiting in its focus on one neuroqueer subject. My experience will not be the experience of every autistic fan fiction writer. It will certainly not be the experience of fan fiction writers of different neurotypes, including those with ADHD or other conditions, as well as those who are neurotypical. And critically, as a white settler residing in the Global North, my experiences with fandom likely differ significantly from those of Black and Indigenous fans or fans of color throughout the world. Autoethnographies and autie-ethnographies from fans across the neuroqueer spectrum can open up such a dialogue about fandom and neuroqueerness, as well as draw attention to differential experiences of neuroqueerness among BIPOC.
[6.5] Through my own experience, I have demonstrated how the internal neurocognitive processes of (re)reading and (re)writing fan fiction represent neuroqueer practices rooted in autistic rhetoric. In doing so, I have illustrated how neuroqueer might serve as a useful framework for fan studies, particularly in understanding the individual, embodied experiences of fans. I have also argued for neuroqueer as a means of returning to those fans and practices that remain most heavily stigmatized—those for whom fandom is a way of life. Neuroqueer offers a bridging of fan studies' existing work on gender and sexuality with an attention to neurodivergence, addressing its historical absence in the field. It also highlights the importance of studying fans as individuals whose fan engagements may run far deeper than what they choose to share within a community.
7. Acknowledgments
[7.1] I wish to acknowledge Joshua Kupetz, Adrienne Raw, and Ebony Elizabeth Thomas for offering valuable feedback and support.