FSTDT

Mary Sue
From self-inserts to imagines, how young women write themselves into the narrative
Illustration by the incredible Maia Kobabe

[This piece was written in conjunction with the most recent episode of the Fansplaining podcast. Follow us on Twitter or Tumblr, and if you’re interested in supporting our work—helping us commission more art and pieces like this—please consider donating to our Patreon.]

Let’s start with the woman in question. She isn’t usually called Mary Sue—she has a less plausible, more fanciful name. Similarly, she has less plausible, more fanciful physical features than your average girl: purple eyes, or really extraordinary hair. You don’t know her, but you know the characters that surround her—she’s a new student at Hogwarts, an important ally you meet in Rivendell, the person on whom Holmes and Watson will rely to crack the case. She is notably smarter, stronger, and/or more beautiful than her peers. She’s going to save the day—and maybe a character you know will fall in love with her, too. She’s a wholly original character, though she might resemble an idealized version of the author. She’s a super-girl, bending beloved stories around her, heroism in a world mostly made up of heroes.

Oh, also: she is the ultimate object of scorn. She is the literal worst. She is embarrassing, self-indulgent trash; she ruins the story with her competence, her desirability, and the way all those characters you love seem to love her. She’s been described an endless number of colorful ways, including (via Fanlore’s meticulous and depressing entry on Mary Sues) the “literary equivalent of publicly soiling yourself.” She is everything that’s wrong with fanfiction, with girls writing stories, with fangirls, period.

The most basic definition of “Mary Sue” is an original female character in fanfiction—which is largely about established characters and worlds—who is often close to perfect. Like, too perfect. Very good at her job, very desirable romantically or sexually, and sometimes very emotionally moving when she dies, tragically, and the other characters mourn her. The story usually centers around her, often warping established characterization in the process. She’s self-indulgent, to be sure, but she’s harmless, and framed this way, one might wonder why young girls writing themselves into their favorite worlds is the literary equivalent of publicly soiling yourself. If you have to wonder that, though, you might not be familiar with the way the world treats young girls.

“Mary Sue” was coined by Paula Smith in 1970s Star Trek fandom, in a very short story that began, “‘Gee, golly gosh, gloriosky,’ thought Mary Sue as she stepped on the bridge of the Enterprise. ‘Here I am, the youngest lieutenant in the Fleet—only 15–1/2 years old.’” Lieutenant Mary Sue, object of affection of Kirk, Spock, and the rest of the men of Star Trek: TOS, was meant to be a parody of what Smith had observed in the fanzines of the day: “The term caught on because she’s very identifiable: Here it is, that same character, and isn’t it a shame because she’s just so tiresome,” she told an interviewer at Transformative Works and Cultures in 2011.

The conversation, conducted 40 years after Lieutenant Mary Sue first stepped onto the bridge, is an interesting one, not least because of the vague sense of disconnect between the literary analysis around the term (why bending a story around your original character might make for bad fiction, or at least not-terribly-enjoyable fiction if you aren’t the author) and the gendered morass that the term has sunk into (or, arguably, where it began).

Mary Sues weren’t born in Trek fandom—one researcher drew parallels between modern self-insert fic and stories that girls wrote about versions of themselves in the nineteenth century—but the term was born in an era of paper zines, a time of limited space for fanfiction, and arguably one with a different relationship between fic writers and their readers. When she first coined the term, Smith says, “In the letter columns, we started seeing the writers react: ‘What’s so wrong with my story? I’m just telling a story that I think is great.’” Even detractors admit Mary Sues are about young girls finding their power and agency in a world of fictional landscapes that rarely afford such journeys to women. After all, the original Mary Sue was the youngest lieutenant in the Fleet.

The days of limited space and resources in fic production are ancient history: there is always room for another story in the internet’s archives, and the general ethos of the broader fanfiction community has long been “don’t like, don’t read.” Many stories are self-indulgent, whether they feature a stand-in for the author or or not. But hatred of Mary Sues is embedded in the culture, self-perpetuating, and has seemingly ramped up since fic came online. In the early digital days, some archives banned Mary Sues outright; to this day, blogs exist solely to call peoples’ original characters Mary Sues, and to deconstruct and mock them accordingly.

Once the seed was planted in cultural discourse, Mary Sue accusations became impossible to stop—the toxicity surrounding the term has spread far beyond fanfiction self-inserts. Not long after it was coined, “Mary Sue” became any original female character in fanfiction; for decades, women have been reporting that they stopped writing original female characters, then female characters altogether, for fear of the “Mary Sue” label. Canonical female characters seen as threats to male/male romances in fic got the term, too—one notable (and incredibly troubling) example is the treatment of Nyota Uhura in fic about the rebooted Star Trek films. And over the years, the term has seeped across pop culture, to the point where “Mary Sue” becomes any female lead, anywhere. Bella Swan, Katniss Everdeen, and Rey from Star Wars are just a few slapped with the label. It’s just so annoying that their respective plots center around them, they must be Mary Sues.

(There are male Mary Sues, in case you’re wondering: “Marty Stu,” “Gary Stu,” and other variations have shown up over the years. People try to counter, even undercut, the inherent misogyny in the Mary Sue conversation by naming too-competent, too-desirable leading men—Captain Kirk, Luke Skywalker, and James Bond are famous examples. There’s an old joke: “What do you call a male Mary Sue?” The answer? “A protagonist.” It’s—not a particularly funny joke.)

But just as fanfiction writers are fighting back against historical scorn towards the practice at large, in recent years fans have been standing up for Mary Sues, too. Critics of the term are working to excise it from discussions around professional works, where it disproportionally targets women writing novels about female characters. In an act of reclamation, one of the most popular female-led geek sites on the internet took the term for its name. And within fan writing communities, people are going to bat for even the most self-indulgent Mary Sues, questioning why we shame young fans for making themselves the heroes of their own stories. But is a long-embedded stigma that easy to shake?

It feels like every other fanfiction writer you talk to has a tale of their own early Mary Sues. Not everyone got called out for them—plenty of people learned to self-censor when they saw others getting shamed. My podcast partner, Flourish, reports that her early original female character was a student who proved vital to a case that Mulder and Scully were investigating. My first fanfic was almost entirely original characters, sketched out on yellow legal pads—I took a minor character from a book series and gave him a diverse team of corporate executives (don’t ask, it’s a weirdly long explanation). But by age 14, when I fell in love with Buffy and learned about online fandom, I was writing stories featuring a banshee who was old friends with Rupert Giles named—Ophelia. (I swear to God, I had no idea about the implications at the time, I just thought “Ophelia” sounded pretty, just as I loved “Cecilia” until Simon & Garfunkel ruined it for me.)

But these days more women are pushing back against the original characters they once felt ashamed of. After all, why shouldn’t young girls write the most spectacular versions of themselves—and why shouldn’t they want to see themselves in a story? In recent years I’ve been especially interested in watching women, people of color, and queer people reclaim the self-insertion narrative from one of indulgence to one of vital representation. In a piece partly about her youthful love of Lord of the Rings, Ash Davis writes,

“Be the change you wish to see,” Gandhi said (sorta). So I wrote my change. I discovered fanfiction and wrote all the damn change. I went into the painfully white fandoms of the things I loved—and wrote black folk into every last one of them. If there were no black people, I made them. If they were tokens, I made them stars. Mary-sued the shit out of everything. It didn’t matter, you were gonna see me!

In another piece I love about reclaiming the Mary Sue (via a medieval mystic, Margery Kempe, who essentially Mary Sued her way into the Bible in her writing, chilling with Mary and romancing Jesus), Ana Wilson writes about placing the female body back into reading—and into writing.

Reading The Book of Margery Kempe alongside fanfiction makes it clear that physical, imaginative reading is still associated with women, still considered embarrassing, and still employed as a form of resistance to mainstream narratives. People, in short, are still using this style of reading to elbow their way into texts from which they are restricted, just as Kempe and other women did with religious texts.

I wish I had my own Mary Sues to claim, but on a personal level, I’m a little more ambivalent. When I talk about good old Ophelia the Banshee, both “female” and an “original character” (and pulling from a very specific strand of symbolic mythology, for that matter), it’s easy to assume that I must have been writing a Mary Sue. But I can’t remember any specific connection between myself and the character, beyond the connections I have with every character I write, from the weary narrator of much of my original fiction who, like me, works at a racetrack, all the way to a certain pansexual immortal time traveling man from the 51st century.

The relationship between a writer and the characters she both reads and writes is a varied and complicated one. Fanfiction adds a layer onto that—the original characters in question aside, most of the people we write about started out as someone else’s characters, at least before the original work went out in the world. In the hands of fans, individually or collectively, a character often becomes someone else in the process. I should clarify: I don’t mean that fans are likely to render them out-of-character. But with the space and care that fanfiction can afford, fan writers often draw a favorite world’s characters as richer, more complicated—more human.

So unless you’re writing self-inserts or original characters, fanfic is partly about getting into the headspace of a character you didn’t create. That, for me anyway, is one of fanfiction’s chief pleasures—I’ve written before that for most fans, fic isn’t about wacky plots, as people outside fandom often assume, but about understanding a character so well that the interesting part comes when you stick them in a wacky plot (sure, “there’s only one hotel room left” counts as wacky), apply pressure, and see how they react.

For me, in my post-Ophelia Banshee days, inhabiting other characters as I write fanfiction has been vitally important. I read and write fic for a simultaneous distance and closeness with these characters—I allow them into my head, but I’m not looking to project myself back onto them. Part of this is privilege: whiteness, and I’m especially thinking of the un-interrogated whiteness of my adolescence, often lets white people assume a “default” position. A disproportionate number of the characters on our pages and screens are white, and from that lens shared whiteness with characters feels less like commonality and more like a lack of difference. Part of it is the opposite of privilege: the minefield of my struggles with gender and sexuality—almost definitely a subject for a totally separate essay—have left me perpetually out of step with many characters I encounter on pages and screens. When I think about myself in relation to a story, I slip away—a bit ironic, I suppose, for someone fascinated by girls who write themselves into stories. Or maybe that’s the whole point.

But part of it’s not just me: I hesitate to get too reductive on the links between shaming girls out of their own stories and the kinds of things that dominate many corners of the fanfiction world, but one could draw a line from the embarrassment of the Mary Sue to the positioning of certain types of characters in fandom as “default.” In the vast landscape of popular media, at least in the Anglo-American context, we’re implicitly taught to view the white male character as neutral, blank, infinitely relatable. While media certainly can shoulder some blame, fans should be held responsible, too, and the way young fans are encouraged, gently or mockingly, to step out of their own perspectives, away from their own backgrounds, and into the perspective of certain types of characters is one of the lasting legacies of the Mary Sue construction.

When we consider the Mary Sue and her position in fandom at large, those of us outside the real person fic space often tend to overlook the fact that as long as celebrity fandom has existed, fannish communities have been built on self-insert fic with female protagonists. For many readers, this kind of story is sought after, not an object of scorn. The self-inserts that populate a lot of boy band RPF, for example, are perspective characters that, just like Mary Sues, allow young women to gain narrative control of their relationships with the objects of their affection.

Perspective is important in fanfic. It’s obviously also important in all other fiction, ever, but fic can sometimes feel particularly preoccupied with it. After all, perspective shift is one of the bedrocks of the practice; fans love nudging the spotlight off a canonical protagonist. RPF is an interesting space to examine perspective, and the way the “default” (white, male) gaze gets shattered and refashioned. There’s the complicated sort of circular gaze of stories from the celebrity’s point of view, where the reader watches the celebrity watching a character who’s often a stand-in for the reader. And while second-person fic feels more prevalent in fanfiction at large than it does in the published fiction world, it often feels ubiquitous in RPF spaces. Lumped under a second-person umbrella stories that work very differently in form and function, from fleshed-out second person narrators to “x Reader” stories that eschew identifying details to “imagines,” short prompts that exist in a murky space between fiction and daydream fodder.

When you place those fleshed-out narrators side-by-side with Mary Sues, it’s an interesting study in contrasts: where a Mary Sue is too-perfect, the self-insert narrator is often fairly ordinary, beaten down in some way, frustrated with her situation, not quite aware of her own attractiveness or agency. (Part of the pleasure of the narrative arc is the realization, and reclamation of that agency.) These characters and this type of fic is wildly popular on Wattpad, so much so that the platform commissioned an entire anthology of second-person RPF entitled IMAGINES, released last year with a shiny silver mirror on its cover alongside the words “Celebrity encounters starring YOU.”

The imagines of the anthology are, a little confusingly, not quite the same thing as “imagines,” the prompts that are increasingly popular on Tumblr and Wattpad. The anthology’s stories, about chance encounters with celebrities, are narrated by women of various ages and backgrounds with clear characterization and perspective. They’re not all romantic: in one story, a mother embarrasses her teenage daughter when she brings home Nicholas Hoult for dinner, the “you” full of maternal affection for the actor; in another, “you” are on the run with Kim Kardashian, a freedom fighter in an America where the government has outlawed selfies (Kim is on the run because she keeps taking them, obviously). The “yous” are unremarkable, but there’s a bit of knowing space between the reader and the narrator: we can tell you’re selling yourself short, and we’re waiting for you to realize it.

Actual imagines, in contrast, leave you to do most of the work of constructing a protagonist. They are short, sometimes a single sentence: “Imagine: You and Ed take a camping trip to get away from the media,” reads one on a popular Tumblr devoted to imagines, accompanied by a gif of Ed Sheeran looking sort of bashful. How you met, the state of your relationship, literally everything about “you” is up in the air—whether the reader even feels compelled to fill those gaps is a matter of preference. The “you” in an imagine isn’t necessarily average-looking or untalented—the same blog offers you a gif of Sebastian Stan looking charmed accompanied by, “Imagine: When Sebastian first meets you he is speechless and stunned by your beauty.” Imagines are interesting often not because of what they contain, but what they lack—the wide-open spaces they leave, utterly customizable, whether you spin a single-sentence prompt into a 60,000-word story or just imagine you and Ed Sheeran sitting in a tent. As a self-insert narrator, you are as present or as absent as you want.

The protagonists of “x Reader” stories are similarly blank: often called “y/n,” short for “your name,” these stories are the most literal expression of “self-insert” imaginable, since the pairing is you, the reader, and the celebrity of the title. These stories vary, but sometimes they tread so lightly in an attempt to leave “y/n” as neutral as possible that they wind up feeling a bit like Mad Libs, instructing you to fill in, say, your favorite book rather than just name one the narrator might like. Sometimes x Reader stories follow a full narrative arc; other times they feel like a collected set of imagines. When I got sucked in researching, I wound up in a story where in each chapter, you successively date, then marry, each of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

The prevalence and growing popularity of images and x Reader stories amongst younger fans is a fascinating shift when I think of the self-inserts of previous generations. If a Mary Sue is a projection, a young woman’s ideal self on the page, then an imagine is more likely to be a reflection: exactly who you are, at the center of the story. Mary Sues are aspirational, but in a way, so are these other self-insert forms: they construct worlds in which your fictional self, going about your incredibly ordinary life, is just as important as Lieutenant Mary Sue. The story still bends around you.

The overwhelming popularity of self-inserts on Wattpad, a fanfiction hub with a younger demographic than other archives, leaves me both curious and hopeful about young girls right now, writing themselves into stories. I know that reader x boy-band-star-of-the-moment isn’t exactly a new construction; while I was working on my weird diverse corporate team and Flourish was helping the FBI catch aliens, my contemporaries were writing themselves into Hanson’s green room and *NSYNC’s tour bus, stories they’d later disavow (and, haltingly, reclaim).

Today’s social media is restructuring our conceptions of personal identity—we increasingly center ourselves in our own narratives. Don’t worry, I’m not about to go on some “narcissistic millennial” rant. Quite the opposite: it’s heartening to see young women, young queer people, young people of color, center themselves in narratives when our screens and pages are still lacking. In the fanfiction world, just like in the rest of the world, we still hold marginalized characters, original or otherwise, to impossible standards. But perhaps our embrace of Mary Sues—even if they’re the most achingly perfect young woman to ever command a ship in the Fleet—will help change things for the better.

An open letter to my friend who thinks transwomen are women

I recently sent you an article by a lesbian who has been documenting homophobia within trans activism. You, my otherwise compassionate, patient and warm friend, replied with “sorry, not interested”. You told me that you didn’t want to read an article which referred to transwomen as ‘male’. You said that transwomen suffer from an “accident at birth” — transwomen are women born in the wrong body.

Seeing my principled friend (with a first-class undergraduate and a masters degree) actively adopt such a bizarre, anti-materialist and anti-scientific position really worries me. How can ‘you’ be ‘born into’ a body? You are a body. The ‘born in the wrong body’ idea goes beyond poststructuralist ideas about gender onto quasi-religious terrain. How can anyone have an innate, pre-experience knowledge of what it means to be the other sex? What does that even entail? Being male or female refers to your reproductive sex. To argue otherwise is akin to arguing for gendered souls.

Still, you talk about ‘gender identity’ —an innate sense of whether someone is male or female. Where is the evidence for this? How do we measure it? What does it mean? Even if we were to accept that a part of your brain could get ‘mixed up’ into an ‘incorrectly’ sexed body, why would ‘gender identity’ override all other physical indicators of whether you are male or female? Why would your subjective sense of self ever be privileged over objective physicality in this way? Transgender is not a medical diagnosis. Gender dysphoria is a psychological condition, characterised by dissatisfaction with your sexed body and/or assigned gender role. The science behind what causes gender dysphoria is inconclusive, but it is likely caused by different biopsychosocial factors which are unique to each trans person. Gender dysphoria has not been proven to have one ‘cause’ (an ‘accident at birth’ leading to being ‘born in the wrong body’) — there is no normative standard of ‘feeling like a woman’ or ‘feeling like a man’.

Despite this, children who ‘identify’ as the other sex are being given puberty blockers and cross sex hormones. The systematic medicalisation of gender non-conforming children should be an unthinkable practice. Little girls are too young to understand that wanting short hair, having crushes on other girls and enjoying football doesn’t make you a boy trapped in a girls body. Studies suggest that 80% of gender dysphoric children desist and grow up to be lesbian, gay or bisexual. One reason why older lesbians are so outspoken (“TERFs”) is because they recognise that they could easily have been ‘transed’ had they been children today. One reason why mothers are so outspoken (“TERFs”) is because they know children and their fickleness well.

We are meant to simultaneously believe that gender identity is fixed at around four years old (thus justifying medical intervention in children) but also that trans people don’t all struggle with a lifelong dissatisfaction with their ‘gender’ (thus widening the ‘trans umbrella’ for ‘inclusivity’). How are we to explain ‘genderfluid’, ‘non-binary’ or ‘agender’ identities? If gender has the potential to be fluid, or to change over time, or to not exist, what justification do we have in making permanent changes to a child’s body? Feminists see this practice as being based in gender essentialism?—?a concept you otherwise recognise and reject. What do you make of Jazz Jennings’ book, ‘I am Jazz’, which opens with “for as long as I can remember, my favourite colour has been pink”? She goes on to argue that “I have a girl brain, but a boy body. This is called transgender”. This book is being read in schools in an effort to educate children about what being trans means.

Jazz’ case is interesting, and certainly complexifies issues around sex and gender?—?to what extent can Jazz be considered ‘a man’ if she has never been allowed to go through male puberty? How could it be reasonable to expect Jazz to use male spaces? These are conversations we need to have. But Jazz is a very rare case. ‘Transgender’ is an umbrella term coined in the 1990s to unite a variety of gender non-conforming experiences. What was once ‘transsexual’ is now ‘transgender’. What was once ‘transvestite’ is also ‘transgender’. Both Jazz Jennings and Eddie Izzard have the same claim to the term ‘woman’, because ‘woman’ has been extended to mean ‘anyone who identifies as a woman’ (which I guess excludes me, then). Where do you draw the line? Being ‘trans’ is no longer characterised by the material state of having surgically changed your body, but is now characterised by an immaterial, subjective sense of self. Is Danielle Muscato a woman? How about Stonewall activist, Alex Drummond? Again, where do you draw the line? Is it based on ‘passing’? Do women have to look a certain way? What about Jess Bradley, NUS trans spokesperson, who has been suspended from their position for allegedly flashing ‘her’ erect penis in public? Is this a female crime? Are we as a society prepared to accept that it is now possible for a woman to flash her erect penis in public? To extend this further: are we to now accept the possibility of a woman raping another woman with her penis? If nothing else, this is a huge assault on female solidarity and trust. This may be a crude comparison, and I apologise, but consider other animals: would surgically transplanting the feathers of a male peacock onto a female peacock make the latter male? Of course not. Would castrating and shaving the mane of a male lion make him female? Of course not. So why do we accept that surgery has the power to change sex in human beings?

Having said this, we are told by organisations like Stonewall that trans people who do not undergo surgical interventions are still, in all senses, the other sex. This is absurd. What definition of ‘female’ includes the only sex she is not? The female mammal is characterised by the production of gametes (ova) which can be fertilized by male gametes (spermatozoa). No female mammal can fertilize female gametes. No father is a woman. No man is a woman. A woman is an adult human female. Definitions are, necessarily, exclusionary.

Still, in efforts to be more ‘inclusive’, organisations like Bloody Good Period and Cancer Research are reducing women to their biological functions with terms like “menstruators” and “everyone with a cervix”, respectively. Using such passive terms is explicit dehumanisation: other female animals have cervixes and can menstruate. Perhaps the most Orwellian act of ‘inclusivity’ comes from Healthline, who refer to vaginas as “front holes” in sex-education material. This is clearly offensive and ridiculous. You know this. Yet any woman who protests the erasure of ‘woman’ as a meaningful category is smeared as a ‘TERF’. Women who claim ‘women don’t have penises’ are being investigated by the police for hate crime. This is a laughably grotesque form of sexist injustice. As a leftist, surely you can’t defend this.

These new ideas about gender disproportionately affect women who have their own specific spaces, shortlists and movements. These were created not only to promote solidarity and to address historical disadvantages, but also to safeguard against male violence. The absurd climax of gender activism is that male sex offenders are now being housed in female prisons because they ‘identify’ as women. It seems obvious to me not to lock sex offenders in a space with powerless women, but, again, arguing this position gets you smeared with the slur ‘TERF’ (a term I wish you’d stop using). This may be an uncomfortable truth, but around half of UK trans prisoners are incarcerated for sexual crimes (including rape and paedophilia). This is not to argue that all transwomen are sexually violent, merely to point out that this is over double the 19% figure for sexual violence across the prison population as a whole. Why is this? These are questions we need to be free to ask, alongside many other questions: why are gender identity clinics seeing such dramatic increases in teenage girls with mental health issues and autism? Yet events organised by women to discuss these issues are being systematically shut down. Do you defend this assault on women’s democratic right to free speech and assembly?

I know you have many trans friends, some I know and am also very fond of. I understand that you have seen them struggle and that you naturally want to defend them. As with any feminist position, I am not attacking any individual male or denying their struggles. I am trying to objectively point to facts. Someone told me that in taking a gender-critical position, I am viewing trans people as “either mentally ill or immoral” and that this is cruel and unfair. I sympathise with their point, but this isn’t my position. This reminded me of CS Lewis’ argument that Jesus was either Lunatic, Liar, or Lord. Like CS Lewis, this activist excluded another possibility: simply being mistaken, which is where I sit. I worry that a lot of young trans people have misread their gender dysphoria as signalling that they are literally the other sex. But “Trans Women Are Women” was meant to be compassion, not truth.

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