Recalling on this balmy summer eve that Ursula Le Guin shipped Spock and Kirk
I mean really, when Le Guin wrote this:
“Do you like science fiction?” I asked her, because all I can really talk about is books. And of course, she couldn’t talk about books. That had been knocked out of her years ago. We compromised on “Star Trek,” new and old. She liked the new series as well as the old one. I liked the old one better. Antal stared, not at Rosemarie, only at me. “You watch it?” he said. “You watch television?” I didn’t answer. … I was not going to let him try to shame us for our commonness. “The one I liked best was the one where Mr. Spock had to go home because he was in heat,” I said to her. “Except, he never, you know,” she said. “They just had a fight over the girl, him and Captain Kirk, and then they left.” “That’s his pride,” I said, obscurely. I was thinking how Mr. Spock was never unbuttoned, never lolled, kept himself shadowy, unfulfilled, and so we loved him. And poor Captain Kirk, going from blonde to blonde, would never understand that he himself loved Mr. Spock truly, hopelessly, forever.
why do we still write meta? Why do we still write fic? She had it. She finished it.
(Excerpt from "True Love" in Le Guin's Searoad)
