Long Live the Lurker
An Ode to the Quiet Hearts of Fandom
Never has there been a time without lurkers. The nameless, teeming masses of readers who quietly move through fandom communities with a passive reception of art and writing. Those who kick their feet up while reading late into the wee hours after chapter upon chapter waiting for their blorbos to kiss for the first time. Those who cherish each and every story they’ve read in their memories and hope one day to find another that will satisfy the same way. Our brothers and sisters in arms who silently message their friends links to the stories and art that touched their souls, sharing in webs of backroom influence.
They may not comment, they may not shout from the mountain tops, they may not believe that what they have to say is of any import at all (and they might be right). It’s not what they have to say that marks the true value of a lurker—it’s in their mere existence. It’s in the love they share for every piece of art that they run across and hold as a tiny gem of light in their soul. It matters not that they don’t or can’t verbalize their joy, or pain, or anger, or euphoria. Some of these things are far beyond linguistic capabilities, after all. Sometimes a story is of such might and power that when one is done with it, it is all they can do to simply live past it. Sometimes it’s sad to know that it’s over and that something else may not live up to just how that particular creation made them feel.
Sometimes it’s difficult for writers and artists to remember that not only have you made a one of a kind piece of art, you have done so in order to present it to dozens, hundreds, thousands(?), of living pieces of art who must all come to grips with themselves in the context of your work. A reader is one piece of a vast network of specks of stardust, cranking away at the mysteries of the universe one small ethereal bead of philosophy and emotion at a time. What we make, what we feel, what we do, and what we are cannot always be expressed in words—in comments or little notes or even in screams. We all have a unique and individual part to play in our reality and what our universe asks of us is different for each of us. We are owed nothing for the suffering of our existence and yet we continue to strive for some grain of meaning despite—in this we are all the same.
Long live the lurker! The softest of touches over our work. A hit or two on the archive. A ghostly breath that hovers in the hallways to give us goosebumps at sunset. Lovers, fighters, breathless starry-eyed dreamers lit by the glow of the monitor at midnight. Weary but smiling, a whole heart by morning after the devouring of the final, perfect chapter. I love you, I love you, I love you! For every one small shout I hear, I feel a thousand more in all that is left unsaid.
