She Had a Fire Inside

i saw somebody say “what if you’re gone and i haven’t become anything yet” and basically that broke me on a random thursday evening

I came across this Tumblr post and here's why people blaming the fans for the writers fatal flaw is just wrong.

And now I'll get to the most unpopular opinion I've ever shared online - fully aware that what I've already said very few people on here would agree with: I don't think it's Rob Thomas who killed the show with his ill-adviced decision, it's the fans who did that. Not that they are not aware of it, but they still refuse to take the blame for it, as if there could not have been any other reaction. And clearly they don't regret it. After they paid to bring Veronica Mars back once before. They collectively decided that season 4 was a crime against the fandom and that it never happened. Therefore making it impossible for anyone who did not feel the same way to get more content and have some closure. I know I don't get to be mad about that, but it is sad. And I've been on the other side of this a few times and stopped watching a show after a certain point, but that never triggered a cancellation. I've seen favorite characters killed off many times without it ever leading to a fandom turning hostile like that, sometimes even ripping everything else apart about the show. And it's not even like Veronica Mars was a cosy show where people didn't die. It was neo noir. It started out with her solving the murder of her best friend ffs. So, how did this happen? How did one character's death kill the show? Was it because he was the main love interest over more than a decade? Why does it now feel like he was more important than the protagonist? Or was it maybe because the fans campaigned for it's return and even funded the movie? Was it because they felt more invested in a way and later betrayed although they did not pay for the last season to get made?

I know this take circulates a lot: “The fans killed Veronica Mars. If they hadn’t reacted so strongly to Season 4, we’d have gotten more.”

But after watching this happen over and over, across shows I love, shows that shaped me, shows that built entirely new corners of fandom culture. I just don’t buy it.

Fans aren’t killing shows. Writers are breaking the emotional contract, torching the narrative spine, and then blaming the audience for the smoke.

And if Veronica Mars were the only example, maybe we could write it off. But this specific heartbreak, this implosion of trust, has now happened on too many shows, in too many fandoms, with too similar a pattern to chalk up to “one overreacting audience.”

It didn’t start with Season 4. It didn’t start with Logan Echolls. And it didn’t end there.

It’s The Handmaid’s Tale. It’s Game of Thrones. It’s The 100. And on and on.

This is a cultural pattern. A breaking point between audiences and creators, and VM is just the case study where people still argue about who struck the match.

The pattern is the same every time: the writers kill the relationship they spent years telling us mattered most.

This is the part critics pretend not to understand.

Fandom doesn’t melt down because a character dies. Characters die constantly in television, and people grieve them, yell about them, move on. They melt down when a character dies in a way that breaks the story’s thesis. Let's take a deeper look:

Veronica Mars: Logan Echolls

Years of storytelling, marketing, PR, revival hype, and arc-building told us:

Logan is Veronica’s person. He’s the love story that grows with her. This relationship is the heart of the show.

Season 4 then kills him in the last 90 seconds as a plot device. Not a turning point, not a thematic evolution, just a twist that contradicts everything the show told us about her healing.

The Handmaid’s Tale: Nick Blaine

Four seasons of narrative work (and two books) told us:

Nick is June’s equal, mirror, moral counterweight, and match. Their love is radical, raw, complicated, feminist, and central.

Then Seasons 5 and 6 decide:

Actually, punish him. Actually, flatten him. Actually, the story is about motherhood, not womanhood or desire. Actually, June belongs with the safe man.

That isn’t a character arc. That’s an ideological pivot.

Game of Thrones: Daenerys Targaryen

Eight seasons told us:

Daenerys is the heart of the myth. She breaks chains. She frees people. She’s the emotional and moral center of the show’s grand design.

The final three episodes say:

Forget that. She snaps because… trauma? lineage? vibes? The woman who liberated millions is actually a tyrant.

A series that built itself on emotional logic ends on plot logic. The single most disorienting pivot a story can make.

When the ending contradicts what the story was, fans don’t feel shocked. They feel gaslit.

Killing the love interest isn’t the issue. Killing the thesis is.

This is the part nobody wants to talk about, because it forces a reckoning with the power and legitimacy of fandom interpretation.

Logan wasn’t just Veronica’s boyfriend. Nick wasn’t just June’s romantic partner. Daenerys wasn’t just another lead.

These characters were:

thematic mirrors

emotional anchors

narrative engines

symbolic structures

the emotional grammar of the show

and the embodiment of the protagonist’s arc

You don’t just rip those out. Not without re-breaking everything around them. It’s like pulling the keystone from a bridge and then blaming drivers for falling into the river.

Why does this keep happening? Because TV writers mistake cynicism for prestige.

This is the actual disease that keeps killing fan-beloved shows:

Prestige = tragedy

Prestige = subversion

Prestige = women alone

Prestige = punishing love

Prestige = nihilism masquerading as maturity

It’s a worldview that sees romance arcs, emotional continuity, loyal love interests, or morally gray partners as “cheap,” “fan service,” or “too soapy.” And because of that mindset, writers keep doing one of two things:

1. They kill the love interest to seem edgy or surprising.

2. They rewrite the protagonist or their partner beyond recognition.

And sometimes both. Either way, the show loses the very thing that made it groundbreaking. The fans didn’t kill Veronica Mars. They mourned what the creator killed first. If a fandom was powerful enough to:

campaign for a return

fund a movie

keep the discourse alive for a decade

pull the show into the 2010s streaming era

…then maybe, just maybe, they had a point about the story’s emotional core.

People didn’t walk away because Logan died. They walked away because his death dismantled the show’s moral vocabulary.

Just like:

People walked away from The Handmaid’s Tale, especially 6x10, because they dismantled the show’s feminist thesis and punished the very arc they built around love, agency, and liberation. (Ahem Hulu's TT because I will be shocked if it's not heading for a similar exit.)

People walked away from Game of Thrones because the finale dismantled eight years of character logic and replaced it with plot convenience.

This isn’t “toxicity.” This is narrative literacy.

Fans understood the assignment better than the people writing the final chapters. The truth is this: fans don’t kill shows. Shows kill themselves when they decide the audience was wrong about what mattered.

And here's the irony that never gets talked about: Writers taught us what mattered.

They built these love stories. They crafted these arcs. They centered these relationships. They marketed these dynamics. They put these characters in promos, posters, finales, interviews, season-long narratives. They told us these bonds mattered.

So when they then turn around and say:

Actually, wrong. Actually, silly of you to care. Actually, this was never the point.

Of course people walk.

It’s not immaturity. It’s not entitlement. It’s not “fandom killing the show.”

can someone explain what he's talking about i got distracted by his giant jiggling honkers badonkers

OKAY i'm fucking sick of people who can't read leaving these comments so here we go, we're gonna read Barthes together. hold my hand

Barthes' 1967 essay The Death of the Author (La mort de l'auteur) loosely takes the form of a literary history: he relates the changing attitudes of criticism towards the text and of literature towards criticism down to his day. He is interested in what writing is, and thus, what a book is: "a tissue of signs," which the critic claims to be able to interpret. But Barthes argues that once the necessity of connecting the author to the book is removed, the critic has no work to do: "Once the Author is gone, the claim to 'decipher' a text becomes quite useless." This is a rejection of both the supremacy of the critic and the intentions of the author.

When Barthes says "critic," he doesn't mean "anyone who has encountered the text," however. He differentiates the critic from the "reader":

the reader is the very space in which are inscribed, without any being lost, all the citations a writing consists of; the unity of a text is not in its origin, it is in its destination.

For Barthes, the reader's understanding of the text is supreme because it weaves together the "tissue of signs" into a coherent whole, producing a singular interpretation. He concludes by advocating for the overthrow of the critical establishment in favor of individual interpretation: "to restore to writing its future, we must reverse its myth: the birth of the reader must be ransomed by the death of the Author." In other words, in order for us to allow readers their own experiences, we must stop prioritizing the critic -- not the reader, but the critic -- and instead allow the reader to engage the text.

We're gonna un-Barthes Barthes now, okay? Stay with me. Here's the context:

Barthes was responding to a stifling and rigid environment in which criticism was the sole province of the academic expert. As part of the deconstructionist wave, he wanted to upend the traditional hierarchy that dictated how a text should be understood and what it was for, instead prioritizing language and reaction.

He got his wish. We live in a world of reaction.

Gone is the tyranny of the formal critic; gone even is the formal literary education of the reader. Our "tissue of signs" is no longer the text, but an infinite mirrored hall of reactions to reactions to reactions in which the text diminishes into a vanishing point, as the Author once did on Barthes' literary stage.

We do not need to resist the tyranny of the academy. The academy has been destroyed. Adjunctification, the widespread corporatization of universities, the resulting devaluation of college degrees, the devastation of humanities departments in widespread shutdowns, and now the revocation of billions of dollars of government funding have left the academy on its knees. Public trust in academic expertise has declined so sharply that people on this very hellsite will tell you that if someone has an advanced degree in a specific field, that actually makes them less trustworthy.

And in Ozymandias' place, we have the reader.

The reader consumes a variety of "content" and regurgitates its reactions in a variety of "posts." It transmutes text into more text which further readers wriggle eagerly through, refining what might have had meaning into a rarefied fertilizer of emotion and echo. What it leaves behind becomes the literary history for new strata of reactions, nostalgia, and imitation.

This is the audience: an ouroboros of interpretation, a rat king of readership. It has no end but itself. Ultimately, it needs no text to function. In this world, the truly radical act is to disentangle yourself from the other worms and rebuild the edifice of meaning. This may require you to do such tasks as "read the actual book," but because we no longer have the support -- however oppressive -- of literary criticism to inform our reading, we must also learn how to read, explore the historical context on our own, and recover both the facts and the symbols from which the text is woven.

That is what death of the audience means: not a rejection of the critic in favor of language, but a rejection of endless language and infinite readers in favor of fact, history, and skill.

It's a pun, by the way: "La mort de l'auteur," spoken aloud, recalls Le Morte d'Arthur, a 15th-century collection of Arthurian legend which marked the turn away from the Middle Ages and into a nostalgic Early Modern period which valorized them. The Author becomes the mythic King; as myth, he can be severed from fact and dismissed.

Fact has now itself become the myth.

When I said I was going to watch Megamind last night, my roommate told me about how the surround sound in the theater where they saw it was so good, they thought the random citizen was in the audience behind them

and so they got