Less than a month between blog posts? Clearly something is wrong with me. Well, read on to learn about The Gaslight District, read about some thoughts I have on the nature of art, and get another Devon Eriksen recommendation. (This time it’s an interview!)

I ordered proofs for Inner Demon recently, so I should get them sometime this week. As long as Babylon—erm, Amazon—doesn’t fail me. Pictures for those will end up on my next blog post, but I’m better at doing things in real time on X, so go follow me there to see any pictures on the day of.

Today, I officially begin editing and revisions for Halfwhisker. I’m going to take a much more structured, thorough approach than I did with Failed Technomancer and Inner Demon, mostly as an experiment to see if this produces better results. I’m also going to split the book up into revision chunks—easier to eat an elephant in a bunch of small bites than one big bite and all that.

Bloggyness Review—The Gaslight District

GLITCH is at it again with a new pilot for another animated series, created, per the usual, with high-quality animation, passionate voice acting, and somehow released for free on YouTube. (I think that they primarily fund their work through merchandise sales and, if so, I have to imagine they move a lot of merch. Whatever else you think about what they do, GLITCH’s animation team does impressive work.)

(Also, one of the hidden costs to this model is probably the long, long wait time between episodes. Anyway…)

This new animated series is called The Gaslight District. Here’s GLITCH’s pitch for the show, following by an embedded link for the video:

The Gaslight District is a gothic crime drama following an undead family who cheat, lie and, steal their way to survival long after the world has ended.

I did not like The Gaslight District, overall, on my first watch-through. That said, something about it intrigued me enough to give it a second try, and I enjoyed it a lot more on a second viewing—but I still had some major issues.

Now, on to the specifics! What did I think worked about The Gaslight District?

As a fan of “the horror aesthetic,” I loved the visual design. Creepy, sometimes gross, with intentionally ugly and detailed designs, at times I felt like I was (as far as visuals go) watching The Nightmare Before Christmas—in part because of the many moments that were either claymated or animated to look very, very similar.

In general, The Gaslight District‘s visual identity was unique and interesting. Moments would regularly be emphasized by having the characters turn into silhouettes with glowing eyes; the frame rate was intentionally low (a style popularized by Into the Spider-verse, but in this show it felt like it added to the feel rather than chased a trend); and many characters had bizarre but compelling designs, such as Breadhead, sometimes juxtaposed with personalities you might not expect based on appearances—in a good way—with Ken the Butcher as an example. (Based on his visual design, I expected Ken to be an unintelligent brute, probably because he reminded me of the below monster from World of Warcraft. Instead he was far more interesting; yes, a creature with strong passions, but rather cunning in his own right.)

I also thought the voice acting and animation was done well. Which… yep. Competent people were hired and they did jobs that felt both professional and like the creatives involved were invested in the work they were doing. I like to see that. Unfortunate that isn’t an assumed baseline anymore.

Well, what didn’t work for me?

Mostly, the pacing. The pilot for The Gaslight District felt like someone took what would have been season one in any other context and condensed it into less than thirty minutes. This show moves eye-wateringly fast, giving you (and each scene) hardly any room to breathe, and giving you essentially no time with the characters to get to know them and understand them. Considering the pitch of the show is a “gothic crime drama” where we follow a “family,” which suggests that the relationships between characters are even more important than they usually are, I don’t think this pace was the right move for the pilot episode.

In many ways, it felt like the pilot episode had one purpose, and that was to establish the overall setting and the starting point for the characters, to be picked up and fleshed out in the next episode.

I’m also very, very hesitant about the world building. The general concept intrigued me—the show is set on Earth, but after something happened that has turned all of humanity into undead immortals. (Literal immortality is a very key aspect of the world building—if a character, for example, gets his head blown off, he may be taken out for a few minutes, but then his head will regenerate and he’ll continue just as he was before. As such, getting rid of anyone permanently is nearly impossible, it would appear, but with some cement and a nearby lake people can be made to… disappear, for a time.) Perhaps most importantly, there’s a prophecy that once every ten thousand years a living human would be born and, unless killed by the undead immortals, would bring about the end of the end of the world. Naturally, one of the main characters is secretly that human, which causes all sorts of problems.

As I’ve said, the general concept is intriguing, particularly as a fan of the horror aesthetic. But I’m very, very hesitant about the inclusion of “angels” in this series. Angels, in The Gaslight District, are vulture-like birds that have halos, emit white light, and appear to be capable of natural life cycles. Perhaps they are only called angels because they appear to be living things with a limited number of traits traditionally ascribed to actual angels—but they also come from a place literally set in the sky that is referred to as heaven. All this, together, makes me leery. It’s not uncommon for modern shows to have as part of their premise, “Well, maybe Hell wasn’t so bad all along and it’s really Heaven that was the problem from the start” (see Hazbin Hotel), and I don’t think that’s a good thing. Objective good exists, as does objective evil, and it’s not good to mock or muddy such things.

Being leery doesn’t mean I’m turned off, however. I’m hoping that I won’t be proven right about the nature of the angels of this show. But if I am, I’m going to move on.

As a final thing I didn’t like, all of GLITCH’s previous work (that I’ve seen) either didn’t have swearing or artistically (and comedically) censored swearing; The Gaslight District retains discernible swearing. Drat.

That’s the gist of my thoughts. Since GLITCH releases all of their shows for free on YouTube, I’ll at least give the second episode a try, see if they manage to fix the things I’m not a fan of. I probably wouldn’t have been willing to continue with the show if I had to pay for it, though.

Discussions—Art and Didacticism

Tanner Millet is a good friend of mine and a member of my writing group; recently he posted something on Substack that I wanted to have some dialogue about. (The article is titled “All Art Teaches Something.”) It’s a quick read, so I’d recommend checking it out. Note that, as we’re both authors, his article—and my response here—is primarily concerned with writing and stories, but I think these general ideas could be applied to other art forms.

To quickly summarize, here’s what I got out of the article:

• Many modern approaches to understanding art seek to remove all meaning (moral or otherwise) from art, instead instilling pre-determined meaning onto art through various critical lenses
• This modern perspective is a grave loss from prior ages, where all art was expected to in some way mirror the “hierarchical order of the world”; art was also seen as a mirror into the soul of the artist (thus meaning that great moral character was key on the part of the artist)
• This modern perspective is also a lie, as it is not possible to remove the values and perspectives of the creator from the created, whether or not you agree with such values and perspectives; in essence, the concept of death of the author is self-delusion

I generally agree with Tanner. While I can’t define the word art in any way that I find satisfying—I think what someone sees as art, or defines as art, generally reflects on that person more than it successfully encapsulates art as a concept—I think a large part of what makes a lot of art engaging and enduring can be drawn from the unique perspectives of its creators (which, consciously or subconsciously, ends up in the work); as well, art that embodies some sort of objective truth (even, or perhaps especially, when expressed through fiction) tends to strike the human soul the hardest.

That said, as Tanner mentions, art ought not to be preachy. Specifically, I think art fails to be art when it becomes more about a message than entertainment. After all, the two key elements of art, in order of importance, are (A) to be entertaining and (B) to be a subtly powerful way to encapsulate and share ideas (such as objective truth or, more often, cultural values). (It’s that latter item, I think, that causes most people to see true art as enlightening or uplifting in some way.)

Two use two authors as examples (who happened to have been contemporaries), who are good enough guideposts on either end of extremes, look at JRR Tolkien and CS Lewis. Both authors wrote wonderful, engaging stories that work and can be enjoyed as just stories; in short, they (A) entertain, first and foremost. When read from a specifically Christian perspective, it’s easier to see the values, beliefs, and/or perspectives of the authors behind the stories, but that’s not a requirement for Lord of the Rings or Narnia to be entertaining, and they still showcase great virtues through their characters; thus (B), subtle, yet powerful, encapsulation and sharing of ideas and beliefs.

But I mentioned two ends of extremes above because CS Lewis pretty obviously wrote Aslan as Jesus Christ. He pushes the boundaries of what counts as being “art” rather than “disguised sermon,” but I still think he falls on the “art” side of that line because, ultimately, I think his children’s stories exist first to entertain. Tolkien, on the other hand and to my knowledge, avoided direct allegory and kept most of his less veiled references focused on myths and folktales that inspired him. For example, Bard was, essentially, Tolkien’s Beowulf, and is recognizable to those who read the right stories and are paying attention, but this connection is very far from necessary to fully appreciate The Hobbit. Thus, I think he’s a good enough guidepost for an author who intentionally avoids allegory, but also isn’t afraid to have truths he believes in foundational to his story.

(As an aside, if the extreme that Lewis brushes up against is art turning into lecture, the extreme that I’m posting Tolkien closest to—even though he’s not anywhere near it—is vapid entertainment, lacking meaning or substance. If an author writes something intentionally empty of anything the author cares about… well, I first of all think the author would have an incredibly difficult time making such a thing engaging, but I also don’t believe the end result would be art, or even anything of value. Even if it showcased some sort of well-developed skill on the author’s part.)

So, why bring this all up in the first place? Because I think there is an indirect question that Tanner brings up early on in his article, which I don’t see a clear answer to, and I want to answer it.

Because this is a blog post (with segments that have specific points) and not a story.

Barzun’s observation on the difference between modern and ancient attitudes struck me, as I’ve often wrestled with this question of whether art should be didactic. [Emphasis added.]

In case you need to look up the word “didactic” (I did), it means, “intended to teach, particularly in having moral instruction as an ulterior motive.” Thus, the implied question is, “Ought art be intended to teach; particularly, moral instruction.”

Well, if you agree with my earlier assertion of the key elements of art, the obvious answer is “No.” If you tell a story with any primary goal other than (A) entertaining, you are not actually telling a story or attempting to create art, but rather trying to Trojan Horse a lecture into someone’s mind. Not only have you failed at the primary purpose of a story, you’ve revealed some sort of lack of confidence: perhaps in your ability to tell a story (so you supplant storytelling with a secret sermon); perhaps in your own beliefs or values (so you trick others into engaging with such ideas by making them believe you are providing entertainment).

Throwing back to CS Lewis as an example, the Christian parallels in his stories are pretty clear, but do not overwhelm the primary purpose of the story: to entertain. Lewis is confident enough in his own world and characters that Narnia does its own things with the Christ-story: some obvious examples being that Aslan is a lion, while Jesus Christ is a man, and that Aslan dies in His world (despite being Jesus Christ, who either already did die in ours, or would end up doing so) in a manner completely different from Christ’s death. And then, of course, there are the talking animals and witches, which (looking at the Harry Potter book burnings and bannings) some modern Christians on the extreme end of strictness might treat as heresy if CS Lewis weren’t already firmly established as a foundational Christian author and apologist. In short, reading Narnia isn’t going to teach you specifics of Christian doctrine, although it does have shared themes and values.

But at the same time, a story cannot be empty; if so, it is not art, for it cannot quicken the mind or enliven the soul. Thus (B), that the story must subtly encapsulate and share beliefs. Throwing back to Tolkien, a devout Christian, I personally do not see the Christ story superimposed on Lord of the Rings, nor would I consider anything else that comes to my mind as directly Christian (other than shared themes, such as self-sacrifice). Perhaps this is because Tolkien drew so heavily from Germanic mythology in the crafting of his world, or perhaps this is because he strongly felt that subtlety was required in good craft (and sometimes expressed frustrations with Lewis’ lack of it). Regardless of why Tolkien avoided directly representing his beliefs, it can’t be said that Lord of the Rings lacks in depth and meaning. It is dripping with it. The heroism of its characters alone excellently showcase moral virtues and how certain things ought to be, and not just in a narrow scope—Sam is a very different sort of hero from Frodo, Gandalf, Aragorn, and even Boromir (as presented in the books). It’s not possible to genuinely read The Lord of the Rings and honestly conclude that the stories don’t contain coherent, consistent, purposeful meaning—a lifeblood of truth that invigorates the otherwise fictional story.

In all of this, I diverge from Tanner’s focus quite a bit. In engaging with Jacques Barzun’s From Dawn to Decadence, Tanner largely focused on the moral character of the creator of the art as most important, rather than the critical components of the art itself, as I have. I think the latter is more important than the former but it’s an A/B situation (similar, but not parallel, to my key elements of art); that the writing meets the requirements to be art is most important, but such a thing is more likely to be produced by an artist with at least some admirable moral traits rather than an artist with one or none.

But I also want to be careful here, because I’m not trying to suggest that people who create good art are saints, which might be mistakenly implied when discussing how “good moral character” or “possession of virtues” may be an important part of being an artist. Thinking in such ways is a mistake and could easily lead to treating artists as idol gods, in effect, which is at best unhealthy (and, unfortunately, all too common).

I’m also not trying to suggest that possessing moral virtue automatically makes one an artist—or, at least, a good one. All forms of art involve skills that can be learned or practiced. Being, for example, supremely honest does not immediately grant one great skills in writing, painting, etc. Having a wide and deep well of life experience does not necessarily correlate into any artistic skills either.

Thus, a person with poor moral character (and no virtues to speak of) may put in the work to create technically skilled but ultimately meaningless “art,” while a humble person with great depth of soul may lack the skill to make all but the most rudimentary of things.

So I don’t quite agree with Tanner’s statement, “Strive to become an example, the kind of person that society could benefit from. Learn a lot. And then—when you begin to feel that urge to share what you’ve learned—sit down to write.” [Emphasis added.] Everyone, whether interested in producing art or not, ought to always engage in self-improvement. I think that’s self-evident. But create art while on that journey! Don’t wait until you are at your journey’s end, or at a waypoint. If nothing else, the practice won’t hurt, and might even be an important part of your journey of refinement.

I do, of course, still agree with a significant amount of what Tanner wrote—that what someone writes can be seen as a mirror into their soul, and so forth. I’m also not trying to suggest that what I’ve written is the end-all be-all of what makes art and a good story, but they are important chapters of the novel. Or, to again steal from Tanner’s article, I think these things I have said are true and worth sharing.

—

As a follow-up item, I spoke with Tanner about his article before publishing this blog post. I don’t feel the need to change what I wrote above, but I do think it worth noting that Tanner and I define “teaching” and “didactic” a little differently. I’m a more specific, focused on the active aspect of teaching, while Tanner had in mind passive “teaching by example” as he wrote his article, which is comparable to my points of “transmitting” ideas, or including subtle yet powerful meaning and beliefs.

Semantics can be important. Wasting time quibbling over definitions doesn’t hold inherent meaning, but striving to understand other perspectives so you can come closer to objective reality is a noble effort. While I’m not sure this is obvious from reading our two dialogues separately, we ended up with more that we agreed on than we originally thought.

—

I guess as one more aside, if it is true that people who put in the time and effort to develop their skills and have worthy values or truths put into their art (subconsciously or consciously) are capable of making better art—or at least that such art is a window into that artist’s soul—I think it an interesting exercise to look at works of art and pick them apart in context with their author (rather than ignoring the author entirely). Perhaps in doing so I am unintentionally reinventing some academic exercise—most of which I found useless during my time at university—but with meaningful purpose behind it, doing so feels somewhat fulfilling.

Two examples come to my mind, one that I’m not very familiar with and one that I think I’m pretty familiar with.

For the less-familiar option… Star Wars! Or, at least, George Lucas. It probably goes without saying that George Lucas created an incredibly powerful, influential, enduring work with his two original trilogies. Listening to interviews with the man, he focused a lot on very spiritual things while working on Star Wars and, in particular, the Jedi. I don’t know Mr. Lucas well, and I don’t read up on him ever, so I don’t know how, if at all, that reflects on the man personally, but it does at least outwardly appear that some part of him strives to be sensitive to things beyond our five senses, which is an admirable trait I think is important to cultivate.

For the more familiar option, Devon Eriksen—author of Theft of Fire. I’ve followed Devon on X for quite some time, and most of the time I think his thoughts on the nature of reality and its constituent parts (at least, as we as humans categorize and attempt to understand them) are extremely keen. He obviously has a great love of liberty, and a much more refined view of what liberty actually entails than most—because, believe it or not, liberty does not, and has never, meant “do whatever you want whenever you want however you want all the time.” Liberty only exists within a set of meaningful constraints that exist to preserve basic, key freedoms, such as ownership of property and protection of life and health. While his book does not preach and does not go out of its way to teach or present such ideals, they are obviously foundational elements of his work—at least, once you start to see them you can’t un-see them.

Again, I’m not trying to paint any of the above as saints or demons. All humans have flaws, and some have admirable strengths. If it’s true that the best art tends to in some way encapsulate these strengths (beliefs, virtues, etc), and tends to in some way mirror the artist, then in this context it can be as interesting to look at the man behind the story as the story itself.

Discussions—Devon Eriksen Interview (The Nonsense-Free Editor)

Speaking of authors who are flawed humans (or, perhaps, secretly a bunch of cats operating a human skinsuit), yet possess admirable traits and strong beliefs that, subconsciously or consciously, reflect in their writing, Devon Eriksen. Again. Or, more specifically, Devon Eriksen as interviewed by “The Nonsense-Free Editor.”

I found this conversation extremely enlightening on a variety of topics, including writing, editing, marketing, the nature of men and women, how to engage with and make good use of genre, etc. I’ve already written a lot more than I intended to, so I’ll limit my commentary on the interview, but I recommend checking it out:

Here’s a cookie that might grab your interest: Devon described how he read A Court of Thorns and Roses in an attempt to understand how to write female characters (and stories engaging to women in general, and romance) and found the book unbelievably boring. The main character “seemed to be endlessly spinning her wheels…”, among other things, which he found extremely unfulfilling. Why, then do so many women find A Court of Thorns and Roses peak romantic fiction?

Well, the lesson Devon learned was that women value being valued and figuring out what they want. A whole lot of A Court of Thorns and Roses is exactly that—the main character is special, desired by several possible love interests, so she needs to spend a lot of time figuring out what she really wants, and once she does figure that out things can resolve fairly quickly. Men, generally, aren’t interested in that kind of story! Men are drawn to characters who know what they want and go out to get that. While romance is typically viewed as a female genre, male romances exist and can be extremely successful—but they usually come in the form of the man already knowing what woman he wants, then going on an adventure to get her, and at the end he either “gets the girl” or realizes she wasn’t worth it the entire time and instead gets the female companion he adventured with. (Such stories aren’t usually marketed as romances, admittedly, because the romance isn’t necessarily the most important part of the story, despite still being a key element.)

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All right, that’s all I’ve got for now. Subscribe and come back next time.