Erickson writes here as three persons who seem distinct to me.
On the first hand, he writes as the author of Hank the Cowdog.
On the other hand, he writes as a Christian talking to Christian writers and artists in general.
On the gripping hand, he writes as a harsh critic of modern culture and of “Capital-A Artists” most of all.
The portions of this book, sometimes portioned out and sometimes mixed in a stinking, rancid roux, deserve very different ratings.
The first part of the book is Erickson’s incredible memoir of his self-publishing journey. He’s a man who was self-pubbing decades before the modern indie boom, and who found pretty cool corners of success in the house of his career. His run-in with Disney alone is almost worth the price of admission. This section merits four stars.
The remaining parts of the book are a combination of both Erickson’s other aspects as he tries to make sense of the modern artistic world and tell people how to be artists of conviction within it.
When Erickson is humble, full of wonder and genuine awe at the idea that a dying or autistic child might have found comfort in his books, he makes me think he could have been another C.S. Lewis. When he calls people in his faction (Christian artistry) to task for their mediocrity, I cheer for him. I believe Erickson holds himself to what he considers to be a high standard, moving beyond the common Christian artist’s argument that God will use our imperfection and lack of skill for His work no matter what.
This aspect of Erickson deserves a good three and a half to four stars. I just wish there was a lot more of it.
And that’s the thing. Depending on your political philosophy, you might find a lot more to love in this book than I did, or you might scrunch up your nose in disgust. Do you believe it’s philisophically impossible for a feminist to make a good children’s book because they actively want to destroy the traditional family? Do you believe Babe and Milo and Otis are subversive lies of leftist Hollywood created to make us loath humanity? Do you believe the academic world of literature actually, literally, really wants to poison the minds of Western readers to convince them of postmodern nihilism because of their own internalized self-loathing?
Whether or not you love the sound of that, it’s present in almost every nook and cranny of this book, including the memoir, in which we learn how CBS tried to subvert and poison the wholesome, traditional family values of Hank the Cowdog by replacing parents and child with a ranch boss in the single animated episode they adapted. “The Hank cartoon that appeared on national television expressed a different worldview, a brand of secular thought that could probably be traced back to the writings of Marx, Freud, Nietzsche, Darwin, and Rousseau. The people who altered my story might have thought they were improving it, scrubbing out a backwoods approach to marriage and family.” (Erickson, loc 1242)
The politics turn me off, in case that wasn’t obvious, but they don’t insult me as much as the artistic arguments.
You see, Erickson usually has no idea what he’s talking about when he gives artistic advice.
The problem arises largely from illiteracy. He speaks of structure and style without knowing what most people mean when they say those words. He dismisses “style” as the invention of self-indulgent High Artists who want to make the reading experience all about themselves at the expense of the reader. He expresses frustration with C.S. Lewis’s dense essay style, in fact, saying one specific instance where Lewis used frank rawness is free of style and how all writing should be.
Erickson says in a different section that clarity and communication is paramount. I agree. Most craft books, in fact, do. They also understand they’re talking about style, unlike Erickson.
As for structure, the pattern repeats itself. Erickson laughs at big wig Hollywood types who insist he use story structure (in as many words) because he says he doesn’t need it, while later insisting that story structure basically means adhering to poetic justice and recognizing the beauty of Western logic and order based on reverence to God.
I’ll close on two notes which finalize why I believe this aspect of Erickson deserves one or zero stars.
First, Erickson, as of the time of this book’s publication, had not read a fiction book in twenty-six years. I haven’t checked to see if he later took up the practice, but if his convictions have remained unchanged in that regard, Erickson has not read a fiction book in almost four decades, during almost each year of which he’s published about two fiction books.
Erickson is not a believer in refilling the well through creative content. He describes how authors must be creators, not consumers who watch TV and movies or, in his case, read books, for fear we’ll be polluted by the ideas of other writers and fail to be original individuals. I share Erickson’s belief that your creative produce comes only from the compost pile of what you take in, but he and I have very different ideas about what deserves to go in that pile.
And second, he and I have very different ideas about what deserves to come out of that pile. I’m going to end with the quote that spiked my blood pressure more than three pounds of bacon.
“But what about a movie such as Schindler’s List? It was a very ambitious film that attempted to capture the magnitude of the Nazi atrocities during World War II. It included scenes of appalling violence—and I don’t want to watch it again. The inclusion of graphic violence diminished the aesthetic value of the film and detracted from the story. The subject overwhelmed Stephen Spielberg’s attempts to describe it in a framed work of art. In my view, Schindler’s List might have succeeded as a documentary but not as a story ... Perhaps the same principle applies to the kind of unfathomable evil that engulfed Nazi Germany. If we try to describe the horror in a direct manner, our stories fall apart under the stress.” (Erickson, loc 2045-2054)