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It’s 11pm. I have been working since the kids went to bed this evening (just took a 20 minute break to watch Youtube videos with my wife and eat some oatmeal–so much for tonight’s fast!). And then I rememembered, oh yeah! I’m supposed to post something every day!
So here I am. Typing to you. Hi.
This is one of those posts where I feel like I’m just wasting your time. I don’t have anything interesting or insightful to say at the moment. I remember hearing/reading something from…someone (I dunno, maybe Jeff Goins?) about how successful blog posts are reader-focused–posts in which the author is providing information, or a recommendation, or something that makes his or her readers’ lives better. In other words, I should be giving you some sort of return on the investment of your time spent reading my work.
If you want to write something introspective and personally expressive, he said, you should put that in a diary or journal, not on a blog.
And I get that; that makes sense. If you don’t know actually me, there’s zero reason you should care what I’m doing at this moment. Odds are, if you don’t already have a relationship with me, you haven’t bothered to read this far. (If you have, thank you, but also…why?) Let’s face it, most of the people in my actual flesh-and-blood life don’t read my blog and can’t be bothered. That’s totally fine, too. But if I can’t compel my closest friends and loved ones to read each post, it’s a fool’s errand to expect a stranger to, unless I’m giving them a good reason.
So, what am I doing here, at 11:11pm (make a wish!), with nothing to say but still nattering on line by line? (What’s worse, I’m blogging about blogging, which is even more double-boring!)
Why am I bothering?Because I need to learn to become consistent.
I want to challenge myself to string together 31 days of writing something. Because if I can do that, maybe I can do 30 more, either here or elsewhere. Or maybe 60 more. Maybe I can start doing the thing I keep telling myself I need to get around to doing: being the writer I’d always hoped I’d become. Maybe I can actually write this crime novel that’s in my head and that I would love to share with you (and the two sequels that might follow it). Maybe I can finally work on typing up years of Bible study notes and Sunday School lessons into resources that would be a blessing to the people of my local church and the wider Church as a whole. Maybe I can keep working hard to produce valuable content so that I can start earning some real money through my writing.
That’s why, on Day 7 of Blogtober 2021, at 11:28pm, I’m taking thirty minutes away from the never-ending cascade of work tasks that have kept me up late for the last two weeks, so that I can pop on here, say hello, and let you know that I want to become the kind of person who writes every day.
And at this very moment, you’re helping me do that. So, thank you.
I had posted a video by this Youtuber in the past talking about what it’s like for people who don’t know the “language” of playing video games to try to play them. This time, he takes a deeper dive into the open-world adventure game The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, and considers how different people approach problem-solving. I found this analysis to be intriguing, as someone who takes how he plays video games for granted. (Note: There may be strong language–it’s been a while since I’ve watched it all the way through, but I seem to recall that.)
Speaking of video games, I’ve mentioned before that I find video game music (VGM) to be a great work soundtrack. This one was one of my favorite mixes from the fall.
I mentioned yesterday that I’m reading Jeramie Rinne’s book on church elders (which I would definitely recommend to those starting out as elders/pastors). Here, Rinne recommends ways you can pray for your pastor/elders.
IsSupernaturalSexist?—There are certainly some things I disagree with in this piece by Kristen Devine over at Ordinary Times (differences in worldview and whatnot), but I found her analysis/defense of male-focused narrative to be pretty informative, from a writing/storytelling standpoint. Worth a look if you’re into that sort of thing.
That’s all I got this week. Have a good weekend, stay safe and healthy, and we’ll see you down the road!
Thank you for the opportunity to enjoy your free website / newsletter / social-media platform / app.
I find its content to be enjoyable / informative / amusing / life-changing, and was looking forward to enjoying it indefinitely at no cost to me personally. However, I was surprised and slightly concerned by a recent trend on your platform: suggestions that I should join your club / become a member / pay for additional access / join your Patreon / support you financially.
Really now, sirs, this is rather unseemly. Do you honestly believe that, after offering me worthwhile content at zero cost for mere months / years, you now expect me to help support your efforts / make your enterprise financially viable / allow you to pay your volunteers / help you offset the debt you incurred to start this venture?
Not only that, but I’m further alarmed by that fact that you are now limiting how much content I can download / receive by email / view on your site. After all these months / years spent giving you my minimal / half-hearted / devoted support, you are now putting the screws to your loyal readers / subscribers / listeners. And for what? A few measly dollars a month? Are you so petty, sirs?
I have been a loyal supporter, sirs. Not with actual dollars, naturally, but through my social media support–all my many clicks, likes, shares, and retweets. That’s valuable currency in this day and age, and I think should be more than sufficent payment in exchange for full and unrestricted access to your entire library of digital content, despite my infrequent and distracted use of it. Yet here I am, in digital West Berlin as it were, on the other side of your infernal paywall.
At any rate, I am writing to inform you that while I will not be supporting your art financially in any meaningful fashion, I am nevertheless quite disappointed that you have decided to sell out your principles and ask for remuneration in order to feed your family / provide healthcare for your children / pay off your crippling student debt / finally achieve your dreams of being a creative professional.
It’s people like you that give a bad name to the creative arts. For shame, sirs! For shame!
–Most People on the Internet
NB: I will still be subscribing to your free newsletter / podcast / blog for the immediate future, but I expect you to keep providing the same level of content output as before. Otherwise, I may have to snark about you on Twitter. Neither of us want that.
Receiving clear and direct feedback is necessary, especially when it’s uncomfortable.
Over the last few months, I’ve been pondering how I can build a readership, serve my audience, and use my writing to build up others, especially fellow Christians. Thanks to Jeff Goins’ recent series about email lists and Seth Godin’s book Tribes, I had a flash of inspiration a few weeks back: What if I put together an email newsletter?
I could focus the content toward guys like me–lay pastors who want to grow as teachers and communicators and faithfully lead their families and churches. I’d be writing as a peer, not as an expert, and would focus on encouraging the brothers. Maybe I’d even throw in some writing advice or Scriptural encouragement.
I was instantly excited about this idea, so I decided the best way to gauge potential interest in this project would be to ask my Twitter follows; after all, they’d be my core audience for such a venture.
I put the question out there as a poll, with the plan that, if I got at least 20 or 25 “yes” responses, I would start brainstorming for an early 2020 roll-out.
I certainly got an unambiguous response.
In the words of Alex Hitchens (Will Smith’s character from Hitch))…
I’ll admit, my pride took a bit of hit. When a brother started asking very specific follow-up questions about what exactly I would include in such an email, I started to get defensive, mainly because I hadn’t thought it all through yet. I had an exciting idea but no plan of how to get there, and no real clear goals. Truth be told, I may have been more enamored with the idea of having an email list than actually serving my readers, which would have been almost instant death to any goodwill if anyone had signed up.
What’s more, this clear response said something else I wasn’t eager to hear: An email audience is earned, and I hadn’t put in enough work to earn that level of trust.
Let’s be real: of the 170 or so “followers” of this blog, there are maybe 20 of you who actually read my posts. (In fact, do me a favor: if you’ve made it this far, reply in the comments with your favorite ice cream flavor. Just humor me–or Good Humor me, if you prefer.) Most of my blog follows are other bloggers looking for follow-backs, or folks looking to sell me something. If I tracked actual engagement via likes and comments, the number is much, much smaller.
As Jeff Goins puts it, joining someone’s mailing list means giving them specific permission to get into your “space” and speak to you directly. This is a closer level of access than a blog post that can be ignored. For an email newsletter list (of any kind) to grow, readers must believe I have something worth saying that is worth their valuable time to read. It’s clear I haven’t done enough to prove that yet.
It may not have come the way I wanted, but I’ve heard my 2020 challenge loud and clear: I need to give my audience a better reason to listen.
AND I need to have a better answer for the inevitable “why” question. Maybe that starts by deciding why I’m really interested in the idea of an email newsletter at all.
Suffice it to say, I won’t be creating an email newsletter in 2020. I’ve heard you loud and clear, folks.
Now, a podcast, on the other hand–there’s an idea…
I’ve been trying to catch up on my RSS feed’s “Read Later” tab. (After a few weeks of effort, I started the day at around 270 bookmarks.) I farm my RSS feed for links to share in my #FridayFeed posts (which seem to be most of my posts these days–I’m working on that!). But I noticed as I mechanically cycled links this afternoon that I was merely skimming to see if the post was worth sharing, instead of reading to see if it was beneficial to me. I wasn’t reading; I was just curating.
Reversing the roles, I’d probably be disappointed if readers were only skimming my posts to weigh if they were “good enough” to share or retweet.
I have to admit, the pressure to put *something* up on the blog makes it easy to slip into that role of curator instead of creator.
So I decided to chop my voluminous “Read Later” list down to things that I [gasp!] actually wanted to read later, even if doing so cut against my info-hoarder tendencies. The list is now below 150. Even if a link touched a topic I might want to read at some point, if I didn’t want to read it now, I deleted the bookmark.
Here’s my point: As much as you are able, only read what you actually want to read. There are no prizes for reading the most blog posts or news feeds, beyond the prize of what you actually retain. So read what you like, read what feeds your brain and heart and soul, and skip the rest. (And hopefully, I’ll create some of that good stuff for you along the way.)
Side-note: It’s also fascinating how little the BIG NEWS COMMENTARY of 6 months ago matters now. It’s almost as if, I don’t know, the 24-hour news cycle produces a lot of sound and fury that signifies nothing in about a week. Hmm.
Whew! I’m a bit behind, aren’t I? Well, today we will be considering two stories about the underbelly of Utopia–“how the sausage is made” when it comes to “perfect” societies.
The first story, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas,” was recommended to me more than 15 years ago by my friend Ben Doudt, and the second, “The Ones Who Stay and Fight,” was a surprising discovery of mine as I hunted for new short reads.
Obligatory spoiler warning: If you haven’t read either of these stories, skip over the “Takeaways” sections to avoid plot details.
Okay, no more chatter–let’s go!
#14: “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” by Ursula LeGuin
The writer presents an idyllic vision of a peaceful and advanced society, and then reveals why anyone would think of leaving.
This isn’t a story so much as a fable or vignette (much like Bradbury’s “August 2026”). There isn’t a plot in the story proper; it’s all description and one-sided dialogue, as the narrator escorts the reader through the scene, providing commentary and clarification. In the end, when the final twist is revealed, the reader is left to question whether they would want to live in Omelas themselves–and whether they currently do.
I first read this story about 15 years ago and then again this spring, and to be honest, then as now it didn’t leave much of an impression on me. The descriptions are beautiful, vivid and full of color. The reader can “see” the scene quite clearly. But it’s little more than a moving painting. The narrator is openly non-committal on details of their societal advancement, which is smart if you’re trying to make a story timeless; however, it also becomes more abstract, like a parable. It almost feels as if she’s making it all up on the fly, more than describing something with a history and weight to it.
LeGuin paints the picture of a humanist utopia, without king or creed, where the sun is always shining and everything is perfect–but that’s the problem. It’s too perfect. (My mind went immediately to the plot of “The Matrix”–we naturally reject a dream world that is too perfect.) So she introduces the child–a “feeble-minded” child, locked away–“born defective…or become imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and neglect.” A child whose pleas are ignored. “They all know it’s there, all the people of Omelas.” All the perfection of their utopia relies on keeping the broken child suffering. “Those are the terms.”
Here, LeGuin pulls her final trick. She presents “the terms” and leaves the reader to grapple with the question: can such a society be considered good, just, or perfect? Can the suffering of a single child be tolerated in exchange for a utopia in which everyone else thrives?
But here’s my problem with the climax of the story: these “terms” are utterly arbitrary. LeGuin never seems to clarify why these are the terms: is it that all children born with disabilities are “put away”? She only mentions the one child–she specifically describes him/her as “the” child, one single child. It’s the knowledge of this one child that drives some citizens to abandon this utopia in pursuit of something else, something that provides more peace of mind, perhaps.
I don’t know. This story is hailed as a classic, but it just doesn’t land for me. An interesting concept, but if it’s trying to be a morality tale, the premise is stretched to a breaking point.
#15: “The Ones Who Stay and Fight” by N.K. Jemison
The writer presents an idyllic vision of a peaceful and advanced society, along with the hard choices required to protect it.
I decided to read this story as soon as I found out it was written as a kind of response to LeGuin’s, but I have to admit I was not quite prepared for what awaited me. Jemison’s story is a counterpoint, a challenge, a provocation. While it could be read as a stand-alone story, I think it’s best taken in concert with LeGuin’s original. “The Ones Who Stay and Fight” is a well-written tale that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. It was unclear as I read it if it was meant to be satire or straight-forward, cautionary or aspirational. And there’s the rub.
There is a LOT to unpack here.
“It’s the Day of the Good Birds in Um-helat!” NKJ opens with this line and unspools a beautiful description of this African jewel of a city. The name of the city is an obvious wink at Omelas, but NKJ exceeds LeGuin in terms of vivid descriptions. My imagination was transported. For a little while.
The author emulates the narrative voice of ULG’s story, but takes it to the next level. There is also a great deal of fourth-wall breaking, making the narrator another character in the story. However, rather than the narrator being a guide for the reader, the narrator quickly becomes an antagonist to the reader. There is frustration in the narration, anger, resentment. When describing the disparity of pale-skinned executives and dark-skinned workers and the policies implemented to address that, the narrator says this is not to promote diversity, “a grudging pittance of respect.” The narrator disdains such passive change. The narrator describes “the treason of free speech” by saying “We hesitate to admit some people are [expletive] evil and need to be stopped.” (Yet, the narrator never clarify who defines what is evil.) Later: “This is Um-helat after all, and not that barbaric America. This is not Omelas, a tick of a city, fat and happy with its head buried in a tortured child.” Yowsa.
At this point, the narrator turns her attention to the reader, declaring any feelings of recoil or provocation as evidence that the reader actually approves of the evil of Omelas, or even our own world. The narrator assumes the reader is responding, “How dare you…”
And this is where I actually got annoyed–not at the society being described (as the narrator suggests), not at all–rather, what irritated me was the unbearable condescension and accusations of the narrator.
According to the narrator, our world is a “benighted hellscape” compared with the bright and shining Um-helat. And just how is the utopia of Um-helat preserved? Essentially, there are “caretakers” who look for people consuming or spreading hateful or wrong ideas, and then the caretakers murder them. Yep, that’s it. “They will bury him in a beautiful garden…[that] holds all the Um-helatians who broke the law. Just because they died as a deterrence doesn’t mean they can’t be honored for the sacrifice.” So, a mass grave of social dissidents executed by the agents of the state? Cool.
The narrator justifies this behavior as being a necessary “blood sacrifice to keep true evil at bay.” The story ends with the narrator calling the reader to join the dream and build Um-Helat in our world, even if that means war and the “purging scourge.” And that’s it.
There’s part of me that really, reallyhopes this is just masterful satire of a totalitarian progressivism…but I doubt it is. While some reviewers and readers online rightly call this a cautionary tale, others defend it, saying that a just society must be fought for by any means necessary. Yeesh.
My 3 biggest takeaways from this story (and to a lesser degree from “Omelas”) are as follows:
The problem with Utopian visions is that they are built on a faulty understanding of human nature. To the humanist/materialist mind, man is perfectable with the right social settings and the right information. This is a flawed premise. Mankind is by nature corrupt, selfish, sinful. We need new hearts, not new societies.
Utopia requires conformity at all costs. No outside voices are tolerated, no dissenting views are allowed. Thought and speech must be policed and controlled in the name of freedom, tolerance, inclusiveness, and justice. Utopia is a prison without bars and locks, but a prison nevertheless.
A very astute observation from my beloved, as I was discussing both stories with her: In order for man to create his perfect humanist society, someone always has to die for “sin.” This statement gobsmacked me. See the wicked parodies of the Passion in the death of the innocent in Omelas, the slaying of the subversive in Um-helat. See in our own “hellscape” as the Molech of Freedom and Autonomy fed day and night by the broken bodies of the unborn. Whenever mankind seeks to build a perfect world, they always lay their bricks upon the bones of those who stand against them or get in their way.
The evidence of good writing is sometimes that it evokes strong responses, either positive or negative. If that’s the measure, then N.K. Jemison is a talented writer.
Agree? Disagree? Any observations of your own? Let me know in the comments!
I was in the middle of writing a different blog post when I realized it was probably a waste of your time, so I deleted the whole thing.
It was an anecdote about how a passing acquaintance whose writing and ministry I appreciate didn’t recognize me in the airport, and how that disappointed me until I realized it had been 5+ years since our paths last crossed. I had planned on stretching that weak premise into a 500-word post about the illusion of relationship that social media fosters and how we undervalue being known by God, until I realized that I’ve probably written that post 3 or 4 times over and even I’m bored of it.
As a matter of principle, I don’t want to create content just to chase your clicks, but I also don’t want to waste your time. Moving forward, if I realize I’m basically writing a filler post, I’ll toss it rather than cluttering your reader or email box. Scout’s honor.
My hope is that some of the regular features I’ve been posting lately (book reviews, #52Stories, #FridayFive, and the Friday feed) areactually beneficial to you, or at least entertaining. Aside from your likes and occasional comments, I can’t really be sure. I could put in the work to find out, but during this season of my life, that time is better spent elsewhere. (We’re having a baby in 2 weeks and a few days. That puts things in perspective.)
Here’s my bottom line, and then I’ll shut up and leave you to go about your evening: This blog isn’t just for me. It’s for you, too. And I’ll keep that front-of-mind as I create content for you to enjoy.
And if you have suggestions for new posts, I’m all ears. (Yes, I’m still percolating a few of your past suggestions, just you wait!) Even if I don’t take your advice, I will appreciate the fact that you cared enough to send me feedback. That’s a really cool thing.
Happy Monday to ya. I’ll have a #52Stories post up on Wednesday, and either a personal #FridayFive or an entertaining #FridayFeed at the end of the week.
Why is it called Good Friday?
Because He who knew no sin became sin for us instead of
Casting the first stone. The Stone that the builders rejected
Was the stone of stumbling, the rock of offense.
They were offended who saw Him, and hid their faces,
As He was despised and rejected, acquainted with grief.
The One who would not break the bruised reed or quench
The smoldering wick was crushed according to the
Pleasure of His Father, and to that Divine Plan
The Prince of Peace bowed His holy head.
Why is it called Good Friday?
Because we who are like sheep have gone astray,
Each of us turning to our own way, doing what is right
In our own eyes, asking “Did God really say…?”
And though those who practice such things deserve death,
The great mercy of the Holy God was made manifest in
The flesh of the Incarnate Word, who tabernacled among us.
We beheld His glory, yet men loved darkness rather than light,
Because their unspeakable deeds were evil. Into our darkness
Strode the Light of the World, the Good Shepherd of our souls
Who calls His sheep and they know His voice and come to Him,
From death to life, stumbling into light
Like Lazarus walking out of the grave, wrapped in cloths.
Why is it called Good Friday?
Because the Just Judge became the Justifier of our souls
By laying on the Righteous One the iniquity of us all
And pouring out His wrath upon the Son of Man—the wrath
That has been stored up against every wicked deed committed by
The wayward people of God—the shame of Noah, the murderous
Rage of Moses, the adultery of David, the pride of Solomon,
The hatred of Jonah, the betrayal of Peter, the bloodlust of Paul,
And even my own selfish weakness and craven man-pleasing.
Because of all these things, the holy wrath of God was poured out
Upon the perfect Christ, who did not turn away from the cup
That He was sent to drink, but received it all, down to the bitter dregs.
Why is it called Good Friday?
Without it, we would all be dead men, whose only hope is to eat and
Drink and be merry, all the days of our meaningless lives, before facing
The inevitable end and the terror of judgment.
But because He who is the Resurrection and the Life
Submitted Himself to shame and death in our stead,
And three days later, returned in victory over sin,
Having utterly defeated the greatest enemies of men.
Because He who died to save sinners was raised from the dead,
I now have hope that I will be raised up to be with Him on the last day.
Without the darkness of Friday, there would be no Easter dawn.
Without the just judgment against sin, there would be no justification.
Without the appeasing of divine wrath, there would be no eternal peace.
That’s why it’s called Good Friday. Jesus the Messiah, the Eternally-Begotten God-in-Flesh, Came and died and was raised again, so that All who turn from sin and trust in Him would live.
This week, I’m delighted to discuss two stories about the most famous consulting detective in literature: Sherlock Holmes. The first is a tale by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle called “The Red-Headed League.” The second is another unexpected delight from Neil Gaiman, titled “A Study in Emerald” (recommended by Pedro Jorba on the GOLiverse Facebook page). So, can I deduce some interesting insights from these stories? Elementary, dear reader!
“The Red-Headed League” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Sherlock Holmes is hired to find out why his client was paid to copy pages out of the encyclopedia. Naturally, the game’s afoot.
This is a pretty standard Sherlock Holmes story–a curious case, a few interesting details, and a brilliant Sherlock deduction that’s almost too clever by half. I enjoyed it, but it doesn’t stick to the ribs. I’ll try not to give too many details, in case you haven’t read it before.
I wonder if I’m a bit too familiar with the Sherlock formula, because as soon as one minor character was introduced, I knew something was up. I’ve read just enough Doyle to know to look for minor details and unusual characters. (Though I’ll admit, I totally passed over one key detail.) When it came down to it, I had basically figured out the broad strokes before the story’s climax. I wonder if this is more due to the fact that Doyle is essentially the gold standard for the genre, so his techniques have moved from innovative to perhaps a little cliched. Readers familiar with the formula know what to watch for, in other words. (Think of it as the detective-fiction version of the “Shyamalan Problem.”)
I feel cheeky to even mention it, but it almost feels like ACD makes Watson a little too dense in order to make Holmes look even more brilliant by contrast. I’ve always understood that Watson was no fool, and I think ACD sometimes does the character a bit of a disservice in order to make his hero shine. That said, oftentimes the resolution of a case depends on Sherlock’s encyclopedic knowledge of arcane details (very likely unknown to the reader) and his keen observation of details we must be told rather than shown. Frankly, it takes away some of the fun if there’s almost no way we could have worked out the solution ourselves. In those instances, the climax is basically “Oooh, look at the big brain on Sherlock.”
That said, if you haven’t read “The Red-Headed League,” it’s worth your ten minutes or so. It’s not a bad little tale, even if it’s not one of ACD’s best. Here are a few favorite quotes from the story:
When Sherlock walks a civilian through his deductive process and they respond that it now seems almost obvious, Sherlock quips, “I begin to think I make a mistake in explaining.”
“As a rule, the more bizarre a thing is, the less mysterious it proves to be. It’s your commonplace, featureless crimes that are really puzzling.”
And the source of one of my favorite Sherlockisms: “[German music] is introspective and I want to introspect.”
“A Study in Emerald” by Neil Gaiman
The consulting detective and his military veteran sidekick are called in on a grisly murder scene involving a member of the royal family. Then things get…weird.
Oh my goodness, y’all. I was ABSOLUTELY DELIGHTED by this story. Gaiman turns the formula (and the reader’s expectation) on its head, as he spins this variation on Doyle’s classic “A Study In Scarlet,” filtered through the unearthly prism of H.P. Lovecraft’s paranormal horrors. This story is another entry in Gaiman’s collection Fragile Things, and I cannot encourage you heartily enough to read it. It’s my favorite #52Stories read so far, and will no doubt be in the running for top-five at the end of the project. If you have any appreciation for Sherlock Holmes, file this under “Must Read.”
I’m loath to divulge much if any detail, so I’m going to go ahead and put up a SPOILER WARNING right here. I want so badly to talk about it, but I would hate to ruin the fun for you, reader.
I mean it: If you haven’t read the story yet, bookmark this page, go read it, and come back. I’m serious, do it. You really do want to read this story with no advance details other than what I’ve given so far.
We all caught up, class? Okay, good. Onto the bullets!
The last time we looked at a Gaiman story, I mentioned that the normal-seeming story veered suddenly off the rails with dialogue and details that made me do an actual double-take. This was no different: specifically, when the sleuth asked our narrator, “Was it the number of limbs?” Um, I’m sorry, WHAT?
I adore the “advertisements” between each section, which feature subtle allusions to other horror icons (though I had to do an internet search for one Anglo-centric reference in particular). It’s the type of added detail that might feel a little strange and disconnected to readers who aren’t familiar with classic literary horror, but for geeks like me, the references made me actually giggle.
“They call her Gloriana because she is glorious. They call her Victoria, because she was victorious in her conquest of us hundreds of years ago, and because her name cannot be spoken by human tongue.” Paraphrased from memory, but still my favorite line from the story. Making Queen Victoria one of the Great Old Ones was inspired.
Gaiman’s off-handed reveals of the religious and political realities of the story are stunning. What an effective way to leverage the reader’s assumptions in order to surprise.
There is so much deep Sherlock lore in this story. I’m not fully conversant in the Holmes cases, but I knew enough to catch the more obvious Easter eggs. I also freely admit that I looked up a few names or phrases that seemed to have meaning behind them. Gaiman employed a deep familiarity and obvious love and care for the source material when he constructed this gem.
THAT ENDING! I’m still “shook” by the final reveal, y’all. Remember the last scene with Paul Giamatti’s character at the end of The Illusionist? The sequence in the train station, mixing flashbacks, Edward Norton’s voiceover saying “Everything you have seen is an illusion,” and the shots of Giamatti, camera spinning around him as his middle-distance concentrated stare breaks into a smile of understanding and appreciation. He laughs once and claps his hands as the pieces fall into place. THIS, this EXACTLY, is how I felt when I read the last few paragraphs of “A Study in Emerald.” When Gaiman pulls off the final trick, revealing the identity of the murderers, I was gobsmacked. What a triumph. What a masterpiece of sleight-of-hand.
I loved it. I just loved it. AAAAHHH. So much fun.
Agree? Disagree? Any observations of your own? Let me know in the comments!