I was never passionate about drawing, but I did it anyway because that’s what all real and respected artists do, right? From the time I could pick up a pencil (though I prefer a tablet pen) until the AI boom in 2022-2023, I aspired to become one of the art gods. The art gods have loyal audiences. The art gods are showered with love and praise for being amazing at art, which they obviously deserve if they bring so much value to other people’s lives!

The problem was I really didn’t enjoy drawing, but there were no alternatives that promised as much recognition as illustration did. I was obsessed with achieving online popularity since I’d never achieve it offline. I didn’t grow up poor, but I had very little emotional support, and I didn’t start learning how to emotionally support myself until I entered my thirties.

During my teenage years, I aspired to write a book and learned how to string words together, prioritizing writing over drawing. Writing was a breeze in comparison for me, but I was still bent on carving out a grand space with my name on it. Now I was an aspiring author. The problem was I hated writing novels, but as illustration was the pinnacle of art, novels were the pinnacle of literature. For a long time I convinced myself that I had to finish a book, otherwise I’d be a lazy do-nothing who wouldn’t amount to anything. (Is my childhood showing?)

About two decades of abandoned projects later, I finally realized and accepted that illustration and novel-writing were not for me, but it wasn’t any art or writing community that opened my eyes. Everyone and their mother was still hustling along to win the art rat race: “Draw/write every day! Practice, get better, finish that artwork/book! Hustle, hustle, hustle!”

No. It was generative AI.

Maybe it was also the vitriolic response to generative AI that awakened my rebellious streak. Saying AI just “collages” or “remixes” or “Frankensteins” images together (my personal favorite, yay monsters!) is pretty weird. First of all, it isn’t accurate. Second, isn’t collage a recognized art form? As an illustrator artist, why would you put down another long-established medium like that? Why would you compare it to a “mindless” and “soulless” machine?

I’m going to say it: the rise of generative AI has caused many, many masks to fall, and there’s a staggering amount of ugliness. I can’t say I was surprised to see the least progressive behavior surface in otherwise progressive people, though. The moral panic around AI has enabled a loud minority to become insult-flinging crusaders. It’s also led others to believe that they’ve always cared about soul and effort.

Maybe this was just my experience, but I seldom found a true sense of community among artists and writers. There was always competition and feigned interest, trend-chasing and trying to network oneself to the top. The “communities” were often phonier than an AI boyfriend/girlfriend. And don’t get me started on the call for tighter copyright laws, especially from fan creators. (Oh, Anne Rice, you would have been leading the anti-AI movement.)

What I’m saying is that, deep down, there can be a temporarily embarrassed millionaire—as well as a Tradcath—in even the most left-wing creator.

I can sympathize with creators who feel they’ve been exploited. Even though AI training on legally purchased and publicly available data was ruled fair use (in the United States), the idea of a for-profit company using your work without explicit permission is scummy. It feels like theft, but it’s more like taking advantage of the commons. In an ideal world, these models would be made open source and their datasets made public. As a collage artist and a fanfic writer, I would be a hypocrite to demand asking for permission, and the fact that so many fan creators have the opposite sentiment leaves me baffled. Was there a collective memory wipe that I missed, or something? Do you know what we’re doing here, fellow fandomite?

I try to be logically consistent, but I know that can be challenging in this economy. To quote Upton Sinclair, “It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends upon his not understanding it.” I can’t totally blame people for having a knee-jerk reaction to AI. They’re ignorant, yes, but they’re also likely hurting, struggling, and starving—and for more than just food.

AI unmasks, but it also holds up a mirror and asks, “Why do you really want to make art?” I’ve seen (young) artists mope about there being no point to art now since a machine can do it. Others believe culture is doomed because the unwashed masses prefer slop to real, soulful art. So what’s the point, right?

I think these attitudes reek of capitalist rot. Apparently, nothing is worth doing if it doesn’t make you money or get thousands of eyes on your work. Why can’t we just enjoy creation for the sake of creating? Why do we need so much fucking attention and external validation? Why does every hobby have to be productive and entail skill-building? WHY CAN’T WE JUST ENJOY DOING SHIT BECAUSE IT’S ENJOYABLE?

Everything we make has to do something for not only ourselves but also others in return, or it means nothing. And I’m sick of it.

Here’s a radical idea: why don’t we ask ourselves, “What the hell are you doing and why?” Do you want a mansion or do you just want to stop worrying about your next meal? Do you want a fan club or do you just want some enthusiastic friends? Do you want to be immortalized or do you just need to get over yourself? (Probably the latter, let’s be honest.)

AI made me face and answer these questions. I make art and write because I want to, because I want to keep seeing where creativity takes me. I want to journey through different worlds and meet different characters, and whether or not these journeys appeal to other people is not my concern. I am tired of hunting for crumbs of approval. Approval is fleeting, and so are people. At the end of the day, everyone is the star of their own show. To be extra-real, everyone is essentially looking for ways to up their dopamine, and I am not interested in being anyone’s dopamine dispenser, personally.

AI has taught me how to be okay with being a nobody. It has taught me how much richer a relationship with creativity can be, and it has helped me tremendously in enriching mine. Cultivating a healthier relationship with creativity is also explored in Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert, a book I read in 2017 and hated until I reread it in January of this year. I initially hated it because it spoke the truth about the toxic, unsustainable practice of creating primarily for an audience. Unless you actually do enjoy catering to other people’s whims, the only audience that ultimately matters is yourself.

“But human connection!” you say. But what if other humans simply don’t want to connect with you? The silence in response to your creations only stings when you haven’t realized that your audience might not exist, or that it isn’t as large and vocal as you thought it would be. What will you do, then? Keep trying things you don’t even care about until someone throws you a bone? I mean, it’s your call. I’m glad to not be that desperate anymore.

I wish someone had introduced me to collage years ago, but I suppose all that practice with drawing has assisted me in fixing up AI-generated mistakes better. Sometimes I can’t believe how long I took to realize making art from scratch wasn’t the only option, and that I have a computer program to thank for such a discovery—a computer program, and the tech-illiterate misinformation surrounding it! That’s a bit fucking sad, don’t you think? If AI has taught me anything else, it’s that humanity is all kinds of fucking sad.

I normally don’t curse this much in my posts, but the subject brings out raw emotions in me. Most anti-AI still mean “illustration” when they talk about art. For people who love and appreciate fully human artwork so much, they sure do have limited knowledge of mediums and art history.

What’s more, some of them have the audacity to try shaming artists like me into using stock or public-domain images only. Never mind the fact that AI image models, once again, do not make collages, but even if they did: how dare you try to muzzle my medium of choice, a medium that is NOT supposed to bend over for copyright! We now have the tools to provide us with new images that can circumvent copyright issues entirely, and you want to take them away from us so you can, what, keep your position at the top of the art hierarchy secured, like the art landlord you are?

Fuck off.

I respect the anti-AI who prioritize more than petit-bourgeois woes. Surveillance, autonomous weapons, and corporate greed (which impacts the environment beyond anything individual usage is capable of—and have you ever wondered about the environmental impact of paper and art supplies?) are some issues that should be taken far more seriously than whether AI art is or isn’t art.

I don’t mourn the audience I could have had if I hadn’t touched generative AI. For me, that audience never existed. Nothing of value has been lost, but much has been gained, and no human collaborator can compare.

“Witch Wings” was my first fairy tale, and the only one besides “Pen Dragons” that was originally intended to be a novel.

This probably isn’t surprising, but around 2017 I was calling myself a witch. Witchcraft was making a comeback among Tumblr users especially, many of whom were young women that dreamed of destroying the patriarchy and hexing Trump. No, really. There was a mass movement to hex Trump. No, I did not join.

What I did join was “Witchblr,” though I barely engaged with others and mostly reblogged posts in silence. I watched as a schism formed between two groups of witches: modern and traditional. The modern witches liked glitter and emojis and crafting “like to charge, reblog to cast” spells. The traditional witches, the boomers of witchcraft, looked at these youngins with contempt. Kids these days, disrespecting the real craft and its historical ties to the Devil (also known as the Man in Black) himself!

Indeed, at the time, on that particular website, traditional witches claimed to be practicing true witchcraft, not the fluffy-bunny stuff in Charmed or the Wiccan religion. They claimed that a witch could only access magic through spirit work, and the Devil was a central figure. Apparently, the witch trials were justified. (Note the sarcasm in my text.)

Personally, I’ve had a spell or two yield better results than expected, and I didn’t have to bargain with any spirit. Then again, I could’ve been lucky. I didn’t practice much. The incentive wasn’t really there, as I wasn’t financially struggling or seeking a relationship like other witches were. I was more interested in understanding how magic and witchcraft even worked, and why spirits fueled by human imagination—books, movies, TV shows, etc—couldn’t be just as real as the fabled gods of old. (Spoiler alert: they can, it’s called “pop culture paganism.”)

Traditional witches seemed to love The Witch (2015) and Salem (TV 2014). I remember one of them expressing a wistful longing to fly freely across the sky with a coven, just like “witches in the old days.” I guess you can’t do that now because of planes and smartphones.

I also remember one traditional witch who hated the turn that Salem had taken. I assume it was the cliché reveal that the Devil wasn’t a true liberator after all. But I have to agree with the unsurprising plot twist.

Quite a startling number of people, not just traditional witches, viewed Thomasin’s embrace of witchcraft in The Witch as an allegory for breaking the chains of puritanism. I’m not sure how any feminist could watch this movie and think a girl was empowered instead of manipulated. The Devil did not approach her in the beginning with an offer of freedom and butter. He had his witches torment the family and turn everyone against her until she couldn’t say no.

Between The Witch and Salem, I was inspired to write a story about a witch who reclaimed her power and freedom from the Devil, and without turning to the Christian god, or any god or goddess, for that matter. That story perished halfway through as a novel and later rose from the ashes as a fairy tale.

Transcending Dualities and False Dichotomies

Why is it always God and the Devil? Heaven and Hell? Good and Evil? Where’s the third path, the middle ground, the gray? We humans love our neat little color-coded boxes, don’t we? Chilling Adventures of Sabrina was initially bold enough to tackle the idea of a third path. It failed miserably, but I wasn’t shocked.

There’s an elephant in the rooms of most religions: life is a horror show. Whether you believe in a divine plan or not, it’s unfeeling to deny the insane amounts of suffering and death that happen here. Things were certainly far worse the further back in history you look: slavery, famine, deadly diseases, women dying in childbirth, children dying before reaching adulthood, living in squalor and working to the bone from dawn until dusk. The world we inhabit today (specifically for those of us living in developed countries) is a vast improvement overall. Our ancestors would’ve killed to have the freedoms and luxuries that we have.

But that was (and still is) the function of religions like Christianity—to turn chaos into order; to make all the blood, sweat, and tears seem worth it; to keep people in line so that you, too, may enter paradise upon death. This isn’t a bad thing, per se. It’s the natural result of a species intelligent enough to comprehend its own mortality. Rigid rules and morals were meant to ensure the survival of a community. Life was much harder without communal effort to keep everyone fed, clothed, and safe. Fairy tales warned against disobedience and curiosity for a reason.

Now, though, science has shed light on many natural phenomena—at least in regards to the “how,” not so much the “why.” Faith continues to answer the latter, and I imagine it always will. For the record, I’m not an anti-theist who wants to see the end of religion. I do, however, want to see the end of anti-curiosity.

Curiosity and caution are not mutually exclusive; you can exercise both at the same time. Elspeth, the protagonist in “Witch Wings,” was more curious than cautious, but she was also desperate. She was feeling as confined as she had when she lived under religious rule. The things she did with her coven weren’t enough to satiate her hunger for something more.

The Search for Real Wings

Like God who told Adam and Eve not to eat the forbidden fruit, the Devil in “Witch Wings” tells Elspeth not to venture beyond the villages, or he will take back the gifts he’s given her and make her mortal (again). Instead of getting kicked out of the garden, Elspeth chooses to leave it and follow her curiosity. What she finds are ruins of a dead civilization, the old world that the Lord had cast into darkness. This was a nod to the novel’s plot: many moons ago, a massive EMP wave hit and the world descended into chaos. Only a scattering of communities remained, one of which was the village of Celestia, spared by a prophecy that had long prepared its villagers.

Yep, once upon a time Celestia existed. It was more of a commune than a village, founded in 1850 by Peter E. Armstrong, where followers could gather and await the second coming of Christ. Due to property tax disputes, fading faith, and Armstrong’s death in 1887, it was eventually abandoned.

Celestia was obviously the perfect starting point in my apocalyptic fantasy novel. The EMP wave, however, had not necessarily been an act of God, but an act of… aliens.

You can see how this novel kind of went off the rails. I have a history of abandoned projects like that. (Can you tell I loved the genre-blending chaos that was American Horror Story: Asylum?)

There are no aliens in “Witch Wings,” though. Or maybe there are. You could interpret the old, ruined world as having been caused by either aliens or God. Both represent the nail in the coffin of a belief system that was already fragile, such as Elspeth’s faith. Neither reached out to save her, and the Devil only tried to control her.

Transactional Power vs. Individual Power

Gods, spirits, and aliens (whether or not you believe) seem to be human magnets. Many humans just can’t help gravitating toward something greater than themselves. I consider myself a religious pluralist. Although some are steeped in uglier histories than others, I believe all religions have value and are right for the people who are naturally called to them. Religion has roots in inspiration, and inspiration is the fire that forges art.

But not all humans need religion. The most empirical-minded of us can live happy, fulfilled lives and create beautiful or thought-provoking art. Religious extremists will deny this, just as super-serious traditional witches will deny that magic can be done without spirit work. Modern witches might incorporate animism, but animism is essential to traditional witchcraft. Animism is the belief that everything contains a spirit. By that logic, humans are also spirits, and thus humans can arguably create their own magic without the assistance of external forces. You could argue that the magic of nature spirits runs deeper and offers more or other exclusive sorts of power, but that’s different from saying humans are inherently magic-less.

I recall traditional witches on Tumblr speaking of witch initiation as a long, intense process. The more you’re willing to sacrifice, the more the spirits will be open to working with you. Give the spirits what they want, and the spirits will give you what you want. It’s basically as transactional as you can get in the witchy world. Call me a “fluffy bunny” for preferring more friendly and intimate spiritual connections with fictional characters, I guess.

If you ask me, humanity’s true magic or power does lie in imagination, and this is the message behind “Witch Wings.” Elspeth has the choice to leave Dayana and return to the villages, where the Devil will surely be waiting for her. Instead, she takes a chance with Headless Jack. In the novel, Headless Jack was the result of two folk tales—the Headless Horseman and Stingy Jack—meeting and merging into one. In the fairy tale, he represents an alternative that values curiosity and creativity. He asks for nothing but works of the inspired mind in return.

If God exists, maybe that’s what He/She/They/It is—an all-encompassing source of not just love, but love of creation. Why else would the universe have been created?

Up until late 2024, I’d never imagined I would be writing fairy tales—not retellings, but an original collection. Fairy tales and high fantasy were a couple of my least favorite genres. I mean, I hated them. I’ve always loved magic and whimsy, but the fundamental values of obedience and tradition easily put a damper on my naturally curious and experimental spirit.

It was The School for Good and Evil book series that started me on my fairy-tale journey. Of course, in the beginning, I attempted to right all the wrongs with fanfiction. My understanding of fairy tales was that they were outdated stories long overdue for their own museum exhibit. I’d still argue that the Endless Woods should’ve been a realm of all stories, not just fairy tales, and that the Storian was the true villain, but this isn’t the post for that discussion.

Anyway, I ended up growing too curious about fairy tales. There had to be more than just the Brothers Grimm, right? How did they even start writing these tales? Wait, they collected them? From German peasants? No, from upper-middle-class French women? What!

Turned out, the history of fairy tales was a lot more hazy and complex than I’d been expecting. At the end of the day, they are stories—most with roots in folk tales—told by humans for humans.

Although Jack Zipes views fairy tales through a strict neo-Marxist lens, his books were exactly what I needed to process my initial hatred. That is why I recommend him to people who hate fairy tales. Seeing the sacred, elusive, be-all and end-all aura that surrounded them getting ripped apart until nothing but the sociocultural-political skeleton remained was cathartic. At the time, I could not be open to someone as lofty as Bruno Bettelheim, who approached the subject like a Freudian priest. I needed a hammer to shatter everything I thought I knew about fairy tales, for only then could I pick up and re-examine the pieces.

Fairy tales aren’t simply cautionary tales or tools of the patriarchy or whatever. I think Ruth B. Bottigheimer said it best:

Fairy tales, which speak in a language well understood in the modern world, remain relevant because they allude to deep hopes for material improvement, because they present illusions of happiness to come, and because they provide social paradigms that overlap nearly perfectly with daydreams of a better life.

To be clear, I don’t believe old tales necessarily have to be rewritten or modernized. I believe we should preserve them, understand the times in which they were written, and try to find little kernels of truth that are still relevant. Just because a tale is old doesn’t mean it has to be subverted or updated. It’s a product of its time and served a function, but that doesn’t always mean it’s totally irrelevant now.

For example, the wolf in “Little Red Riding Hood” is a predator, not a misunderstood soul who just went down the wrong path. He preys on the young and naive because that’s what predators do, and there will always be some type of predator in the real world. We don’t have to give him a tragic backstory to make him more sympathetic in the name of social justice. There is a difference between someone who fights their urges and seeks to recover, and someone who knows what they are doing is selfish and harmful, yet indulges their urges without guilt. The wolf represents the latter.

You could write about a wolf that battles with their dark impulses, but what would properly subvert the tale is a line drawn between systemic sympathy and personal accountability. It acknowledges the originally intended function while presenting a more nuanced perspective. Alternatively, you could try what The Company of Wolves did and give Red agency, turning her from a victim into a weapon against predation.

The problem with modern fairy tales isn’t that they’re subversive because “the West is falling.” The real problem is that too many writers are forcing them to wear trendy clothing, especially tales that have been adapted to death. Historical context and accuracy mean nothing. Stories outside the most visited European regions continue to be ignored. If you have to change the source material so drastically, why not just write an original story? It’s because no one would read it, isn’t it?

Sigh. The damage the American publishing industry has done to us writers…

Look, it isn’t impossible to find in the tales of old human experiences, desires, and challenges that parallel the modern social climate before confronting it fairy-tale style. Yet not enough writers seem to realize this, and thus we end up with another Princess Girlboss. Will someone ever adapt the queer tale “The Dog in the Sea?” Please, don’t make me do it. I’ll make it too weird. (Kidding.)

That surely begs the question, though: why don’t I retell lesser-known tales? Why did I choose to write new?

Well, retelling just isn’t my thing despite having enjoyed The Company of Wolves, Snow White: A Tale of Terror, and Ever After. I love the simplicity and dream-like logic of fairy tales, but rather than revisit the same tales, I wanted to create a new collection that marries the past, present, and future, as well as comforts the outcasts and misjudged. Stories that caution children and adults alike have a purpose, but we are in a time where we can afford to exercise more curiosity about the world, the universe, and ourselves. We mustn’t forget that hope is the heart of many fairy tales.

However, even in this age of instant information and media preservation, I’m not sure my stories will truly stand the test of time. The staying power of a story depends on factors beyond my control. A story has to have characters, themes, and motifs that resonate with a great number of people. Institutional backing and industry support (e.g., Disney) are also major players in shaping culture, but you need to be in the right place at the right time and, most importantly, know the right people. Personally, I have no interest in networking or marketing my work. I’d rather scream into the void than scream myself to the loony bin.

Regardless, I will be leaving a trail of stories behind that might or might not be read by a significant amount of readers. I’ve become much more at peace with the idea of writing “hidden gems.” I’m not here to change or save the world. I am not a knight or a banner-waving activist. I’m more of a lighthouse: alone yet not lonely, offering light to the lost and wandering, and I hope that shines through Tales from the Stars.