I’m coming up to the halfway point in George R. R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones.
I am depressed.
Well, it’s not the story that’s depressing me. It’s the writing. But the writing isn’t bad. It’s phenomenal! This is the kind of work that makes me despair of ever writing something even fractionally as good. I shake my head at the futility of it all, when masters such as Martin are still producing epic works as this.
What type of epic is this? Hmmm. Picture The Lord of the Rings without the supernatural element. No elves, orcs, wizards, trolls, or various godlike or demonic beings. Better still, picture the Arthurian legends, updated and with a fair amount of complex political intrigue thrown in. It’s the tale of kingdoms battling it out with swords and diplomacy on a mythical continent. But that’s just the surface. How much “research” went into this! Every character has a living history and a coherent and complicated personality. Not solely white nor black, but every shade of grey in the spectrum. The cultures are so authentic you’d think Martin taught anthropology. Every kingdom has a past and a present. Much like Tolkien in that regard. The dialogue sounds real without being corny and dungeons-and-dragons-ish. Each 12 or 15 page chapter ends on a cliffhanger or some revelation to make the reader’s blood boil. Even the simple mechanics of sentence construction floor me.
Ah well, it’s ultimately an entertaining lesson in How It’s Done. And I’m not really depressed; that’s just writer’s hyperbole. No, I will never write a work like A Game of Thrones, but my stuff … well, it will be – my stuff.
Complete review in two or three weeks after I finish it.
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