A Feast For Crows

Excepting Robert Jordan and the Wheel of Time series, it seems the definitive word in modern tradtional fantasy (does that make sense?) is George R.R. Martin's Song of Ice and Fire, a trilogy that expanded in scope to five, then seven, planned novels, each one almost 1,000 pages in length.  But while the rest of the world awaits the 5th entry in the series with on tip-toes, I admit to being a little put off after reading A Feast For Crows.

A brief summary of my experience with Martin's modern fantasy epic. A Game of Throne was my initial "re-entry" into traditional fantasy after a decade or so of staying away. It was decent - Martin's writing was a bit rough in places, the action was (literally) all over the map with a real sense of cohesion, and to be honest it was, well, dull. That is, until the end with a scene so ridiculous I laughed out loud and bought into it. A Clash of Kings improved on everything from the first book - more action, better characterizations, and a plot that was massive in its complexity yet never incomprehensible. A Storm of Swords threatened to go nowhere: at over 1,100 pages it lacked any sense of direction for almost 600 pages before pulling itself up by its bootstraps and kicking a bucketful of ass to its conclusion. I was primed and ready for continued greatness.

Alas, it was not to be had in A Feast For Crows. The action only concerns half of the characters - and the end of 970 book Martin offers a quick apology, saying that after writing thousands of pages he saw the novel would be too big, and decided to cut the action into section, dealing with events in the South for A Feast For Crows and leaving the North to his next book, A Dance of Dragons (still not released five years later). What this does is leave out many of the best characters and only gives the reader a part of the pictures of what's going on. It seems an odd choice to make four books in - I think he would have better served his readers - and his story - by continuing in the vein he had, interweaving all his plots and couplings and ending on a cliff-hanger as he had before. Sure, there are good moments to be had: we see the almost total meltdown of Cersi's "reign" as her true nature comes to light, and the continuing story of Brienne the "Maiden of Tarth" segues nicely with the wonderful turning around of Jamie "Kingslayer" Lannister. Everyone else, though, plods through their portions of the tale with little in the way of insight. Events happen off-page and are related later in passing, motivations are clumsily spelled out, and prophecies are crammed in instead of flowing with a more natural poise as they did in the previous books.

Unlike his (deserved) millions of other fans, I'm not going to clang on the Web Bell to hand over that fifth book. There are obviously reasons he hasn't released it yet (it was promised in 2005), and hopefully some of the severe issues in A Feast For Crows are going to be addressed when it does get it's eventual release.

Until then, keep your chin up and let me know what's sitting on your shelf this week. 

A Short Post, for Form's Sake

I felt bad for not writing anything today.  I'm still fighting this breathing thing I got, and after getting the boy to bed found myself getting lost listening to the iFanboy Pick of the Week podcasts I missed over the past two months and gazing with dead eyes at things on the Internet I can't recall 10 minutes later.

I also ate a couple of chocolate chip cookies I baked on a whim last night.  Damn I like fresh baked cookies.

Anyway, here are a few pictures of what's been engaging me lately.  A longer, better (faster, stronger) post is on its way.

      

Hot Tea, Comics, App Browsing

That's how I spent most of my day today.  After almost four weeks of feeling like a 12 oz. jar filled with 14 oz. of crap and three doctor visits, the correct combination of steroids, antiboitics, and nebulizer treatments was established and I'm starting to feel like the rock that was sitting on my chest is getting chipped away.

...

That was written about six hours ago.  I left to join the human race and have dinner with my wife and son, play a little blocks and cars, and watch a movie huddled under the blankets.  And now I'm exhausted and don't want to risk getting sicker by not getting enough sleep, so what I really wanted to write about will have to wait until tomorrow.

Goodnight.

Clear Eyes, Full Hearts

This was originally a post about the new look of Geek Monkey, and what kept me away for so long.  But I've covered it already, and the rest of the garbage life dumped in front of me doesn't really matter when you look around and see all the stuff that's out there that's so monumentally worse than your pathetic little life that kvetching about it only makes you an imbecile in front of others.

So instead I want to briefly talk about Friday Night Lights, my son, and how both conspired to bring me back to this blog.

I'm not much of a sports fan.  I have favorite teams, but don't follow them with any real conviction.  I'll gladly watch a game with friends and family, and love to see sporting events live, but left alone to my own devices I'd much rather read a book, watch a movie, basically do other things.  The same logic applies to movie and shows about film.  But over the past few months I kept hearing from some of my favorite podcasts (with a specific shout out to Jeff @ The Totally rad Show) about how good Friday Night Lights was, so when the first three seasons came out on Netflix's Instant Viewing (in HD, no less), I added them to my queue and planned to watch.

And that was it until yesterday.

The thing that changed was my son: specifically the 4th day of a vicious virus that has left him with a constant temperature of 104 degrees that massive doses of Motrin and Tylenol only manage to bring down to about 101.  Every night is a new experience in screaming, vomiting, and violent shaking that borders on seizures.  And I leave out a certain measure of eloquence in the preceding description it's because to think too closely on it causes my hands to tremble, my eyes to water, and my soul to crumple just a bit more than it already has. 

During the moments of the day when he's moderately lucid, all he wants to do is cling to your shoulder and watch television.  Since yesterday I had him all day while my wife worked, in between naps, cool compresses and episodes of Dora the Explorer (which has now earned me the new name "Poppi", which for a myriad of reasons I adore above "Daddy") we curled up on the couch to watch the first episode.

I'm not going to go into too much detail about the show - by now if you're not watching you're probably not that interested.  I was surprised at the amount of heart the show has, the great use of the camera to give things a gritty, documentary feel, the excellent (if slightly old to be playing teenagers) cast, which seems to play a lot on improvisation, and the incredible dynamic of Coach Taylor and his family.  All good stuff, and as I watched the pilot unfold my son sat transfixed at the screen with me.

The pilot's plot is fairly predictable, leading up to the big game that they win in the final seconds.  And if there's a consistent complaint I have heard about the show, it's that the games don;t show the same level of intensity that inhabits the off-field situations. As we watched I spoke to Jack about the game and the men running and the colors of the uniforms and for a few minutes it seemed as if he wasn't sick, and was just happy to be there, to hear the sound of my voice.

The the end came.  The game was won.  And as the team came out to clap and to pray over an event that occurred moments before, Jack's smile came back for the first time in days, and exclaimed "Good game, everybody!  Good game!"

I had never heard this before, never knew that he understood that in the end you give thanks for a good game and try to let the pain go.  I can't even explain why something so minute had such a galvanizing effect on me.  But the combination of the show, and my son's response to it clicked something, and although I didn't cry, and didn't speak about it to my wife when she came home, I knew at that moment that no matter what's happening to me, no matter how I feel, at the end of the day you just have to go out there and say, "Good game".  Even when it doesn't feel like it, and even when it rips you inside to do so.

Clear eyes, full hearts...can't lose.

Her Fearful Symmetry

Have you ever had one of those reading experiences where you pick up a debut novel on more than a whim than anything else, only to have it completely blow your socks off? And then you wait and wait for their next book, eager to get more of the same?

And then you read it, and it's just...meh?

I wish that wasn't the case with Audrey Niffenegger's second novel after the wonderful The Time Traveller's Wife, one of the rare books that affected both my wife and I the same way so our conversations about it were completely in sync. But Her Fearful Symmetry reaches for a much different tone and style, more of a gothic horror/romance and unfortunately Niffenegger envelops the story - about a pair of American twin girls who inherit a flat in London from their exiled Aunt after she dies only to find that maybe she's still there - has too many characters that don't follow through, are unsympathetic, and generally relies on some pretty obvious plot points, which leaves the best gifts Niffenegger brought to her debut - full embraceable characters that we spend enough time with to care about.

And that's the saddest thing about Her Fearful Symmetry. There's no one to really root or care for. When the book was finished, I just sighed, put the book down, and decided that while I'm still optimistic for Niffenegger's next book whenever it comes, my expectations will be a little more realistic.