Fiction

Richard Ford versus the Game of Thrones

Last week I finished Richard Ford’s Canada, a book well worth reading. I’ve been a fan for years and this doesn’t disappoint.

Next I bought Games of Thrones because I love the HBO series and wanted to take the experience to the next level. I also haven’t read any science fiction/fantasy for years. I thought it would be a nice change.

Ugh.

After a page I knew I’d made a mistake, but I trudged through the next few chapters hoping that my knowledge from the series would make up for the lazy descriptive choices, the clunky sentences and overuse of clichés. To be fair to George R.R. Martin, if I hadn’t just read Ford’s Canada, I may not have been so bothered; but Ford’s sentences flow like a Five Series BMW, Martin’s chugged along as if I was in a Chevy.

Games of Thrones is a fresh twist on familiar stories based on Tolkein, Star Wars, Shakespeare, Mythology and the Bible. That’s not a knock, aren’t most stories derivative of the last three on that list? But following Ford made me realize that I don’t want to fill my mind with just serviceable sentences. I want to raise my game. I want to be inspired, not just entertained.

A few weeks back I mentioned why I didn’t believe Fifty Shades of Gray was a model for me, despite its financial success. I’m sure there’s much in Games of Thrones that could inspire me, but with continual pressure on the time I devote to reading, I can’t afford to squander it.

So today I’m headed back to the bookstore to return Games of Thrones. I will continue to watch the series and I’m happy to hear from others about what’s different in the show versus the book, but I’ve got a collection of T. Coraghessan Boyle short stories that’s been sitting on my shelf for over year. It’s time to dig in.

Fifty Shades of Angst

 

It was a late summer afternoon. My girlfriend Mary and her two friends were sitting on the deck in her back yard. All were reading a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey.

I read the first chapter online and didn’t buy the relationship, but obviously it didn’t bother the gazillion women reading it. So what do I know?

The other night I asked Mary to tell me about the kinky sex purported to be in the book. She claimed she hadn’t gotten to those parts yet, but she did read a more pedestrian passage. It could easily have been lifted from the pages of Penthouse with one exception: the writer kept referring to breasts being gently caressed etc. In real porn girls have tits and boobs; guys, dicks and rods.

“Maybe you’d learn something from reading it,” Mary told me.

“I doubt it. I’d rather read the new Richard Ford.”

“It’s a huge seller,” she said. “I thought the whole point was to make money.”

“Yes, I want to make a living,” I said, “but I didn’t get into this to be that sort.”

“What sort?” she asked. “The type that makes money.”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about,” I sniped back.

Mary reads quality fiction, but some reason she wouldn’t let this go. “You’re always saying you don’t have enough money to pay the bills. Why don’t you write something like this and then write what you want?”

I sighed deeply. I bit my lip. I wanted to jump off a bridge.

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