Fluff.

Tits are Everywhere..

What is a sell-out?

Something naughty that everyone succumbs to, in the end. Sly and furtive, you walk away from your principles very quietly. Who cares? No one, these days.

The Devil isn’t fond of this concept, it’s tainted by its membership. But still, it does provide for some marvellously evil entertainment. The world makes a big deal when a celebrity sells out, but no one cares when the world sells out.

Let’s consider a modern classic. A certain, legendary- the word has since lost all meaning, Game of Thrones. Yes. I take on your darling again, lowly peon, and the shadow of shame will fall on you. But I think you know this already, yes? You knew when you read those immortal words, “Show me your steel, Stark.” You felt your heart sink, no, it’s not possible, this book is acclaimed on all sides, (pages of accolades in the front,) the budget for the show was ginormous, the actors hot, surely this is a great book? Keep reading, find more holes than a good Alpine cheese, find things so ludicrous that all you can do is jump ahead and hope there is somewhere to land. Alas, there isn’t.

The list of ridiculous is long, I spare you since you no doubt have one of your own. Recycled, a potpourri of the well-known and the obscure. Here is where you learn that potpourri is French for rotten pot. A novel to delight to amateur heralds and tailors. Do you enjoy the storyline? The arbitrary deaths of characters you might adore? (Well, not in this story, who cares who dies? But in mine you may feel a twinge or two.) It happens, yes, but not that often and not that way. In My sequel you will see how a master kills a worthy enemy, and why.

Scribe and Satan agree that the word legendary- newly cleaned and sanctified, can only apply to one name, and until anything better comes along- good luck, that name is Rothfuss. My good man, your audience is waiting, finish your story for this God’s sake.

Back to the Game. A show that needed full frontal to sell it, hordes of mindless, slavering, likely masturbating, fans. Willing to believe that a dragon worth its salt could be kept and used, directed by any will other than its own, it makes me laugh.

I give Martin this much, that he sold a book with no plot or likable characters, juvenile writing and abominable words. A book where the heroes name their swords, what is this, the twelfth century on steroids? If your sword has a name, you’re too intimate with it, it’s not your dick, it wants no name.

A true torture to read, I had to force my scribe, neither of us have forgiven me. We haven’t braved an actual episode, blame scribal squeamishness, our mutual reluctance to subject ourselves to anything we haven’t personally selected. A series sold by the ounce, where blood magically becomes gold. Who knew? Alchemists the world over are smacking their foreheads. And writers learn that it’s not about writing.

Let’s all go live on the Wall, how bad can it be? They have fresh seasonal fruit year long. Scary shit on the other side? Ooooh, yes, who would think of that? Never mind, when I’m there we’ll do the natural thing and drill a few holes so whatever it is can get through. Just hide the blueberries, we want them to head south, not join us up here.

A hint of something in the air, what is it? Yes, I can just catch a whiff of Lord of the Rings, where the ridiculous was made Endless and though the forests walked they could never walk away, and small creatures with no skills or protection somehow live forever and aren’t eaten by dragons. Word upon Word, in unending lines that speak only of vocabulary, like a song without melody.

Is this really what you want? Soulless, soundless, devoid of movement, a heart that beats itself to death, always. Is there to be no pleasure in your favourite worlds? Ah. What does that say about you?

What do your Classics of Literature say about you as a species, as a cultured, allegedly civilized entity? Why do you remind yourself of what you’re capable of? So you don’t forget?  If culture involves the same themes as popular video games, where is the line drawn? The imaginary line.

Conrad and his dark heart, Kafka and his deranged soul, Atwood and her reverse misogyny, King with his petty evils that you still buy, since they’re better than nothing. Compare Dumas, Austen, Shakespeare, who you all adore even though you have no idea what he is saying. Monastic Scribes who write your histories, Greeks who exalt themselves, Romans who outdo them, all these have stories to tell. Is there Joy to be found? Oh yes, back when it was still allowed. (See Dionysus.) Fleeting, radiant, like it is. Will you eat chocolate forever?

Light leavens the Dark, and Vice Versa.

“Wolmar”  by  Audrey Fall      Hear for yourself.