Season three of Game of Thrones is nearly upon us. I'm reasonably excited about the show, but far less so than season two. This is strange, because I love me some fantasy. It's been my favourite genre since I was small, and more than one person has accused me of secretly being a teenaged boy.
I pondered the reasons for a while - it used to be that a mere whisper of "Winter is Coming" would give me chills. I love the cast's performances. I love the sets and the costumes and the lighting. The directing is great. I know how the story is going to turn out (for the show, at least), so I mostly just appreciated the artistry of the show and seeing how they'd diverged from the original novels to make it accessible to television audiences.
But the urgency of my feelings about the series is gone. I realised that George R.R. Martin lost me with A Dance of Dragons and I'm not all that worried about when the next book will be out. I have lost a bit of interest in the conclusion. Partly it's the fact that I can't stand whipping myself into a frenzy given the general time gaps between books, but mostly, I have realised, I can't stand Daenerys.
It has always been reasonably clear that Cousin George (as we refer to him chez moi) is setting Daenerys Targayen up as the great heroine of Westeros. But I have always read her scenes feeling like I'm eating my way through a giant plate of brussels sprouts (my most hated vegetable) - theoretically it's good for me (or the story), but damn if I don't hate it.
And for those of you who want to tell me that brussels sprouts are delicious if you just cook them with a little butter and bacon, you are only confirming to me that no one actually likes brussels sprouts. Sand would taste delicious if you cooked it with enough butter and bacon.
So I find myself startled to realise that I really don't care when Winds of Winter comes out, and if Daenerys becomes queen of Westeros, then by God, I pity the people she rules. But she will most likely get distracted by someone she decides to save along the way and will eventually arrive in Westeros ten years too late when the White Walkers have already eaten everyone.
I am, however, waiting with bated breath for a few other sequels. I am on the verge of finding Brent Weeks' phone number and calling him weeping to let me know what happens in the next Lightbringer book. Does Liv have to break the halo to do what Koios wants her to do?!? I want to go hold Patrick Rothfuss' hand until he finishes the next Kingkiller book (metaphorically, obviously, since typing would be hard if I wouldn't let go of his hand). Why is Kvothe in such an enormous sulk?
The truth is, there are legions of great fiction writers out there, and while I enjoy Cousin George's writing, he's only one of the people you should be reading. Go out there, find some new authors and enjoy.
PS: I did read My Boyfriend Wrote a Book About Me. It was like hiding in a toilet stall while people outside gossip about someone you know. Dirty, but fun. I had to shower afterwards. And I know more about Chad's pubic hair than I ever wanted to.
