I remember the first time I saw Game of Thrones. People had been talking about it online for a while, and I finally ordered the first disc from Netflix. I was living in St. Paul then, and I’m pretty sure it was winter. It’s always winter there, or so it seems.
With the very first scenes, I was hooked. The cinematography was exceptional, and it didn’t take me long to realize they weren’t pulling punches when it came to the harsh things in that reality. I don’t want to spoil it for anyone who hasn’t seen this series yet, but what happened to Bran made me gasp in horror.
Oh, boy! This is gonna be good! I thought. I told R about it, and because my recommendations have usually been solid, he started watching it too.
I caught up with the series, and when I moved to Florida, R and I set up a standing date for Sunday evening in front of the TV to watch GofT.
It all went swimmingly until this season. I keep asking myself, what went wrong? Because hard as it is to admit, I started losing interest at the end of last season, and this one? I’m–omg!–bored.
Six episodes into a ten-episode season, and nothing much has happened. Sansa’s rape? Come on! Tell me you didn’t see that coming. Ramsey cut off someone’s dick, for chrissakes (and those scenes were horrifying; I cringed a lot). Of course he was gonna rape her. Arya in the Hall of Heads? Meh. I kept wondering how they got them into the holes up near the ceiling. There’s nothing like a dose of reality to kill the horror.
Another episode airs tonight (I’m writing this Sunday), and because I was over there this morning to deal with the lawn guy, I doubt I’ll make a special trip back just to see it. The DVR is recording it. I can catch it pretty much anytime this week, and I admit it’s no longer at the top of my list of things to do. I’m afraid of being disappointed again. There, I said it. I’ve been disappointed.
A couple or three weeks ago, I finally broke down and ordered the Kindle set of Martin’s first five novels in this series. The last one was written in 2011. That’s four fucking years ago. What the hell has he been doing since?
From Wiki: The first volume of the series, A Game of Thrones, was begun in 1991 and first published in 1996. The series has grown from a planned trilogy to seven volumes, the fifth and most recent of which, A Dance with Dragons, took Martin five years to write before its publication in 2011. The sixth novel, The Winds of Winter, is still being written.
R speculates HBO has slowed the plot lines because they’re desperately in need of new material Martin hasn’t gotten around to writing yet. Or maybe Martin is just bored with it. He started writing it in 1991, for chrissakes! That’s forever ago. I’d be tired of it by now, too.
I’m about 3% into the books. Yeah, you read that right: 3%. It’s a long series. I’ve enjoyed filling in the gaps in the HBO series. For instance, Jon is only fourteen in the first book, and not yet part of the Night Watch. I learned more about the palace intrigue at Winterfell. I’ll probably intersperse reading other books while I plow through these five, ’cause it’s a lot of words. A lot.
Martin’s style? Straightforward, direct, nothing pretty about the writing. The story is what drives you forward, not the prose. He needed a better editor. He “could see” and “could hear” instead of “saw” and “heard.” “No doubt” was used four times on one page. Minor quibbles, but I remember fingers moving on their own in one part, too. Let me tell you, it’s awful being an editor. You see every damn thing that should have been fixed and wasn’t. Did you know I edit as I read? I can’t help it. I mentally fix things on the fly. Oy!
But Martin is rich and famous, and I’m a nobody, so no one should pay attention to my thoughts on that anyway. 😉
And it’s another Monday. They keep coming ’round, don’t they? Hope y’all have a wonderful week ahead!