teiresias: (akaten)
I canNOT stop listening to this song. Yuki's twee frou-frou hand movements hypnotize my mind, sucking me in to be borne aloft on the sheer shrill cutesyness of her voice, off to join the ranks of her faceless dancing minions.

In other news, the first book of Mercedes Lackey's most recent Valdemar trilogy is waiting for me at the library.

I really have nothing to justify how obsessed I've become with that woman's work, except that it seems to be a similar phenomenon to that which has made J. K. Rowling a more-disgustingly-wealthy-than-the-friggin'-Queen woman. That is, her books, when all is said and done, are bad. There're magic help-spirits in the form of horses, swords, sorcery, and sentient gryphons who can somehow form human speech despite their utter lack of lips. The dialogue is, frequently, overwrought, and the parts that are meant to be funny are forced upon the reader with such a wink-wink nudge-nudge overbearingness as to render the mere concept of humor void. Lackey far too often falls prey to that "never show-- you must always TELL!!!" disorder that afflicts many fantasy writers (and, sadly, Hollywood screenwriters and directors), beating her points into the readers' heads with a jackhammer.

Despite all this, I can't put her books down. Why? Because her plots are so finely crafted that I HAVE to know what happens next, be it even at the cost of my very sanity. The narrative is complex, far-reaching, and even occasionally goes in a direction I, at least, do not at all expect. Add to that the sheer hedonistic escapism inherent in any fantasy, and I can't help but salivate at the thought of beginning the next chapter.

I can only hope that this doesn't presage some harrowing descent into the middle-school-redolent depths of Star Wars novels, or something equally mortifying.
teiresias: (akaten)
I canNOT stop listening to this song. Yuki's twee frou-frou hand movements hypnotize my mind, sucking me in to be borne aloft on the sheer shrill cutesyness of her voice, off to join the ranks of her faceless dancing minions.

In other news, the first book of Mercedes Lackey's most recent Valdemar trilogy is waiting for me at the library.

I really have nothing to justify how obsessed I've become with that woman's work, except that it seems to be a similar phenomenon to that which has made J. K. Rowling a more-disgustingly-wealthy-than-the-friggin'-Queen woman. That is, her books, when all is said and done, are bad. There're magic help-spirits in the form of horses, swords, sorcery, and sentient gryphons who can somehow form human speech despite their utter lack of lips. The dialogue is, frequently, overwrought, and the parts that are meant to be funny are forced upon the reader with such a wink-wink nudge-nudge overbearingness as to render the mere concept of humor void. Lackey far too often falls prey to that "never show-- you must always TELL!!!" disorder that afflicts many fantasy writers (and, sadly, Hollywood screenwriters and directors), beating her points into the readers' heads with a jackhammer.

Despite all this, I can't put her books down. Why? Because her plots are so finely crafted that I HAVE to know what happens next, be it even at the cost of my very sanity. The narrative is complex, far-reaching, and even occasionally goes in a direction I, at least, do not at all expect. Add to that the sheer hedonistic escapism inherent in any fantasy, and I can't help but salivate at the thought of beginning the next chapter.

I can only hope that this doesn't presage some harrowing descent into the middle-school-redolent depths of Star Wars novels, or something equally mortifying.

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