The Gathering Storm

The Wheel of Time has got to be one of the most frustrating series of books ever written. The main reason, of course, is that it's been almost 20 years since the first book was written. And, somewhere between books four and ten the plot became almost too complex and Robert Jordan's writing, so fresh and vivid through the early books, become repetitive. And his women became annoying beyond all reason.
But it's only frustrating because I love these books so much. And I can accept these weaknesses because, besides these few minor flaws, the books are brilliant and compelling. This is my favorite fantasy series in all of contemporary fantasy.
I say all this to illustrate the monumental task given to Brandon Sanderson when Jordan's editor/wife asked Sanderson (due to Jordan's death) to finish the most complex fantasy epic that I know of.
Now with Sanderson we've reached book 12, The Gathering Storm. There are still two books to go, but suddenly the series feels like it's moving again. In fact, I could argue that Sanderson has written book 12 true to Jordan's style while softening the many flaws that were contained in the previous books. In a sense Sanderson could save the series from being overwhelmed by its flaws. (Thank you Brandon Sanderson for not making me read anything about Elayne and limiting the chapters devoted to Perrin and his stupid wife). Things seem a bit more streamlined. Not to say that The Gathering Storm isn't complex. Every chapter seems to be about different characters, but fortunately they all seem to have a purpose. Which hasn't happened so much lately.
I don't know if Sanderson will be able to fully close The Wheel of Time. Jordan had far too many subplots (viewings/dreams/prophesies, etc. . .) for anybody to accomplish that. But, so far, Sanderson has done far better than anybody could have expected. Jordan's editor/wife made the right choice.

Do you feel Safer?

Here's an article I found on the Yahoo homepage. This is the nation that we are becoming. Does it make you feel any safer?







http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/12/education/12discipline.html?no_interstitial

Ego, Deflate!!!

I'm sitting in my room reading some workshop pieces for my creative writing class. Today's batch of poems kind of makes me feel ashamed. I suck!
The funny thing. . . here I am critiquing this stuff with comments like "the flow of this poem moves in interesting directions providing the reader with insightful glances into the human condition," and I realized that I don't know what the green blazes I am talking about. I don't even like poetry!

Qualifier

Just as a way of explanation, the previous post, Erato, is a prose poem I wrote for workshopping in my creative writing class. It isn't a confessional in any way. I'm not a bad person. Duck Farts and Redheaded Sluts are alcoholic beverages--I know this from Open Mic Night at the bar in McCarthy, Alaska which serves as the community gathering place for all the 30 residents and 50 or so tourists. Also, Erato is the Greek Muse of lyric poetry.

Anyway, Erato wasn't the best of my poems that I submitted. I thought it was, but everybody seemed to like this one the best.

Wolves

There is a story here. Among the scattered bones and cloying stench of death. The mossy forest floor is a sick yellow underneath a newer carpet of loose hair and bits of decaying flesh. Several fist sized saplings in the area are snapped off, almost waist high. Their remains lie trampled into the moss. He died fighting, this one. A lower jaw bone and a hip socket lie close together. Evidence. A caribou, or a light colored moose. It’s hard to tell without the rest of the skull. There is no need to search for the killer. Just outside the swath of death lie numerous piles of hair-filled feces. Enough to show that a good sized pack of wolves gorged themselves for a day or so.
I wonder, if this was a man, would I stand here so calm among his rotting remains, piecing together the clues of his demise?


I actually didn't really like the way this one turned out.

For all of my readers out there, I am interested in your opinion. Both poems are still in rough draft form, so present me with your thoughts. Which do you like better? What do you like or dislike about these poems? And do you have any suggestions for improvement? Feel free to comment harshly if that is your desire. Thanks!

Erato

Once I had a muse. She lingered in my dreams and fed me lines and lies dipped in honey. Pages and pages I filled with foolish and empty rhetoric on love. I was in love. But once I treated her to a night in the city she vanished among the tangled streets. Without a word. I was left alone under the flashing neon lights, with the sound of sirens singing in my ears. Long nights since I have searched, and searched, for her, and found nothing. Once I thought I found her in a bar on 4th serving duck farts and redheaded sluts over the counter, but the gothic lipstick was wrong. The feeling was wrong. I was wrong. But I took her home anyway. When I woke in the morning blank pages met my eyes, and I could not fill them other than a few constipated and bitter lines. Of truth. Time passes, but I still wake at night tangled in blankets and sweat, clinging to cheap motel pillows, with the echo of her name ringing across the room. Whether a plea or a curse I cannot tell.

~Joseph Devenport

My Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week.

Ok, so it really wasn't that bad. Just the ending.

Wednesday--For the first time I am actually in a place where I can watch television for So You Think You Can Dance, because they moved the show to the Fall. Once I found that out I tuned in, by myself, at 7pm for the Phoenix auditions with great expectations. Lame. And worst of all? I experienced, for the first time, a same-sex ballroom dance couple. Call me narrow minded, bigoted, racist, or whatever. Nasty. Insulting to ballroom dance. Boo! And Mary, and Mia (the judges) were getting emotional "you're so courageous," (blah, blah). Go away. On the other hand, there was a girl who had spinal meningitis when she was a baby and was deaf as a result. She danced very well. It was touching.

Thursday--I went to World of Dance with very high expectations. I was disappointed. First of all, no Cougarettes. Second, the Ballroom team, for whom I have much love, was a letdown. The Pirates number was good, but it has always fallen short of the standard set by Cinemagic or some of the other ballroom themes. . .though the very ending is freaking awesome. The Mambo really is kind of bland, and the new rumba falls well short of "If That Were Me"--the song is just really kind of weird (a guy singing that he wants to dance with his father?). Third, the modern dance company did the same routine three different times to the same musical formula, just in different costumes (though they did do really cool things with lighting in the second one). Fourth, I realized that the folk team does the exact same routine every time too, just with different cultural steps and costumes (the women all start out dancing sedately, then the men come in and turn it into a party). Fifth, my favorite number was the last ballet piece. Very funny. Sixth, I had four empty chairs next to me on one side, and an old couple on the other. I felt lonely.

Friday--wasn't that bad. Residual loneliness.

Saturday--BYU lost, badly, to Florida St. AND I had a pounding make-me-want-to-yark headache at the same time. It was fitting, but nobody should have to endure that kind of pain. I had to take TWO doses of Excedrin, that's 128mg of Caffeine, which is why I am still awake blogging.

And that is my horrible, no good, very bad week.

The End.

Ekphrasis

She could be dead, for all we know, lifted up as an offering to the gods. Her eyes are closed and her arms fall behind her, limp, held in place by sinew and bone, but not by the coursing of blood. There is grace in her form that follows the curve of her spine and explodes through the point of her toes. She is beautiful, even in the form of death. Light, almost holy, illuminates her face. If she is dead, she died content, or in love. But the dead often appear so. ~Joseph Devenport

Picture: Darci Kistler and Robert LaFosse by Annie Leibovitz