![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
There hasn't been much to say of late. My primary fandoms have been largely moribund since the winter Olympics, and what development there has been has been less than enthralling. Dropping Hawkes' development in favor of yet another Mac hookup and accompanying drama llama? Lame. The impending Messer family drama? Embarrassing. This has been the worst season of CSI:NY, period, and I don't see things improving next year. Carmine is mailing it in; Anna Belknap is an albatross; the writers are under the delusion that everyone gets as big a boner over Super!Mac as they do, and the other characters are left to hold up the show with their charisma, acting ability, and small reservoir of fannish loyalty.
And that reservoir is getting smaller by the day.
I finished Ramsey Campbell's The Overnight a few nights ago and promptly threw it into the trash. What a waste of money, words, and tree pulp, and such a bitter disappointment. Campbell has written some wonderful books--Ancient Images, for instance, or The Doll Who Ate His Mother--books with a perfect balance of atmosphere and substance. Overnight was three hundred and eighty pages of murky, muddled, spookshow atmosphere and zero substance. Campbell spent a great deal of time blowing promising and noxious wind into the chamberpot, but never delivered the goods. As Stephen King points out, eventually there has to be some steak to go with all that sizzle. I spent all those pages squinting into the fog in search of The Bad Thing, and all I got was a headache. Thanks for nothing.
NOTE to WRITERS: Not every experience in your life would make a good story. Sometimes life is just life, and just as boring.
And that reservoir is getting smaller by the day.
I finished Ramsey Campbell's The Overnight a few nights ago and promptly threw it into the trash. What a waste of money, words, and tree pulp, and such a bitter disappointment. Campbell has written some wonderful books--Ancient Images, for instance, or The Doll Who Ate His Mother--books with a perfect balance of atmosphere and substance. Overnight was three hundred and eighty pages of murky, muddled, spookshow atmosphere and zero substance. Campbell spent a great deal of time blowing promising and noxious wind into the chamberpot, but never delivered the goods. As Stephen King points out, eventually there has to be some steak to go with all that sizzle. I spent all those pages squinting into the fog in search of The Bad Thing, and all I got was a headache. Thanks for nothing.
NOTE to WRITERS: Not every experience in your life would make a good story. Sometimes life is just life, and just as boring.
Tags: