To be fair, his story has many other layers. Woven into the overarching narrative are Isaac's relationship to Lin, a scarab-headed human-insect hybrid, Lin's own dangerous liaison with a mutant crime-boss, the oligarchic politics of the city's power elite and its response to the growing slake-moth problem, and the ever-present class tension between workers and bourgeosie. Mieville's open Marxist politics certainly inform the book's world.

You could say that Mieville courts chaos (or, perhaps, crisis) rather than causality in his story: the disparate plot threads are brought together almost randomly. Isaac and his cohorts' direct involvement with the slake-moth terror is entirely coincidental, the result of a petty clerk's greed in selling government property for personal profit. Yagharek's decision to aid them is based solely on his own coincidental deal with Isaac. This is almost certainly intentional: both Isaac's "crisis" research as well as the role the Weaver, effectively an inter-dimensional spider, have to play both speak to an awareness on the author's part of chaos theory and its effect on events.

But despite all these admittedly interesting details, the core plot around which all others revolve is the city's plight in the face of a bunch of nasty monsters. Perdido Street Station is a creature movie, albeit a very creative one.

Despite my general tone (which, I'll admit, is somewhat questioning), this is not necessarily a bad thing. The problem I had completely committing to this book may be a problem with me as a reader, not the story itself. The story is a small one, a tiny blip in the history of Mieville's world, a few weeks' worth of terror and excitement and trouble for a sprawling city with a long past, and perhaps I'm not used to that. It is, after all, a secondary world fantasy (as Mieville himself describes it), but it is not epic in the sense most fantasy readers are used to.  It is narrower, tightly drawn, constrained to the thoughts and concerns of a group of characters whose actions and inactions mostly effect their own situations and, at the book's climax, the situations of a city of people. The world is not in jeopardy, necessarily. The slake-moths are powerful, but universe will not necessarily crumble if they are not stopped -- though the city might founder. One could argue that since New Crobuzon is essentially the most important part of the civilizations that Mr. Mieville describes in his Bas Lag books, the fate of that city is indeed an epic question, but really the story contains very little of the over-wrought, world-shaking themes that are epic fantasy's bread and butter.

 I enjoyed the book, but it challenged me -- which is good. Its focus on character worked. Bracketing the storyline with Yagharek's internal dialog worked particularly well as a plot device, and added an element of the poetic into an often overwhelming gritty tale. The novel works far better if the reader is able to distance himself from any preconceptions of what constitutes fantasy fiction and cease comparing the story to fantasy conventions. I enjoyed it, and it will stay with me, for the story is a haunting one. 

While at times the author gets a bit carried away in his own descriptive odes to his steampunk Gomorrah, begging a little narrative restraint, Perdido Street Station is a founding accomplishment and a gauntlet for the minds of any staid reader of fantasy. Its effect may not be revelatory, but with this novel Mr. Mieville struck out in a bold new direction that undoubtedly adds complexity to the genre as a whole.  

Shawn's article is thorough and well thought out, allowing a measure of criticism for Martin's "unprofessional" behavior while generally defending his writing style and the long process of completing a beloved series.

Shawn was the first person I've heard describe Martin's problem as unprofessionalism.  It really does encapsulate it well: if Martin is truly guilty of anything, he's guilty of setting unrealistic goals and putting them in writing -- of making promises he should have known he couldn't keep.  That aside, you can't really fault a writer for the way his own process works.  Shawn makes a good argument that that is truly the heart of the issue: the combination of Martin's free-writing style and his strict editor's eye makes for a long writing process, and one that is frequently subject to drastic change:

George is, from what I understand, a Freewriter.

So, what does that mean? Well, it means George does not plan in advance what he writes. As a result, George will often write several chapters, which takes up several weeks, decide on a different and better course of direction, and have to erase those chapters--and quite possibly several others that came before them. Those weeks are gone with no output to show for it other than having a better sense of where he is going. According to him, that very thing has happened several times over the course of the last few years, delaying A Feast For Crows and now A Dance With Dragons. Unlike King, who sometimes has lackluster endings to his novels due to, in my opinion, lack of planning, George is an editor who will not publish something unless it is done right. The manner in which George writes can be volatile to the reader who believes George just needs to spend a certain amount of time at the keyboard to produce a manuscript.

But writing for George is not a science. He is a Freewriter. To try to make him other than that is folly--and disrespects the earlier work that has given such joy.

Shawn also brought up the subject of what he calls "the creative wall," a realism of the writing life that many writers have described in many different ways:

Every writer I have spoken to comes to a point in their creative day where, no matter how much they wish differently, the written word just does not happen the way it should. The writing becomes stagnant; it becomes useless and is simply not good enough to be published. No matter if the writer sits and tries to hammer their way through, nothing changes. To sit at the keyboard during that time is a waste of time.

I call it the Creative Wall.

All writers come to that Wall during their writing day, at least all writers I know. The average amount of time differs between writers. For instance, Terry Brooks spends between five or six hours a day before he is simply burnt out. Steven Erikson, on the other hand, doesn't come to his Creative Wall until seven or eight hours have passed. For me, it is four or five hours. Every writer is different; every writer deals with it.

George comes to a Wall during his writing day too.

Hemingway described the experience, and how he dealt with it, in A Moveable Feast: "I had learned already never to empty the well of my writing, but always to stop when there was still something there in the deep part of the well, and let it refill at night from the springs that fed it."  He often advised writers to stop consciously short of that Wall, saying that it was best to stop when you were still going good, to leave on a high note, essentially, while you still knew what was going to happen next.  By so doing, one could begin the next day of writing that much more easily, having saved a bit of starter material.

But I digress.

Suffice it to say that Shawn's post is a worthwhile read for any Martin fan disgruntled over the long-delayed publication of A Dance with Dragons, and The Accidental Bard wholeheartedly joins him in his Defense.

Carrie Vaughn is like Laurell K. Hamilton, only better. I liked Hamilton's first five books, but her recent efforts have been redolent with existential angst, precious self-awareness, and bizarre sex acts. Her increasingly redundant story lines--will Richard come to terms with being a werewolf? Will Damien grow a spine? Will Anita overcome her guilt?--now come at the expense of a plot. While I continue to read her books out of a sense of loyalty, I miss the good old days when her books were tightly written, funny, and exciting.

Enter Carrie Vaughn: in Kitty Raises Hell, the latest installment in the "Kitty" series, Vaughn gives us just the right amount of political intrigue, frightening creatures, action, violence, and human foibles--with a kick-ass heroine to lead us through it all. In this classic urban fantasy theatre, Vampires and werewolves have been "outed", and now live among us in relative peace. Vaughn treats us to all the old standards we've come to know and love: a vampire "Master of the City", a contentious werewolf pack, and plenty of skeptical humans. There's an underlying tension between those who want to preserve the "old ways"--"might is right" and let the chips fall where they may--and those "new world order" Democrats, who want to lead by consensus. The question becomes, how can Kitty lead her pack effectively, influencing them toward the "right" choice without sacrificing her ideals?

In the eighth installment of the "Kitty" series, Kitty discovers--the hard way--that she's not quite done with the Band of Tiamat. Or, rather, the Band of Tiamat isn't quite done with her. After a series of inexplicable attacks, Kitty realizes she needs all the help she can find. Help comes in the form of a popular reality TV program, "Paradox PI", and its intrepid crew--a group of people who turn out to be more than they seem. Along with Rick, the Master Vampire of Denver, they race to understand the nature of this new evil before it's too late.

Kitty Raises Hell could be cliché, but it isn't. While to some authors these standards are a crutch, to Vaughn they're merely a starting point. She takes them in stride and uses them to craft an original work. Nothing about her universe feels stale or worked over; if I didn't know better, I could easily assume she was alone in her field. The Denver of the "Kitty" series is remarkably believable--as are the problems Kitty and her fellow citizens face. While their adventures are unquestionably epic--battling ancient Babylonian cults, demons, even law enforcement--they don't have that fake "watch me save the world before dinner" feel. They're blissfully free of the kind of posturing that characterizes Goodkind's books.

Vaughn's focus is right where it should be, on her characters. Kitty is highly convincing, realistic protagonist; she's a strong woman, but she's also a vulnerable woman. A radio host and independent business owner, Kitty's career struggles, to some extent, mirror her experiences as Alpha of her pack. She doesn't always know the right answer or make the wisest decision, but she's sincere in her expectations of herself. It's refreshing to find a protagonist who has, dare I say it, "normal" issues--who isn't consumed with anger over old hurts, who doesn't spend several hundred pages ruminating on how difficult it is to be emotionally shut down. Most of us want a heroine whose challenges, whether emotional or professional, make sense to us. Within the first few pages, Kitty comes through loud and clear as a real person.

Her cast of supporting characters is excellent, as well. Kitty's relationship with Ben, her husband, isn't perfect--but it's believable. If you're getting a little sick of the "will he or won't he" drama, perpetually broken hearts, and overly self-aware pity sex so common in other urban fantasy series, then you'll find the "Kitty" series really refreshing. Here, her relationship plays an important supporting--not a starring--role. Ben is not only a real person, but also a meaningful partner; he helps Kitty save the world with his skills as a lawyer, not his penis. It's refreshing to see a fictional couple that can connect outside of the bedroom.

Moreover, for a wonder, Kitty actually has friends and coworkers who are more than just cardboard cutouts! In Kitty Raises Hell, Kitty makes some new friends, and I really enjoyed following their growing relationship. She also deepens her connection with some old friends. In a field that's become overcrowded with clichés, stereotypes, and one trick ponies, Vaughn is a very refreshing change. Even her bit players stayed with me after I finished the book.

And there's just enough sex to keep your attention. Sex occupies the same exalted role here that it does in real life: it's an expression of passion, sometimes comfort, and usually love. Vaughn uses it to reveal Kitty's vulnerability, and let us understand a little more about her relationship with Ben. Like any good writer, Vaughn doesn't need paragraph after paragraph to get her point across; she conveys a world of complexity in just a few sentences.

If you're looking for paragraph after ponderous paragraph about thrusting, heaving, and releasing, this series isn't for you--but if you're longing for a book that's actually about something, this series will be one of your favorite discoveries this year. Kitty Raises Hell might not be the most original book I own, but it's a gripping read nevertheless. Revisiting this Hamilton-esque world is comforting, like pulling on a favorite sock--you know what to expect, and that's part of the thrill. The "Kitty" series is a familiar--and very welcome--thrill.

True to that form, the conclusion of The First Law will not leave you feeling warm and fuzzy. 

The one major mystery of the trilogy--the identity and motives of the elusive Valint and Balk and the driving force behind the war--is finally unveiled.  The reveal is anticlimactic in the sense that we should have seen it coming all along, but it also underscores the story's true antagonist.

Bayaz, First of the Magi, is never treated as a point of view character by Abercrombie, but (much like George Lucas' Emperor Palpatine) it turns out he is even more the puppetmaster than the reader was at first led to believe. He is revealed as essentially evil: a tyrant willing to use any means to justify ends dictated by his own personal (and deeply flawed) sense of morality and order. His is an arguably good intent gone horribly awry, and in a happier novel he might have met a just end. In a happier novel, Good King Jezal might have justifiably tossed him off a balcony and founded a new era of goodwill and trustworthy leadership under a robust rule of law. But Joe Abercrombie does not do happy, and he does not do idealism.  He does realism (or at least, a very pessimistic, medieval version of it).

In the reality of the First Law, the king and his fairy tale kingdom are propped up by bureaucratic thuggery, and instead of nobility, chivalry, and brotherhood, the values of pragmatism, ruthlessness, and absolute power are prioritized.  The glossy facade presented to the common people is just that: a clever illusion designed to lull their simple, grasping minds into a necessary sense of security. Not a terribly revolutionary conceit, but a well-executed one. By the end of the novel, Mr. Abercrombie has you wondering whether the honesty of the impending invasion of the Union would be preferable to life under the cruel, ever-vigilant eye of Bayaz's puppet regime.

The characters seem to sense this comparison of two evils as their personal experiences merge both thematically and practically with the turmoil that has engulfed their world. Each character, without exception, arrives at the end of this story with either greater responsibilites or greater goals, however dark and pragmatic they may be, than when he started. The denouement is a mixture of surprised disillusionment, grim responsibility, and renewed loss for the characters.  Abercrombie's realism shines through strongly here, focusing on the cost of war, the toll it takes on the lives of those who wage it, at every level. Even survival can be a burden when the world has changed, the author seems to be saying; even continuing freedom a hard price to pay.

As with the first two novels, Mr. Abercrombie consciously crafts his story with an eye toward the reader's preconceived notions of plot, only to intentionally turn those notions on their head. The aforementioned Jezal Luthar is a perfect example. Despite Luthar's history of preening narcissism and overt self-interest, he finds himself king, due to Bayaz's incessant scheming. He finds being monarch not all it's cracked up to be, and discovers right off the bat that his high-level bureaucrats have no intention of allowing him to run his country. At this point the slow, steady rise of Jezal's character from the depths of egotism to the foothills of service to others reaches its crescendo.  We see the new king begin to step into his role more confidently.  We see that he has a gift for oratory, a knack for gallantry, and a newfound obsession with helping those in need.  We see that there is a righteous anger growing within him, and we are on the verge of applause when he shows his ministers that it is his hand, and no other's, that will rule his kingdom.

In a more classic fantasy novel, Luthar's character arc would continue its rise, culminating in the creation of a great monarch and the beginning of a prosperous era. We would see him steer his nation in the right direction, see him face Bayaz in a contest of wills and win. In Joe Abercrombie's novel, however, we see him try and fail. The ruthlessness of a more powerful opponent ends up crushing his burgeoning authority and Bayaz retains his hidden control over the nation he founded. Abercrombie lets us see the potential for Luthar's reign before he cuts it off without mercy. That's what sets him apart: in the world of the First Law, power will out, and power will win. And that power need not be good.

The story is gripping and enjoyable despite the relatively unfortunate end it meets. If you are looking for a novel that will challenge your expectations, then this is the one for you. But Mr. Abercrombie's sometimes crushing pragmatism is always offset by a good sense of humor, and cynicism whenever possible. The story is even bookended by the same, slightly comical image. The story begins, in The Blade Itself, with Logen Ninefingers tumbling off a cliff. Reaching the end of Last Argument of Kings, already knowing no one is going off to live happily ever after, it is heartwarming to seen Logen go off another cliff, falling again into blackness as his bloody journey continues.

Despite the creepy feeling that I typically get when exposed to most of Mr. Goodkind's work, I'll be there, red pen in hand, ready for some Objectivist action/adventure. Review to follow.

In the meantime, those of you who can't wait until Saturday can check out an early review of the two-hour premiere episode by the Hollywood Reporter.