I'm pretty sure that was the book I read last week. It's all kind of blurred into one. No, wait. I think it was two different books because I started in paperback and ended on Kindle. So it was The Name of the Man and Wise Wind's Fear.
That's not right either.
The Name of the Wind and The Wise Man's Fear. There. I got it. 1680 pages of narrative. I read them in three days. Not that I'm a fast reader. Far from it. I'm a bit of a self-destructive reader which is why I don't read as much these days. I just can't handle the giant headache of have after spending the better part of 72 hours reading. But I can't help it. I get pulled in. Seduced by a new world, not allowing myself to wake from that lucid dream until the last page has been turned.
I'm utterly useless until I've finished reading a new book. Ask wifey.
Patrick Rothfuss' Kingkiller Chronicle is a thing to behold. It's what Harry Potter would have been if Harry Potter would have been a little less... kid-ish. It's got sex and violence and murder and all the other good stuff. It's also chocked full of teen angst. Now, this kind of thing normally annoys the hell out of me. I hate teen angst. It's a lot of good-for-nothing whining. Yet Rothfuss pulls it off. I enjoyed the world, felt for the main character. Hell, I've never spent so many pages just praying for a character to get laid before. Maybe that's because I don't read chick lit. Who knows.
I'm kind of rambling. I don't mind. My brain is still resetting from spending so much time in Rothfuss' world.
I'm trying my hand at short stories lately. Three weeks, and I've written two pages. That's how successful I've been. Short stories are a wild thing. They have to be succinct and to the point in a way that novels can only dream. They have to be monstrously entertaining in less than two paragraphs. They are frustrating.