His novels are plagued with rambling, endless, page-upon-page exposition. He tells. He rarely shows. He uses imagery so heavily it weighs on the brain like iron. He has characters with identical or incredibly similar names, often within the same family. He jumps from character to character between chapters, and often fails to link the transitions. He beats foreshadowing themes to death with an anvil-weighted fist.
He’s a freaking genius.
You aren’t him. Neither am I. But I’m finding a lot of fledgling fantasy authors, and even some NY pimped know-better-level authors, emulating his style to their—and the genre’s—great detriment. Every once in a blue moon we get a George: a brilliant, unique, and enthralling writer who has the chops to take a big ole dump on the rules and wipe his backside with pages torn out of Shrunk and White. These are rare exceptions, and almost always result in very poor imitations.
Nora head-hops. Nora is Nora… LA Nora, by gawd. You aren’t Nora. I’m not Nora. I’m not George. I’m not Jo Rowling, either.
I suppose those who ape their betters make room in the sales rankings for those too smart to fall into the trap, but it does break my heart to pick up title after title, read two or three pages, and quit. Ah. Yes. Somebody trying to be the next…
Just be the current you. If you’re a genius you won’t be breaking the same rules, anyway. The mad genius is too caught up in his or her own fever to wonder if they sound like someone else.