What's with the seething?
Andy slaved away in the software-industry salt mines for decades before hitting it big.
He's now a multimillionare, and living the dream.
Given how much he makes from his writing, it appears yours is the tiniest of minority opinions.
It seems a lot of people get something out of his work other than whatever makes you seethe about his prose.
Also, why don't you post some of your own writing, so that we may bask in the glory that is your skill with language.
It's because he uses the same beats as the mystery thriller genre and blends it with hard sci-fi. The audience for this is large and uncaring of aesthetic matters like prose. Consumers of television and video games. Software engineers like himself.
10 months ago
Anonymous
Ah, so you consider yourself superior, even though the audience for your work is microscopic compared to Weir's.
And you have yet to post a link to any of your own prose so that we may bask in the wonderfulness that is obviously you. Why make us wait?
Andy?
Anyway, idk how you rebutt "bad prose" with "it sells". I don't need to list examples to drive the point that these two concepts don't necessarily contradict each other. You know em
Anyway, I liked The Martian in the 11th grade, and The Egg is a fun concept, if horribly boring once you've read a tiny bit of religious philosophy.
No hate on him, he's not an Ernest Cline style sinner, he has fun ideas. He's definitely from the Joss Whedon school, though.
10 months ago
Anonymous
I believe it's safe to assume that the anon seething about "bad prose" considers that he himself writes "good prose" but no one cares and so he lashes out at more successful writers.
10 months ago
Anonymous
That's really a huge assumption. Criticizing the current crop of sff writers of not even trying with their prose is common. Also completely fair.
10 months ago
Anonymous
Not really.
This is IQfy.
The vast majority of the seething is based in jealousy from lazy NEETs who will never do anything with their lives.
Andy Weir is still a multimillionaire and will never hear your seething jealous complaints.
10 months ago
Anonymous
I don't know man, you seem to be the one seething the most ITT. The posters you're characterizing all seemed pretty chill. They didn't immediately resort to ad hominem, for one.
10 months ago
Anonymous
Neither did I.
In any case, Weir is living the dream and his detractors aren't.
/thread
10 months ago
Anonymous
Yeah, I think that's enough bait for one day chief. I'm full.
10 months ago
Anonymous
I'm not surprised to learn that you're the master bait.
The opening of Project Hail Mary is unironically well written:
“What’s two plus two?”
Something about the question irritates me. I’m tired. I drift back to sleep.
A few minutes pass, then I hear it again.
“What’s two plus two?”
The soft, feminine voice lacks emotion and the pronunciation is identical to the previous time she said it. It’s a computer. A computer is hassling me. I’m even more irritated now.
“Lrmln,” I say. I’m surprised. I meant to say “Leave me alone”—a completely reasonable response in my opinion—but I failed to speak.
“Incorrect,” says the computer. “What’s two plus two?”
Time for an experiment. I’ll try to say hello.
“Hlllch?” I say.
“Incorrect. What’s two plus two?”
What’s going on? I want to find out, but I don’t have much to work with. I can’t see. I can’t hear anything other than the computer. I can’t even feel. No, that’s not true. I feel something. I’m lying down. I’m on something soft. A bed.
I think my eyes are closed. That’s not so bad. All I have to do is open them. I try, but nothing happens.
Why can’t I open my eyes?
Open.
Aaaand…open!
Open, dang it!
Ooh! I felt a wiggle that time. My eyelids moved. I felt it.
Open!
My eyelids creep up and blinding light sears my retinas.
“Glunn!” I say. I keep my eyes open with sheer force of will. Everything is white with shades of pain.
“Eye movement detected,” my tormenter says. “What’s two plus two?”
The whiteness lessens. My eyes are adjusting. I start to see shapes, but nothing sensible yet. Let’s see…can I move my hands? No.
Feet? Also no.
But I can move my mouth, right? I’ve been saying stuff. Not stuff that makes sense, but it’s something.
“Fffr.”
“Incorrect. What’s two plus two?”
The shapes start to make sense. I’m in a bed. It’s kind of…oval-shaped.
LED lights shine down on me. Cameras in the ceiling watch my every move. Creepy though that is, I’m much more concerned about the robot arms.
The two brushed-steel armatures hang from the ceiling. Each has an assortment of disturbingly penetration-looking tools where hands should be. Can’t say I like the look of that.
“Ffff…oooh…rrrr,” I say. Will that do?
“Incorrect. What’s two plus two?”
Dang it. I summon all my willpower and inner strength. Also, I’m starting to panic a little. Good. I use that too.
“Fffoouurr,” I finally say.
“Correct.”
Thank God. I can talk. Sort of.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Wait—I just controlled my breathing. I take another breath. On purpose. My mouth is sore. My throat is sore. But it’s my soreness. I have control.
I’m wearing a breathing mask. It’s tight to my face and connected to a hose that goes behind my head.
Can I get up?
No. But I can move my head a little. I look down at my body. I’m naked and connected to more tubes than I can count.
Given how much he makes from his writing, it appears yours is the tiniest of minority opinions.
It seems a lot of people get something out of his work other than whatever makes you seethe about his prose.
Also, why don't you post some of your own writing, so that we may bask in the glory that is your skill with language.
that's because he writes about cool shit. The Expanse also has a huge following and it's legit some of the worst writing I've personally read. 5th grade tier.
What's with the seething?
Andy slaved away in the software-industry salt mines for decades before hitting it big.
He's now a multimillionare, and living the dream.
his prose sucks
Given how much he makes from his writing, it appears yours is the tiniest of minority opinions.
It seems a lot of people get something out of his work other than whatever makes you seethe about his prose.
Also, why don't you post some of your own writing, so that we may bask in the glory that is your skill with language.
It's because he uses the same beats as the mystery thriller genre and blends it with hard sci-fi. The audience for this is large and uncaring of aesthetic matters like prose. Consumers of television and video games. Software engineers like himself.
Ah, so you consider yourself superior, even though the audience for your work is microscopic compared to Weir's.
And you have yet to post a link to any of your own prose so that we may bask in the wonderfulness that is obviously you. Why make us wait?
Andy?
Anyway, idk how you rebutt "bad prose" with "it sells". I don't need to list examples to drive the point that these two concepts don't necessarily contradict each other. You know em
Anyway, I liked The Martian in the 11th grade, and The Egg is a fun concept, if horribly boring once you've read a tiny bit of religious philosophy.
No hate on him, he's not an Ernest Cline style sinner, he has fun ideas. He's definitely from the Joss Whedon school, though.
I believe it's safe to assume that the anon seething about "bad prose" considers that he himself writes "good prose" but no one cares and so he lashes out at more successful writers.
That's really a huge assumption. Criticizing the current crop of sff writers of not even trying with their prose is common. Also completely fair.
Not really.
This is IQfy.
The vast majority of the seething is based in jealousy from lazy NEETs who will never do anything with their lives.
Andy Weir is still a multimillionaire and will never hear your seething jealous complaints.
I don't know man, you seem to be the one seething the most ITT. The posters you're characterizing all seemed pretty chill. They didn't immediately resort to ad hominem, for one.
Neither did I.
In any case, Weir is living the dream and his detractors aren't.
/thread
Yeah, I think that's enough bait for one day chief. I'm full.
I'm not surprised to learn that you're the master bait.
The opening of Project Hail Mary is unironically well written:
“What’s two plus two?”
Something about the question irritates me. I’m tired. I drift back to sleep.
A few minutes pass, then I hear it again.
“What’s two plus two?”
The soft, feminine voice lacks emotion and the pronunciation is identical to the previous time she said it. It’s a computer. A computer is hassling me. I’m even more irritated now.
“Lrmln,” I say. I’m surprised. I meant to say “Leave me alone”—a completely reasonable response in my opinion—but I failed to speak.
“Incorrect,” says the computer. “What’s two plus two?”
Time for an experiment. I’ll try to say hello.
“Hlllch?” I say.
“Incorrect. What’s two plus two?”
What’s going on? I want to find out, but I don’t have much to work with. I can’t see. I can’t hear anything other than the computer. I can’t even feel. No, that’s not true. I feel something. I’m lying down. I’m on something soft. A bed.
I think my eyes are closed. That’s not so bad. All I have to do is open them. I try, but nothing happens.
Why can’t I open my eyes?
Open.
Aaaand…open!
Open, dang it!
Ooh! I felt a wiggle that time. My eyelids moved. I felt it.
Open!
My eyelids creep up and blinding light sears my retinas.
“Glunn!” I say. I keep my eyes open with sheer force of will. Everything is white with shades of pain.
“Eye movement detected,” my tormenter says. “What’s two plus two?”
The whiteness lessens. My eyes are adjusting. I start to see shapes, but nothing sensible yet. Let’s see…can I move my hands? No.
Feet? Also no.
But I can move my mouth, right? I’ve been saying stuff. Not stuff that makes sense, but it’s something.
“Fffr.”
“Incorrect. What’s two plus two?”
The shapes start to make sense. I’m in a bed. It’s kind of…oval-shaped.
LED lights shine down on me. Cameras in the ceiling watch my every move. Creepy though that is, I’m much more concerned about the robot arms.
The two brushed-steel armatures hang from the ceiling. Each has an assortment of disturbingly penetration-looking tools where hands should be. Can’t say I like the look of that.
“Ffff…oooh…rrrr,” I say. Will that do?
“Incorrect. What’s two plus two?”
Dang it. I summon all my willpower and inner strength. Also, I’m starting to panic a little. Good. I use that too.
“Fffoouurr,” I finally say.
“Correct.”
Thank God. I can talk. Sort of.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Wait—I just controlled my breathing. I take another breath. On purpose. My mouth is sore. My throat is sore. But it’s my soreness. I have control.
I’m wearing a breathing mask. It’s tight to my face and connected to a hose that goes behind my head.
Can I get up?
No. But I can move my head a little. I look down at my body. I’m naked and connected to more tubes than I can count.
this is not well written.
that's because he writes about cool shit. The Expanse also has a huge following and it's legit some of the worst writing I've personally read. 5th grade tier.
me.
I’ve really gotten a hate boner for Scalzi lately
>releases The Martian serialized on his personal blog
>it becomes a huge hit
>gets a deal for the full book
>it becomes a worldwide bestseller
How did he do it? Is it possible to do what he did?
All we can do is try.
As someone whose work sells much better than mine said..."write, publish, repeat".
when will prosegays realize that plot is all that matters?
Actually, readers come for the plot, but stay for the characters.
Artemis was utter ass.
Cixin Liu
Weir can at string two sentences together that don't immediately contradict each other.
I can probably think of twenty off the top of my head.
CHUCK WENDIG
i have the same acne scars as him