George R. R. Martin can craft a sentence – “Yet even so, as she stood upon the forecastle watching her dragons chase each other across a cloudless blue sky, Daenerys Targaryen was as happy as she could ever remember being.” As a reader, my problem is that he writes way too damn many sentences, and too many of them add nothing to story. I’m not fond of writers who expect me to edit their work to separate the wheat from the chaff.
Tomorrow’s words and today’s sentences
In one of those chairs designed to let the user know that, yes, sit here, but not too long, the widow sat, glancing up the receiving line that backed up the aisle, then to his mother next to her, then to the flowered covered coffin, then to the face in front of her, taking a hand, whispering a thanks, almost hearing the insubstantial music floating all around her.
In the diffused light of the warehouse, the coffins, all with an odd mustard finish, sat in a row, carefully armored in cardboard and straps against the troubles of travel, waiting for the order to be completed and the journey to begin.
The thing is, have the coffin match the personality of the deceased; after all why pretend the blacksmith was a warrior, or the kangaroo a rhino?
The torrent of tears, the hands resting on the edge of the coffin, knuckles white, shoulders shaking, was, for a man who had shrewdly and painstakingly built his image of stone and steel, unseemly, she thought.
In a torrent of words, her face washed tears, snot bubbling from her nose, she recited the story in all its complexity, chapter and verse.