Bored.

So I just started reading Brisingr, the third installment in Cristopher Paolini's cracked out "Inheritance Trilogy."

Yes, I have a penchant for silly fantasy books, and a weird compulsive aspect to my personality that demands that I finish every book I begin, no matter how terrible. In this case, that also extends to subsequent books in a series.

Anyways, my first complaint is that the book is much to large. I don't need 748 pages of Tolkien larceny. Mostly because it doesn't fit very well in my bag. It fits so poorly, in fact, that when I'm carrying it on my shoulder, the book stabs my shoulder blade. and no alternate arrangement of purse contents alleviates the pain.

Secondly, "grimstnzborith" is not a word, nor is it feasible as a word in any made up language. Ever. You are not Tolkien (who is still recognized as the pre-eminent linguist and philologist of his day) so stop trying to be.

And my last complaint- I've only made it through the first 5 pages so far...but there's something horribly Chronicles of Riddick about the opening pages (i.e. people who mutilate themselves as an act of worship...to some crazy, dark being). It's creepy. And still not even written well at all. I think one of the things that has kept me reading this series was the hope that as he aged, Paolini's writing would as well- become more mature, and much more subtle. Alas, it has not happened. I still feel as though I'm reading a fanfic by some 15 year old obsessed with Robert Jordan, Raymond E. Feist, and Tad Williams. And Tolkien. Ostensibly.