MOST YEARS, BRANDON Sanderson makes about $10 million. Last year, he made $55 million. This is obviously a lot of money for anyone. For a writer of young-adult-ish, never-ending, speed-written fantasy books, it’s huge. By Sanderson’s estimation, he’s the highest-selling author of epic fantasy in the world. On the day of his record-breaking Kickstarter campaign—$42 million of that $55 million—I came to the WIRED offices ready to gossip. How’d he do it? Why now? Is Brandon Sanderson even a good writer?
Yes, Brandon Sanderson is a good writer. Is he a great writer? Your opinion may vary, but no one believes that he has become the most successful contemporary fantasy author based on nothing. In contrast, this faggot named Jason Kehe is absolutely not a good writer, nor a productive one.
I was shown this hitpiece on BANG a few days ago and thought nothing of it. Then I actually read it myself and realized that I had to comment.
Nobody had the first clue who or what I was talking about. On the one hand, who cares. Sanderson has millions upon millions of fans all over the planet; it doesn’t matter that some losers at a single magazine (even if it is one of the nerdier ones) had never heard of him.
You’re right, it doesn’t matter that some literal fags at WIRED’s San Fran offices haven’t heard of Brandon Sanderson. How could a man say something so controversial and yet so brave?
Of course he didn’t mean for his self-deprecation to be taken seriously, even though it really ought to be.
Sanderson, when I eventually meet him in person, makes versions of these excuses, plus others, for his writerly obscurity. It’s kind of fun to talk about, until it isn’t, and that’s when I realize, in a panic, that I now have a problem. Sanderson is excited to talk about his reputation. He’s excited, really, to talk about anything. But none of his self-analysis is, for my purposes, exciting. In fact, at that first dinner, over flopsy Utah Chinese—this being days before I’d meet his extended family, and attend his fan convention, and take his son to a theme park, and cry in his basement—I find Sanderson depressingly, story-killingly lame.
He sits across from me in an empty restaurant, kind of lordly and sure of his insights, in a graphic T-shirt and ill-fitting blazer, which he says he wears because it makes him look professorial. It doesn’t. He isn’t. Unless the word means only: believing everything you say is worth saying. Sanderson talks a lot, but almost none of it is usable, quotable. I begin to think, This is what I drove all the way from San Francisco to the suburbs of Salt Lake City in the freezing-cold dead of winter for? For previously frozen dim sum and freeze-dried conversation? This must be why nobody writes about Brandon Sanderson.
The entire piece is littered with this faggot’s nasty little asides. Here’s some more that we skipped over and we’re about one eighth of the way done.
Sanderson is extremely Mormon.
Could it be, finally, because he’s a weirdo Mormon?
It’s at this moment that I introduce you to our San Franciscan faggot, Jason Kehe. Could he be writing this nasty hitpiece because he’s an AIDS ridden faggot?
I don’t know, but boy does he ever look exactly how I would have expected. Brandon Sanderson is also a walking stereotype, but he’s at least affable and generous.
So, recklessly, I say what’s on my mind. I have to. His wife is there, his biggest fan, always his first reader, making polite comments; I don’t care. Maybe nobody writes about you, I say to Sanderson, because you don’t write very well.
The world unfreezes. He agrees.
He agreed because the interviewer said something incredibly rude, and the only two possible responses are to end the interview, or graciously choose to look over said rudeness. He didn’t actually agree, and I’m reading the room better from a few thousand miles away than this faggot did right then and there.
IT’S NOT THAT Brandon Sanderson can’t write. It’s more that he can’t not write. Graphomania is the name of the condition: the constant compulsion to get words out, down, as much and as quickly as possible. The concept of a vacation confuses Sanderson, he once said, because for him the perfect vacation is more time to write—vocation as vacation. His schedule is budgeted down to the minute, months out, to maximize the time he spends, rather counter-ergonomically, on the couch, typing away. Most days, he wakes up at 1 pm, exercises, and writes for four hours. Break for the wife and kids. Then he writes for four more. After that he plays video games or whatever until 5 am. A powerful sleeping pill is all that works, finally, to get him, and the voices in his head, to shut up.
In the five months or so it has taken me to sit down and write this magazine story, which is 4,000 words long, Sanderson has published two books.
It took this queer five months to write 4k words. He’s written a grand total of one single article this year, and just six in 2022. I’m currently working on a side project that is taking up most of my time, and I write that much every other day. Hell, when working on the Traffic Soyboys series, I sometimes write double that in one day. His workrate is about 33 words/day. Elementary school children do better.
Perhaps it’s time for The Eternal San Franciscan to take notes from Brandon Sanderson and start regimenting his life. Maybe then he could achieve the Herculean task of knocking out a whole 100 words/day if he didn’t stay up all night spreading AIDS at the local MonkeyPox Fiesta.
You might be tempted to excuse this absurd lack of output. After all, technically his job is “senior editor.” But that’s even more embarrassing. That this nasty and incompetent little cunt has his greasy fingers over everything that WIRED produces could not be a more damning critique of the Corporate-State Complex that we live under. This would be an outrage if anyone actually read WIRED.
I’ve read 17 of the actual books. Or maybe it’s 20. Exactitude is pointless here. As the major books are all set in the same universe, which Sanderson calls the Cosmere, they’re all but meant to blur together.
He’s the senior editor at WIRED. He scheduled an interview. He should probably remember how many of this man’s books you’ve read. If he couldn’t remember, he should have written this down somewhere. The very first thing any serious person would do when interviewing an author is read their books, and make as many notes as possible. But this fag decided to wing it, and then insulted Sanderson when their conversation didn’t go so well.
Or maybe he’s just pretending not to know how many books of Sanderson that he’s read. Whatever the case, he’s an irritating faggot.
Most will hear this and think: At that rate, none of the words could possibly be any good. They’d be right, in a way, and that’s what Sanderson agrees with. At the sentence level, he is no great gift to English prose.
Prepare yourself for the catty fag who can’t write to do a surface level and baseless critique of Sanderson’s prose. And again, Sanderson is only agreeing because he’s being affable.
The early books especially. My god. Here’s a sample sentence: “It was going to be very bad this time.”
That sentence is perfectly fine.
Another one: “She felt a feeling of dread.”
Not ideal, and could have used a second pass, but who cares?
There’s a penchant for redundant description: A city is “tranquil, quiet, peaceful.”
Repetitive descriptions can be fine, especially if they’re one word long.
Many things, from buildings to beasts, are “enormous.”
You’re an enormous faggot.
Dark places, more thesaurically, are “caliginous.”
Fine, one single moderately valid nitpick.
On almost every page of Mistborn, his first and probably most beloved series, a character “sighs,” “frowns,” “raises an eyebrow,” “cocks a head,” “shrugs,” or “snorts,” sometimes at the same time, sometimes multiple times a page.
Uh, two valid nitpicks.
I count seven books in which one of the characters frets about their metaphors. “I have trouble with metaphors,” one literally says.
This piece is a touch challenging for me, because I also don’t particularly enjoy Sanderson. That has very little to do with his prose, and far more to do with something a bit harder to explain. As for his prose, this annoying nerd put out a decent video praising Sanderson for his, because he deserves to be praised.
Sanderson’s prose is workmanlike, with the lightest sprinkling of metaphors, and that’s fine. It’s what you get when you describe what is happening to the simplest degree. Nothing to set the world on fire, but the furthest thing from obnoxious pretension you can get.
Where Sanderson breaks down for me is the total lack of complexity in his work. I feel like everything Sanderson has ever written is aimed at a Young Adult audience, which is probably why he’s so popular amongst the Reddit crowd, despite being a Mormon who resisted putting faggots in his books for the longest time. He’s essentially writing at the halfway point between comic books and serious literature.
I read the first two books of his Stormlight Saga, then started the third one and quit. It was absolutely everything that I hated about fantasy. Just like how stories exist to justify gameplay for video games, Sanderson’s stories appear to exist to justify “cool” and “awesome” magic stuff that I don’t give a single fuck about. There was also a bizarre focus on very surface level politicking, with not nearly enough realism for my taste. Eventually, I had to give up.
There isn’t necessarily anything wrong with Sanderson’s style. At a certain point, you just have to admit that some people are incapable of writing stories for everyone. But instead of focusing on deeper critiques of Sanderson’s work, this faggot decides to deride his workmanlike prose, which is totally fine.
One—Dragonsteel’s new “head of narrative”—lets slip that Sanderson feels no pain. It’s true, Sanderson’s sister-in-law says. Even though he writes for eight hours a day on a couch, he has no backaches. The hottest of hot sauces cause scarcely a sweat. At the dentist, he refuses novocaine for fillings. When I ask Sanderson later to confirm this, he does but asks if I really have to print it. I’m sorry, I say. I really do.
He then randomly brings up and quickly discards what ought to be the most interesting part of the whole piece. Brandon Sanderson not being able to feel pain – which, to be clear, I doubt – might explain some of his overly lighthearted writing style. Then again, that could simply be who he is, or be a product of him targeting the most lucrative market. It could also simply have been made up by this catty fag who needed content, and I doubt that Brandon Sanderson is one of the rare people on this planet who legitimately can’t feel pain.
Of his own work, Sanderson has said: “I detest rewriting,” “I write for endings,” and “I write to relax.” It shows. He writes, by one metric, at a sixth-grade reading level.
Graphomaniacally get thoughts down. Have fun. Write for the ending.
So I will. This story has an ending, I promise, and I’m sprinting toward it, as if to a vacation.
You are such a pretentious faggot.
Like the best of Sanderson’s endings, my ending should surprise you. Because, you see, Sanderson actually did say one thing to me, one miraculous thing, that stuck, that I remember, these five months later, with perfect clarity. Just seven words, but true ones. You’re not ready for them just yet. You need more story first. For now, there is only Sanderson, both wordful and wordless, the best-selling writer no writer writes about because writers only know how to talk about words. Sanderson’s readers—loving, legion—care about something else.
What fucking elementary school student did he pawn this essay off to?
How is it possible for someone to constantly have sentences like this:
But what am I saying? Gibberish, most likely. And hypocrisies. Sanderson is a bad writer; I’ve already said it.
In a piece that is itself of such low quality?
The gayface answers our question. Dunning-Kruger is certainly real, and so are delusions of grandeur. If you’re wondering how this was published, he’s the senior editor, a homosexual, and probably a catty tyrant who would destroy the career of anyone who got in his way.
We leave it at that. I go back to the Elantris Suite, where I finally take that shower. There are multiple showerheads. I turn everything on. Water hits me from every angle. I don’t cry, but I could.
I DO CRY the next night, my last in Utah.
We’re down in Sanderson’s below-ground movie theater, in plush red-leather seats that not only recline but also have adjustable headrests. He wants to show the specs off, so he plays the opening scene of The Greatest Showman. I don’t tell him that, while I like musicals, I hate The Greatest Showman, and especially Hugh Jackman. The scene starts. The chair shakes with otherworldly sound. When Hugh, lame Hugh, opens his mouth to sing, I can’t help it. I burst into tears.
I sat there, my mouth open, my brows furrowed, for well over ten seconds before writing this sentence. What are we even dealing with here? What is the creature who wrote this? WHAT IS GOING ON HERE PEOPLE?!
This is when he speaks the seven words of truth, the only ones I’m certain he has never said, in quite this way, ever before: “As I build books,” Sanderson says, as I sit there, for once entirely enraptured, “God builds people.”
A moderately interesting quote by Brandon Sanderson. Anyway, let’s see how this piece is being received online.
Jaime, can we zoom in on that ratio please?
It appears that the Goyim did not appreciate the “progressively regressive poetic terrorist” and his hitpiece on Brandon Sanderson.
Sanderson’s enormous fanbase is not taking it well, although this is about the best meme that I’ve seen from it. They may be the least obnoxious people on Reddit, but they’re still Redditors dammit! This is the best they can do.
And the WIRED hitpiece is the best that Jason Kehe can do. He is an incompetent and thoroughly repugnant faggot who can’t write well and barely writes anyway. But he will not be getting fired by WIRED anytime soon precisely because he is a disgusting faggot, which is what actually matters.