Joe Abercrombie

Note: this article should be considered a feeble attempt at humour. We hope you read it in the spirit in which it was intended.

Dear Joe,

I’m only halfway through through your newest masterpiece, Best Served Cold, and I already know you consider yourself a badass in the best tradition of Clint Eastwood and Sylvester Stallone.

What do I mean? Come on, man. The first thing that tipped me off to your tough guy ambitions was the ‘blue steel’ photo I found on your website (see right) when the publicity circus for Best Served Cold started recently and frenzied fantasy bloggers who got free copies started begging to have your children because of its “gritty, hard-edged style”.

Those burning eyes, tilted towards the right, with half of the face in shadow, like Humphrey Bogart in The Big Sleep, the little half-smile designed to cut through the ladies like a hot knife through butter. And then there’s the manly beard — a required factor for good sci-fi/fantasy writers; it shows the readers your soul is too tortured for you to pay much attention to the little details … like shaving.

You even went so far as to open the neck of your shirt slightly so we could all see how masculine your chest hair is. The whole act reminds me of a young Bruce Willis; before Die Hard took off all the polish.

Then there’s your unorthodox approach to book critics. Not content to rest safely, surrounded by the traditional author code of stoic silence, you use your own site and the power of the internet to take potshots at these poor souls, innocently reviewing your work, sometimes as part of their hard-won paid employment. Crushing their dreams.

I refer you to your post which mentions the gentle Ken, a humble American engineer who put long hours in slaving over a hot Best Served Cold. This is how you rewarded him:

“One might almost be tempted to say something like — “the more-of-same approach of Ken’s reviews entertains, yet becomes tedious at times and unfortunately left me wanting more of that special something that I’m convinced he can give.”"

Harsh words from a man who is undoubtedly one of his heroes.

Then was the poor Jason Henninger from the illustrious Tor.com, who was so shocked by your rebuttal of his review of The First Law trilogy that he was scared to go back:

“Given that, in the author’s view, I completely and utterly misunderstood the ending of The First Law, I’m almost hesitant to make any statements about the ending of Best Served Cold. I mean, if I get it wrong, I might find my coffee poisoned. Or he might just very well fly out to Los Angeles kick me in the fruits.”

But wait; the evidence of your bravado goes on. Your supposed fight with half a dozen hoodlums in real life, where you not only braved your way through being hit with a lump of wood, but then took it off your would-be robber and hit his mate with it … so hard that it broke in half? The fact that you have a whole section of your site devoted to discussing swearing in fantasy?

The fact that a photo recently popped up of you on the internet, wearing a suit, holding a battle axe and grinning devilishly?

But there’s just one problem with all of these efforts. I’m on to you. And I’m one of the few reviewers left who hasn’t published my thoughts on your latest opus.

I’m halfway through Best Served Cold, and yes, it is satisfyingly brutal (although not quite up to GRRM standards; for starters there’s no dwarf and nobody important has been speared while taking a dump), but what do I come across, but a soppy love scene on page 230? This is my impression of it so far.

“Oh Monza, my dear,” whispered the tall, rakishly handsome Shivers, as he glanced back from the window to where his paramour waited, her body artfully arranged on the bed across the tower room, bathed in soft siege-fire light and with her eyes glinting with a hint of the passion yet to come.

He continued, his sorrowful eyes seeking out her own. “I want, I need, my heart cries out to be a good man, to do the right thing, as I’ve been going on about for at least a hundred pages. I just want to love you gently and settle down to be some sort of harmless farmer, away from the cares of the world with you. I can’t bear the guilt of constantly slaying people just to please you, and for money.”

“Oh Shivers,” sighed Monza. “I want that too, more than anything in the world. I want to hold you tightly forever, with your broad, hard shoulders pressed against mine. I want to look up into your eyes and never let you go, except when I have to slay someone.”

“But wait,” he cries. “It can never be. We must needs pursue your vengeance.”

“But wait,” she cries. “Our ultimate fate where you will undoubtedly be torn away from me in some slow-motion scene that will destroy our slowly building feelings for each other is not until page four hundred and something. In the meantime, hold my crippled hand and stroke it, ever so softly.”

What the hell is this, something out of Twilight???

In short, Joe, I believe I have discovered your secret. I know that at heart you are really a softie. You secretly yearn to write “urban fantasy” in the style of Stephanie Meyers and Charlaine Harris, where characters sigh wistfully as they gaze out upon the approaching form of their darkly mysterious loved one.

Hidden beneath the pages of Best Served Cold is a touching romantic tale in the best tradition of Mills and Boon. I know that is the book, in your heart of hearts, you truly want to write. And next time you probably will. Nobody will blame you. We’ll all understand.

With this in mind, Joe, don’t expect me to go easy on you.

I know that my eventual review of Best Served Cold will suffer at your hands and be eviscerated with a series of witty remarks on your blog unless I take drastic action.

So, for self-protection, but also out of the goodness of my heart, I’m going for a pre-emptive strike and do you a favour.

I’m going to expose all of the book’s fallacies in such a way that will free you.

You’ll be so embarassed you will remove all traces of your gritty past from the internet and retire to the south of France, there, in its sun-drenched terraces, finally, free to write the book you want to write. Free to admit that the novel which most influenced your writing was not A Game of Thrones, but in fact, Wuthering Heights.

You pansy.

Kind regards,

Renai LeMay