A few months ago, the kind folks at Bubonicon asked me if there was anyone else attending that would write a brief introduction about me for the Con’s program book. At the time, I only knew two other authors who were attending: Sam Sykes and George R.R. Martin. One of these two is a good friend. So naturally I asked George.
He said no.*
That left me with Sam. Behold the horror:
by Sam Sykes
Who is Brent Weeks?
The question cannot be answered by measure of time, but by measure of humanity. For to ask “who is Brent Weeks,” we must first ask, “Who are we to know Brent Weeks?”
Is he the author of bestselling books such as The Night Angel trilogy and The Lightbringer series? Of course. Are his books produced in countless countries and languages? Absolutely. Has he been nominated for many awards and earned the devotion of millions of readers who speak his name in whispers, as a dying man mutters to his children? This is known.
But it is what is unknown about Brent Weeks that makes him who he is.
Born in the rugged mountains of Montana, Brent Weeks bent the bars on his first crib and wandered out into the snow. There, he was adopted by a clan of grizzly bears. He grew large by suckling at the teats of a two-ton Kodiak and feasting on the chewed-up carcasses of deer she emptied into his craw. When he came of age, he challenged his bear father, Ursoc the Moon-Eye, to a duel and ate his liver, thus earning the right to be called a man.
Much of Brent’s skill as an author comes from stalking and devouring smaller, weaker writers. He is much-lauded for his prowess at the hunt, having accumulated a throne of the bleached bones of those who have challenged. Great magazines such as American Emu, Much Mucho Mali! and Ta-Da: The Magazine By and For Aspiring Magicians have been forgotten after Brent Weeks feasts upon their writers.
But a man is much more than his birth, and the legend of Brent Weeks does not end in bestseller lists and awards. It ends in fire. It ends in darkness. It ends in disaster.
Brent Weeks was the first man to land on the moon, and later, the first man to fake the moon landing so that humanity might have hope.
Brent Weeks was the founder of the East India Company and for a time was known as the “Naked Tiger” in the Raj’s court. Upon heavy reflections of his sins, Brent later disbanded the Company and penned, in penance, an account of exactly how many elephants he fired out of cannons at protestors.
Brent Weeks discovered the cure for Black Plague and, wishing something to use it on, invented the Black Plague and unleashed it upon Europe, killing millions.
The Inuit tribes of Northern Alaska have twenty-six different words for “Brent Weeks.” Twelve of them are curses. Five are noises a woman in labor or a grandmother slipping on an ice patch makes. Exactly two are words one utters to an elder to show respect, but in a grudging sort of way, like when they break wind at the dinner table and oh god it smells like onions but you can’t say boo because he’s your grandpa so you just sort of hum and say “Brent Weeks.”
To know Brent Weeks is to know more than simply excellent books and a brilliant imagination. To know Brent Weeks is to know (dramatic pause) ourselves.
*Yes, I made this up.
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