Thomas Pynchon and James Ellroy wrote books that I loved (Gravity's Rainbow and American Tabloid are two of my favourite books ever) and then got too convoluted and idiosyncratic for me. However, I wouldn't say I have completely given up on either of them. A lot of people on the CT discussion mentioned Orson Scott Card but I wouldn't say I ever loved his work. Dan Simmons is a possible candidate - I liked Endymion, but I don't think I would buy any more novels by him. Doris Lessing might be another: I haven't bought any of her recent novels, and she used to be one of my favourite contemporary authors - I enjoyed her forays into SF. And perhaps my most marked reversal of opinion is Neal Stephenson. What the hell happened, Neal?
Are there writers you used to love that you have given up for ever?
This sort of review stokes my doubts:
Thomas Pynchon’s new novel, “Against the Day,” reads like the sort of imitation of a Thomas Pynchon novel that a dogged but ungainly fan of this author’s might have written on quaaludes. It is a humongous, bloated jigsaw puzzle of a story, pretentious without being provocative, elliptical without being illuminating, complicated without being rewardingly complex.