The time has come again. I must rant. I continue to believe that harassing an author is deeply immature and entirely unproductive . . . but for the love of the Old Gods and the New . . . hurry the hell up, George. The Winds of Winter Pain Train is beyond parody at this point.
Here is the way I see it: for series with books as long and as detailed as A Song of Ice and Fire, I always afford a writer the five-year courtesy. Essentially, I will not complain about the writer taking too long so long as they are within that timeframe. I may make a few grumpy comments here and there, depending on just how much I love the series. But I will not be genuinely upset until the six year mark arrives. Once you reach six, there are no more excuses and I have no more sympathy. Granted, again, I still don’t go out of my way to harass an author. But I no longer trust you and will no longer consider you among my favourites. I will not recommend your work to others and I will not purchase your merchandise. You are swindling us at that point. And yes, I happen to be one of the remarkable few who DO believe that authors owe their fans more books if they made money off of the promise that there would be more.
We are currently at thirteen years since A Dance with Dragons. Well, it will be in July. And it does not appear that Winds will be coming any time soon. Yes, George says he is close, but he has been saying that every single year for a long, long time now. I simply don’t believe him anymore.
And I cannot say I even have a quality guess at what is happening here. Some people say it is because he has lost interest. I don’t find that credible at all. Some people say he is depressed. I see no sign of that in his behaviour, either. Some people say it is because he has lost track of all of the subplots in his narrative and does not know how to continue things in a satisfactory manner. I find this theory to be nearest the mark, but it still does not make full sense when you consider the time. I’m sorry, but thirteen years is more than enough time to put together a plan. Think of it like this: Imagine George calls up his editor (perhaps he has a few. I am not aware.), then he even calls in a few other editors that he has great faith in. And then our Georgie puts together a little team. The Narrative Cohesion Avengers (they’re still holding out for a better name.) Then he meets with this team of professionals at least twice a week for two hours. He brings all of his notes with him and they all discuss the various ways Winds of Winter could be made to work without the pacing seeming jarring or the subplots being unsatisfying. Dear friends, would you truly look me in my eyes and tell me they could not get this job done in thirteen years if they met only a couple times a week to iron things out? Rubbish. Utter rubbish. Something else must be going on here. There is something George is not telling us.
Now, I take it this is the part of the blog post where you think I am going to put on my Sherlock cap and tell you all what really is going on here. I hate to disappoint you . . . but I haven’t the faintest idea. All I do know is that the time for excuses has well passed. I want this bloody book. No more Mr. Nice Preston. Martin has doubled my grace period for books. Five years is long, but reasonable. Six is too long. Thirteen is insulting; especially when he keeps just lying and saying it’s right around the corner every single year. He told us all we could lock him on an island if he didn’t have Winds in hand by the end of the year. Yeah, that was four years ago.
I felt like venting here. I still don’t hate George or anything. I’d still obviously shake his hand and be giddy like a fool if I ever met him in person. But I’m quite annoyed. Quite annoyed, indeed.